Roger was disappearing, and disappearing fast. Semi-conscious, and buffeted like a rubber duck in rapids, he’d withdrawn from the horror of his situation. He could do that: Switch off the rest of the world and reside only in the comfort of his mind.
“The lights are on but nobody’s home,” his father would mock.
But this time, his lights were going out. His will to survive was rapidly draining, and he was drifting toward death.
Everything aboard the ship had changed—so many lives shifted by a single thoughtless act. On the bridge, the captain was still in communion with his crew, even ordering hot chocolate and doughnuts for everyone. Most, dragged like he from the comfort of a warm bunk, were grateful for his consideration.
“Drink this in remembrance of me,” he could have said, as he passed a steaming cup, heavily laden with sugar, to the chief officer. “How far John?” he asked, in an informal way. Just a friendly enquiry. The simple action of handing over a cup of cocoa bringing an instant bond between the two men, changing their relationship from master and servant to that of friends. But the relationship could flip back, instantly, should it be necessary. And both men knew it.
“About another four minutes to point Alpha, Bert, if the computers are right. Although God knows what chance we’ve got of finding the poor bastard in this weather … assuming there is a poor bastard.”
Point Alpha—the spot in the vast ocean where, according to the computerized navigation system, Roger’s body should be found, alive or dead.
With a bridge resembling the flight deck of Starship Enterprise, the SS Rotterdam was equipped with all the latest aids: A satellite navigation system locked onto signals emitted by a dozen man-made moons; anti-collision radar tracked other vessels fifty miles or more away; and the auto pilot knew exactly where the ship was, where it had been, and where it was going. Apart from the intricate manoeuvres required to navigate congested harbours at each end of the voyage, the ship was perfectly capable of finding her own way across the North Sea. She could also retrace her steps, precisely, to any given point of the voyage.
Working backwards from the moment of King’s arrival on the bridge, the navigation officer had calculated the moment Roger was believed to have disappeared overboard. The on-board computers turned that time into a location: Point Alpha—a mere pinpoint on the ocean’s surface, yet a point defined with more accuracy than the distance between one wave and the next. Finding a needle in a haystack would have been child’s play for this computer. Finding a fat man mid-ocean was well within its capability.
Many of the passengers were up; woken by the violent movements, which contrasted so sharply with the gentle sway, that lulled them to sleep just a few hours earlier. Few knew what had happened. Most remained in their cabins, a nasty surprise awaiting them in the morning when, at daybreak, they would peer out of the porthole expecting to see the familiar green landscape of Holland only to find a dirty, rolling sea. A few passengers, forced out of their cabins and onto deck by heaving stomachs, were surprised to find a large number of crewmembers hanging over the rails, studying the wave tops.
Searchlights lit the area around the sides of the ship, clearly illuminating each green wave as it smashed against the hull and climbed high up the superstructure before losing power and dropping back, only to be picked up and thrown back again by the next one. The ship, now almost stationery, rolled like a giant metronome marking time with the hellish cacophony created by the rising wind and crashing waves. Wave after wave attacked the ship, flinging spray high into the air, stinging the faces of the exhilarated passengers and disgruntled crewmembers lining the rails. But beyond the fringe of lights, the rest of the world had dissolved into the blackness of outer space.
Below decks, in the Calypso Bar, an alcoholic duo of detectives were still aggravating the barman. Nosmo King had been wrong in thinking they were en-route to a boozy goodwill convention. Their task, they believed, was almost complete and, in a few short hours, their Dutch counterparts would take over the mission and relieve them of responsibilities for the following thirty-six hours. A day and a half they planned to spend seeing the sights of Amsterdam.
“Hey. Barman. Whash your name anyway,” slurred one of the detectives.
“It’s Len, Sir.”
“Yeah, Len, baby. Uh, what’s happening. Can’t you keep this bloody boat still.” Detective Constable Doug Smythe, with many years of drinking under his belt and a maze of flamboyant capillaries on his nose, was sober enough to realize the swaying motion was not just in his head. But the other detective, a younger man with brush cut hair, and a goatee, which he believed fashionable, had flopped forward against the bar and wound his arm around a stanchion to prevent himself from sliding off the chair.
Sergeant Jones had ventured to the washroom, and was now making his way back across the deserted dance floor, waltzing back and forth in tune to the reeling of the ship. Sickness had left its mark—slicks of mucous stained his shirt and right trouser leg, and a large dollop of vomit perched on the toe of his right shoe.
The obstacle-free dance floor presented no real challenge to Jones, other than remaining upright with nothing solid to grasp. But the stairs, tables, and chairs of the bar area were an entirely different terrain, yet to be conquered. The Calypso Bar occupied the entire aft section of the ship—a cavernous auditorium of six semi-circular terraces overlooking the dance floor, each terrace reached from the one below by a wide flight of eight stairs. The bar itself was almost five decks higher than the dance floor, and only a ship’s architect with an outrageous sense of humour could have placed the bar at the top of the incline and the washroom at the bottom.
Jones fell as he climbed the steps to the first terrace and was catapulted into a table by a particularly violent pitch. Grabbing a chair, he held on, bracing himself against the next lurch. Seconds later the ship slammed into another wave. “Hold tight!” he shouted to himself, grasping the chair tightly, but it was unattached and crashed with him down the eight steps to the hardwood floor below.
“Buggerin’ ell!” he screamed, his words lost in the vastness of the almost deserted auditorium. He tried the stairs again, only climbing three before being shaken off balance, then lying on his back on the dance floor, swearing at the ceiling fifty feet above, unaware his left wrist had been shattered in the first fall.
“I think your mate needs a hand,” said Len, watching from his perch at the bar, giving D.C. Smythe a poke.
“Oh shit,” he replied, dragging his younger colleague with him to the sergeant’s aid.
With the detectives no longer at the bar, Len seized his chance to escape and in less than thirty seconds ripped the cash drawer from the till, flicked off the lights, slammed and locked the bar grill, and was on his way to bed.
Disappointment awaited him at the purser’s office, where he went to pay in the evening’s takings.
“All hands on deck mate,” the assistant purser said. “Didn’t you hear the call? Some poor sod’s gone for a swim.”
He hadn’t heard; didn’t want to hear. Working late into the night wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t done a day shift for his mate, a kitchen fitter, the previous day. Just for a second he considered sloping off to bed, figuring he’d not be missed, but the assistant purser, with more years at sea than he wanted to remember— waiting for a pair of dead purser’s pants, according to his wife—saw the intention spread across Len’s face.
“I’ll tell the deck officer you’re on your way then,” he said, pointedly, as he picked up a walkie-talkie from the desk.
“Fuck you,” Len muttered, ambling disgruntledly toward the boat deck.
“This is the centre of the search area,” the deck officer was explaining as Len joined a group of crewmembers sheltering from the storm under one of the larger lifeboats. An audience of curious passengers were hanging about in the shade of the boat, listening to his performance, so the officer tuned his voice to a high pitched whine, sounding like a 1950s BBC radio announcer. “We believe the man should