Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom) Read online

  But if she’s a reporter in search of a story here to ask me to repeat my harrowing escape from death, David told himself, just watch how quickly I’ll lose interest in the woman, despite her beauty. Then again perhaps she’s not a reporter at all. In fact, she looked like a photo he’d once seen of Dr. Kelly Irvin, and if so, perhaps there was an up side to the hero business, he inwardly joked. After all, she is damned gorgeous and obviously in wonderful health.

  When he again focused on her whereabouts, she was storming aboard, her gaze set on him. At least it seemed so, which is what he told himself. As she neared, smiling, a hand extended, David gave her a firm nod to acknowledge their mutual stare, and he instantly regretted it when she rested a duffle on wheels that trailed in her wake, her honey hair blowing like wheat in the ocean breeze. Dressed in jeans and a safari blouse, the returning sun bathed her in light. Tall, he thought, fair-skinned, eyes matching the color of her hair. Carries herself with a distinct elegance and pride, he surmised.

  But it was suddenly apparent that indeed this was Dr. Kelly Irvin, one of his co-divers, when she stepped up to him and Dr. Alandale—her duffel bag carrying the universal sign for divers.

  She gave David a perfunctory nod but showered Alandale with a beaming smile, grabbing his hand and pumping it in a handshake. She then proceeded to tell him how she had read everything he’d ever written while still pumping his arm as if she might discover some secret if she only shook long enough. She certainly appeared enthusiastic in her admiration for the elderly man beside David—perhaps one of those father complexes; perhaps simply in awe of being in his presence.

  “Such genius… such genius,” she said in a mantra while David frowned. Meanwhile, entirely ignoring Ingles as if he were a fixture—treating him like one of the crew—she began a tirade of questions for Dr. Alandale, all surrounding Titanic and her last night at sea in what appeared an effort on the part of the student to make the teacher believe that she was his number one pupil and entirely enthralled—and apparently, she was.

  By now Ingles wasn’t sure it was a bad thing to be ignored by Kelly Irvin. At the same time, he had to give it to Alandale; the man knew as much about patience as that shown by the biblical character Job. He also knew every detail of Titanic and her first and last ‘maiden’ voyage in 1912. In the parlance of gang mobsters and salvage crews, people said of Alandale ‘He knows where the bodies are’.

  Dr. Kelly Irvin finally introduced herself to Alandale, and then continued a rain of questions, until Alandale stopped her with a single word. “Enough.”

  “Enough? I’ve just begun,” she countered. “You’re an expert on marine biology as well as—”

  “Enough for now; we’ve weeks at sea together. I must pace myself… I’m an old man.”

  “Oh, not at all, sir.”

  “Calling me sir further ages me.”

  “Oh, no! I-I’m so sorry.”

  Alandale waved it off, and she changed the subject with ease, asking, “Just exactly where’re the private quarters for the dive team? So’s to stow my gear?”

  “Now you sound like one of us,” offered David, garnering a smile from her. “There’re central changing rooms belowdecks center, but aft you’ll find private quarters for your personal effects.”

  Alandale pointed to the nearest stairwell door that would take Kelly into the ship. She gushed once more at Alandale, gave David a micro-smile, and she then took Alandale by the arm to guide her off. Alandale’s body language told David that the older gentleman wanted to part company with her at the stairwell entryway, while her body language insisted that Alandale escort her belowdecks.

  David laughed when the pair disappeared with Alandale still on her arm and in fact helping her out with her belongings. It appeared obvious that men found it hard to say no to this woman. Pushy, he thought.

  Then again, perhaps he was wrong in his assumptions about her, as first impressions could not always be counted on. Still, she came off as rather cold and somewhat manipulative even if she was genuinely fascinated by Alandale’s history and accomplishments. He wondered what she’d be like for the rest of the trip, especially toward the ‘hired help’—which she obviously thought David happened to be. Then again a person whose life is given over to marine life, plankton, krill, and the like was probably not the most socially graceful of individuals. David decided he’d withhold judgment. See what comes of it, he told himself and returned his attention to the circus on the wharf, a full-blown news conference about the latest Titanic expedition, one that had cause a great stir or controversy even before it had begun.

  THREE

  Before David Ingles could find and stow his own gear aboard Scorpio, a call for divers to find the briefing room and report to Commander of Divers Lou Swigart came over the PA system. Ingles rushed to join the other divers to report to the tough-minded, former naval captain, now head of the away team on Scorpio. It’d been Swigart who had hand-picked David from hundreds of applicants for this mission. Although David felt that Swigart, some fifteen years his senior, respected him, even liked him, Lou had told David early on that there would be no ‘headline-grabbing crap’ as he put it. He didn’t mind repeating it for the group now where they sat in a cramped operations room.

  “Nothing in the way of news or reports is going out to the press about this mission to Titanic; that means nothing about you either—no interviews, no phone calls—nothing. Consider it top secret. Got it”

  Lou, a big man, filled the space where he stood beside a lectern. “Nothing said that isn’t cleared by the Woods Hole Institute PR machine. I put it to you now… simple and direct—and I repeat: there’ll be no freaking headline-grabbing cowboys here. Not on my dive team!” He’d warmed to it, pacing now, adding, “It’s a purely scientific expedition on the face of it—for the media and the public, but we all know it is a salvage operation this… this expedition, ladies, gents… and so to all who’ve signed on go the spoils—whatever’s dredged out of the belly of that wreck down there, we all have a share in. But make no bones about it, the entire structure is unstable, and what we’re proposing… well it could easily—easily turn into a suicide mission.”

  He let this sink in but David knew divers; he knew it wasn’t sinking far.

  “You need to know that going in, and if anyone decides here and now that it’s this back-out time, your replacement is waiting in the wings. Mr. Fiske, stand up so that all the others know your face.”

  Fiske leapt to his feet, a muscular, square-jawed young man filled with energy and a keen eye as he took in the others, saying, “I want this as much as any of you; should anyone fall ill or have an accident, I’m here to fill in.”

  “That’s comforting,” muttered Will Bowman, getting a snicker out of the others.

  Lou silenced them with an upraised hand. “So it’s a lot cheaper for the expedition if you decide now, else you’ll be flown out by chopper once we’re at sea and Mr. Kane and company will be up my ass about it, understood?”

  “I do… completely, sir,” David replied, feeling certain that Lou was talking about him the entire time thanks to the press that he and National Geographic had gotten on the botched salvage operation in the Sea of Japan. Despite David’s plea that National Geo not air the program, the producers had overruled him and other divers who felt as David did that it should not air, given the dire turn it had taken, costing Wilcox—who figured heavily in the program—his life.

  “You don’t go into this thinking you have something to prove, people,” continued Swigart, ignoring David Ingles. “This is now, and it’s hardly the Sea of Japan. Trust me, this is great depths we’ll be working at, beyond anything anyone has ever withstood before—and the real reason I suspect you’re all here, willingly…” He let this sink in while taking up a position along the side of the podium where he now leaned in a casual manner. “And this series of dives will prove the new technology right or wrong.”

  “In other words,” said Will Bowman, grinning, “live or
die.”

  The room erupted in a quiet chorus of murmurs.

  “I need the bread, Lou,” David assured his boss. “No one’s here to prove anything.”

  “Not even you—David Ingles?” came a female voice at the rear, making David look back. It was the second female diver, Lena Gambio, a weight-lifting Italian with an overlarge nose for her petite face.

  “I signed on for the hundred thou.” Ingles’ blunt reply caused a wave of muttering about the small meeting room.

  “The going rate for a suicide dive.” Swigart didn’t miss a beat.

  “The money has been put up by a private donor working through the institute, working through Luther K—”

  “Hold on!” said Kelly Irvin, suddenly standing. “I thought Kane was footing the bill.”

  “Luther Warren Kane is a rich man because he doesn’t gamble his own money on risky ventures, and nothing gets more risky than undersea salvage.”

  “Kane is just fronting?” Kelly persisted.

  “What’s it matter?” asked Jacob Mendenhall, the closest diver to her. “Who cares where the money comes from so long as we get paid?”

  Swigart waved them all down. “Said donor has managed to ignore decades of objections from those who support the belief that Titanic should not be disturbed any more than it already has been.”

  “The poor dear, she’s looted from the outside by various nations around the world,” added Lena. “But we get a shot at her insides!”

  “No one’s had the technology we have,” countered David.

  “Or the corporate and government backing that Scorpio is now equipped with,” began Kelly, palms raised. “We have the Navy involvement, our training, and some of the largest corporations in the US behind us.”

  “Far cry from just having National Geographic support,” said Bowman with a smirk.

  Mendenhall laughed and added, “I saw the spread NG did on you, Ingles.”

  “We all saw it!” countered Bowman. “So what, Jake.”

  “Please, it’s Jacob or Mendenhall if you like, Bowman. “I am just saying that I’d worry less about where the money is coming from and more about with whom we are diving alongside—I mean at these depths!”

  “Mendenhall makes sense,” agreed Lou who continued, pointing to the rear of the room. “Confine your concerns to the dive and your teammates. Your life and the success of this mission depend upon it.”

  David glanced over his shoulder to where Kelly Irvin sat at the back of the room. From her expression, she had known who he was all along. He heard Swigart’s continuing rant again in his ear. “That Geographic episode made quite a splash. Just be damned sure we have no g’damn accidents here, and that the wreck you and your friends worked in the Sea of Japan is in the past and out of your system—got that Ingles? Are you hearing me?”

  “Yes sir! Heard and taken to heart, sir.” David gave a thought to his best friend whose body had never been recovered, at eternal rest inside the hull of a World War II Japanese submarine; quite the expensive coffin. How many eulogies had he given to Terry Wilcox? “Lou, I swear to you it’s behind me,” he wanted to believe it as firmly as he’d said it.

  “Good… good. Can’t have you down there with any damn ghosts, emotional baggage—all that shit. And that goes for all of you in this room.”

  “Understood, sir… yes, sir…” came a chorus of affirmations.

  “Have to be focused like a laser, stay on camera and audio. No place for idle thoughts or daydreaming.”

  Swigart was right of course, and right to call him on it a final time today. “I won’t let you down, Lou. Promise.”

  Others muttered and nodded to indicate the same sentiment. Ingles took in the faces of the seven other divers—Team Aft Section Titanic: Lena Gambio, former Navy diver, Lt. William Bowman, former Navy Seal, Steve Jens, a career man retired from the Navy. Lt. Kyle Fiske, another navy man. He’d be acting as second only to Swigart as, in theory, he’d be Swigart’s right-hand man overseeing the safety of the aft section away team, working out of the control room with Forbes and the ship’s physician, a man named Entebbe.

  Meanwhile, Team Bow Section Titanic was comprised of David Ingles, Kelly Irvin, and Jacob Mendenhall, oceanographer and experienced diver, while Lou Swigart would be at the submersible controls below with this team.

  “All I ask, all I ask,” repeated Swigart, “and thanks for dropping by!” he tried and failed at sounding a bit friendlier. “Now get your gear stowed and ready yourself for the voyage out to the Sea of Sacrifice.”

  “Haven’t heard it called that in a long time,” muttered Kelly Irvin as they all recognized the phrase—a title on one of Alandale’s books that went into some detail about all those he could find records on who went down with the Titanic on the night of April 14th 1912.

  “Aye, Commander of Divers!” shouted Steve Jens, a stalwart looking, handsome fellow with the requisite seaman’s tan. The others followed suit, saluting Swigart as most were ex-Navy.

  Swigart was pleased to see this; he obviously wished to run his operations by US Navy standards despite—or rather due to its highly experimental nature—and despite the fact that none of them were any longer connected to the Navy.

  At least Swigart had set the tone for ‘open and aboveboard’ about everything that goes on—and on a ship, that was important, and David Ingles consoled himself on this point even as he felt that Swigart had been unnecessarily rough on him. Still, what with too many people packed in too small a space, everyone really did need to be honest and up front. Besides, it was the unspoken stuff that seeped into Ingles’ mind that might make him paranoid about how others viewed him and his recent failures. A disciplined work ethic aboard following naval protocol felt right and proper.

  These thoughts followed David out of the debriefing, and while others were introducing one another, he rushed past them and was soon in search of his cramped semi-private quarters belowdecks. He soon felt the familiar sense of being home, even if it was in a metal box with poor lighting. The narrow passageways, the shoulder-to-shoulder sized archways led him to his cabin, marked No. 4 where he opened the hatch on a small area as cramped as any rolling RV. Two bunk spaces and a single locker with small mirror to each man. Any shaving or other toiletry needs meant additional shared facilities down the hall.

  It all looked like that damned sub in the waters near Japan. It made him wonder about where precisely Terry Wilcox’s skeletal remains had become a permanent resident, but he quickly rushed from that path of thought, knowing he could not go down that road again if he wished to remain sane.

  As a balm, his thoughts moved to the thoroughfares inside the Titanic a mile and a half below the Atlantic surface, to where he would be diving in the near future. From all he had ever read of the ship, it was spacious—outlandishly so, at least before it sank. Now to be sure, ceilings in particular would be crushing and walls and bulkheads tight indeed, but he imagined it would be more spacious than a WWII vintage Japanese sub.

  Ingles and the other divers had been working with the Navy for a year after their initial recruitment, but oddly enough, they had been trained at different locations and had not worked as a team. It was part of the overall strategy put forth, ironically, by a team of psychiatrists on Kane’s payroll. According to Swigart; from his understanding the ‘bosses’ wanted it that way, believing that too much familiarity among team members in such a high-risk, high-stress situations as they faced guaranteed slip ups, that a dive team too closely aligned by fidelity, friendship, and loyalty were less likely to follow protocol in a negative event—the latest euphemism for foul up. In essence, that was what had happened to Ingles’ buddy in Japan. Perhaps it would not have happened had absolute protocol been followed, but then again who knew for sure? Certainly not the commission put together to study the mishap, whose thousand-page report made for sleep-inducing prose suited only for the toilet. They hadn’t overlooked admonishing Ingles for failing to follow protocol when things went south, yet
the commission praised him for saving the others, all but Terry Wilcox.

  David stared into the small mirror on his compartment locker and told himself, “You can do this.” He had worked hard on getting this right, diligently and long, to the exclusion of everything else in his life. Lou Swigart had made himself clear. “A good dive team is a tool, Ingles—another arm for the scientists to utilize. No one under my command is going to be some hot dog. First sign of such shit, and you’re on a chopper outta here.”

  Reacting to a loud kick at his door, David snatched it open to find his roommate, hands filled with his duffel and a couple of huge biscuits piled with jam and butter balanced on a paper plate. “Need a hand—Bowman, isn’t it?”

  “Got it… got it… OK maybe if you took the plate… thanks.”

  “So you guys drew straws and ‘the black guy’got to share a room with me, eh?” David joked.

  “You know how it goes; black dude always gets the shaft,” Bowman immediately shot back, laughing good-naturedly as he worked himself and his bag into the cramped quarters. “I see you’ve staked out your claim.”

  David placed Bowman’s biscuits onto his small desk. “First come, all that.”

  “Help yourself to a biscuit,” offered Bowman who then extended a hand to shake, adding, “Name’s Will… Will Bowman.”

  “Yeah, I’ve studied your bio. Wanted to know who I’m working with.”

  “Need to know who’s got your back—agreed.” He lifted the paper plate with biscuits precariously balanced toward David, again offering him a bite.

  “No thanks—not hungry. Too nervous to eat in fact.”

  “I know… exciting times.” Bowman looked pleased that David hadn’t taken half his food, and he quickly began to devour what was on the flimsy plate, and was soon licking his fingers of butter and unpacking when he heard a strange noise, followed by a woman’s voice cursing outside their door, sending David investigating. He swung open the inward hinged hatchway to find Dr. Kelly Irvin stooped over and picking up a spilled fanny pack she’d dropped; she’d spilled all manner of feminine items, and among the debris two pill bottles.