“I thought this was where the laundry’s food-preparation area was located,” he said.
This off-the-wall comment appeared to catch Ping by surprise. He accepted a supportive nod from Hartwell before replying. “Space constraints force us to use this compartment for dual purposes. As mealtime approaches, the counters are removed, and that’s where you’ll find our sink and stove.”
“And where’s the food itself stored?” Vince continued.
Ping’s expression further tightened with suspicion, prompting Hartwell to intercede. “It’s all right, Ping. We’re investigating a possible case of food contamination. You’re free to answer all of Special Agent Kellogg’s questions.”
With a confused shrug of his narrow shoulders, Ping opened a nearby doorway and revealed a dimly lit storeroom. Alongside a wall lined with chemical drums, sat a wizened Asian man, innocently peeling vegetables.
A large bucket filled with scraps lay between his bare feet, with a stainless-steel refrigerator close by.
“You’ll find all perishable items such as fish, chicken, and pork properly stored inside the refrigerator,” revealed Ping. “These items are drawn from the ship’s larder when needed. You can rest assured that we make every effort to follow Chef Langer’s strict sanitation guidelines.”
“May I have a look?” Vince asked as he walked over to the refrigerator and opened it without waiting for a reply.
He found the chilled interior to be spotlessly clean. A large covered platter of cut-up chicken sat on the center shelf, along with several plastic tubs filled with an assortment of raw vegetables.
“To my knowledge, not a single one of my workers has ever gotten ill from one of our meals,” Ping said as Vince gestured Hartwell to have a look inside.
The Scotsman initiated a cursory inspection of the refrigerator’s contents before shutting the door and querying, “Ping, during our last crossing from Southampton, did any members of the crew other than your men use this facility for food preparation?”
“Absolutely not,” Ping answered.
“Then is it possible that one of your men could have prepared a dish for an outsider, something as simple as an appetizer for a party?” probed Vince.
Ping responded thoughtfully. “The only time that food cooked here leaves these walls is on very special occasions. From time to time, we prepare a meal for the captain, or one of the other senior officers.”
“I understand these special meals are much anticipated and most appreciated,” said Hartwell. “Scuttlebutt even has it that upon tasting one of your dishes, Chef Langer requested the recipe.”
“Indeed.” As Ping went on to describe the details of this fondly remembered incident, Vince explored the storeroom further. He spotted a large steel grille cut into the bulkhead behind a waist-high stack of bagged white rice. A steady, pulsating drone could be heard emanating from this opening. Hartwell revealed its source.
“That grille is a free-flood hole that opens up directly into the Engine Room.”
Any further elaboration on his part was cut short by the sudden activation of his two-way radio. With both Vince and Ping looking on, he pulled out the compact device and spoke into the transmitter.
“Hartwell, here.”
“Chief,” said Tuffs amplified voice. “The Secret Service has just informed me that the first motorcade has left the United Nations. They should be arriving here in another fifteen minutes.”
“Roger that, Tuff. I’m on my way up to join you pier side Over.”
Hartwell pocketed the radio and addressed Vince. “I don’t know about you, Special Agent, but I’d say that we can cross Chinatown off the list of possible sources of contamination.”
“By all means,” Vince concurred.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Ping,” said Hartwell as he led the way out of the storeroom. “I imagine that you and your lads are excited by the prospect of sailing with President Li this crossing. Did you ever dream this day would come?”
Ping halted beside the partially unloaded pallet of detergent and answered matter-of-factly. “I left China many years ago, and know little of such matters. As far as I’m concerned, all politicians are cut from the same bolt of cloth, with the youngster Li Chen no different from the other world leaders.” Then he bowed at the waist and added politely, “It was an honor to be of service, gentlemen.” Vince said his own goodbyes, and as he followed Hart well out of the Laundry, he accepted his guide’s offer to accompany him topside by way of the Engine Room.
A narrow hatch secured by dog-clips conveyed them to an elevated, latticed-steel platform overlooking one of the largest interior compartments on the ship. From this lofty vantage point Vince enjoyed an unobstructed view of the cavernous hold’s five immense diesel engines, only one of which was currently operational.
“It was in 1986 that the QE2’s engines were converted from steam to diesel power,” explained Hartwell, who had to practically scream to be heard over the constant guttural roar. “The ship is presently equipped with nine MAN turbocharged engines. Each of these one hundred-twenty ton giants are the approximate size of a London double decker bus, with four fitted forward, and five aft.
“In addition to producing enough electrical power to light a city the size of Southampton, the engines drive two main propulsion motors that in turn spin the vessel’s twin propeller shafts. Our top speed is thirty-two knots, with only seven of the engines needed to produce a standard service speed of twenty-eight and one-half knots.”
Vince watched as a group of crewmen gathered around the open manifold of one of the engines that wasn’t operational. They appeared to be servicing its massive cylinder heads. Even from this distance Vince could clearly see the black grease that stained their white coveralls.
“Why not place all nine engines in one compartment?” Vince asked.
“Wouldn’t that facilitate maintenance?”
“Aye,” said Hartwell. “But our engineers put up with this minor inconvenience, knowing that in the event of an accident, a series of watertight doors separates the two rooms, allowing autonomous operations.”
A steep ladder brought them down to the compartment’s main deck. Careful not to slide on the slippery catwalk, Vince followed Hartwell aft.
Twisting pipe and thick, insulated ducts hugged the bulkheads, with the distinctive stench of fuel oil almost overpowering.
As they climbed over the bottom lip of a massive watertight door, Hartwell pointed to the right. Several oddly shaped, sealed vats were positioned against the far bulkhead, with a number of thick, grease-stained pipes snaking in and out of them. The smell of oil was particularly strong here. Vince soon learned why.
“That’s where the fuel is heated,” Hartwell revealed. “In its natural state, the oil we use has a consistency much like road tar, and needs to be subsequently thinned. Note the heavy concentration of halon fire extinguishers mounted into the ceiling. The fuel-storage bunkers are positioned directly below us, making this one of the most volatile areas on the entire ship.”
“What kind of gas mileage do you get?” Vince asked.
“At service speed, the engines require about 380 tons per day. The ship can hold 4,578 tons, giving us a range of twelve days without having to refuel.”
They passed through yet another watertight door, with Hartwell directing Vince’s attention to a thick, circular steel manifold that extended all the way up to the ceiling and had numerous pipes connected to it. “Those ventilation shafts go straight up to the funnel. Exhaust gasses from the engines are routed up this trunking. Once they reach the funnel the heat is captured in specially designed boilers. The resulting steam is redirected for a variety of diverse purposes, including heating the fuel and the water you’ll be using in your shower.”