15
From the bridge of the QE2, a good hundred feet above the water, Captain David Rapley had a clear and unhampered view of the sea ahead, and to port and starboard as well. Off to port, the jungles and mountains of Mexico were slipping away, dimly visible through the tropical showers that were sweeping down upon them. Ahead was the open sea, slate gray and speckled by rain. The arching bow cut cleanly into the surface, sending out a frothing white wave to either side. It was good to be at sea again; Captain Rapley never felt completely comfortable ashore.
“Coffee, sir,” the steward said, setting the silver tray before him. Rapley leaned back in the Captain’s chair and nodded. Poured from a silver pot into a china cup. A far cry from the poisonous brew served in a heavy chipped mug that had passed for a beverage in the Navy. For a moment, as he stirred in a spoonful of sugar and sipped at the hot and delicious liquid, he had a fleeting touch of nostalgia for those days now vanished. Mugs of tea and large gins in the Wardroom and the pleasures of comrades together doing a job that had to be done. A very different existence from this, the air-conditioned comfort of the world’s most luxurious liner. Over sixty-seven thousand tons of ship; one hundred and ten thousand horsepower at his command. A far cry from the five-stack destroyers he had first served in. The hell with nostalgia. They were good days but they were gone. He drank deep of the coffee. Their problems were gone too — and they wouldn’t be missed. Life was a good deal easier now.
The Staff Captain came up and saluted, a large yellow envelope in his hand. Captain Rapiey returned the salute and scowled at the envelope. There were still problems commanding a ship, but they were of a totally different order.
“We’re outside of Mexican territorial waters now,” Staff Captain Flint said.
“I suppose we are — or you wouldn’t be bringing me that damn thing.”
“Temper, Dave, temper. Ours is but to serve, not reason why. Shall I open it?”
The job of the Staff Captain was to shoulder whatever of the Captain’s burdens that he could. He was an accredited Ship’s Master as well and commanded the QE2 when the Captain was on leave. While at sea he was very much concerned with staff matters and worked closely with the Hotel Manager whose four gold bands matched his own four stripes. Most of the day-to-day matters concerning the passengers they worked out between them. Only when the problem became too important was the Captain bothered. And he was very much bothered this time.
“See that this is entered into the log,” the Captain said, glaring at the envelope as though it contained a poisonous serpent. “I don’t like the front office interfering with the running of this ship.”
“I agree,” the Staff Captain said amicably. “But you must admit that the passengers are what pay to keep the old girl going — so some concessions must be made.” He took out a single sheet of paper and passed it over without glancing at it. Captain Rapiey read it quickly, his eyebrows drawing together in a scowl as he did so. In the end he snorted loudly and turned to look out at the ocean before he passed the paper back to the Staff Captain.
“Bloody lunacy,” he said. “Whatever can they be thinking of?”
“Making money,” Flint said, reading the orders. “This is a diplomatic affair of some kind, plenty of extra charges being paid for the extra service. Good headlines eventually and in the long run plenty of good publicity.” As soon as he had finished reading he looked out at the sea just as the Captain had done a few moments earlier.
“It’s a preposterous jumble of cloak-and-dagger nonsense,” the Captain said. “High ranking government officials with diplomatic passports… all possible aid… a seaplane now in the air and waiting for a prearranged signal to land in order to board these passengers! I’ve never heard of anything like it.”
“All the better. The passengers will love it, they’ll take pictures and show their friends at home. You couldn’t have arranged a better diversion if you tried.”
“Nonsense. It’s a dangerous stunt, that’s all it is. And what if there is an accident? It’s not safe to put a plane down on that ocean out there. Unsafe.”
The Staff Captain smiled.
“Come on, Dave, you’re letting all the responsibility-to-the-passengers stuff go to your head. During the war you wouldn’t have thought twice about seeing a seaplane land on an ocean like that. Wind seven knots, long rollers, easy enough to put the thing down in the trough between them, visibility still over a mile at the worst. A piece of cake. What do you say?”
Captain Rapley thought for a long moment — then smiled. “Send the signal. Until they are aboard the ship they are not my responsibility. If some screwball pilot wants to wreck his craft landing near me it’s not my problem at all.”
“Spoken like a sporting man! Let’s bring them in and see what we’re getting in the surprise package.”
“But see that every bit of this goes into the log! Time of signal, time of arrival, weather conditions, everything. And be sure you describe the sea conditions exactly and be absolutely sure that Sparks makes a recording of everything said. Be this on their own heads. And stop all engines. By the time they arrive I want us dead in the water.”
He sat drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair until the Staff Captain returned.
“They’re on the way,” he said.
“All right. Lower the boarding ladder and the number one cruise launch. Better go with it yourself to see that the transfer goes off without a hitch.”
The matter was out of the Captain’s hands now; he was just as much a spectator as the excited passengers staring out of the windows or braving the rain for a better view from the decks. He watched with the rest of them as the big four-engined flying boat appeared out of the low-hanging clouds. It swept low over the ship — probably to check the wind direction from their flags — the engines roaring mightily, stains on the white skin showing clearly. Then it was past and banking into a wide turn. Dropping lower.
Finally setting down lazily with a splash of foam. The launch rushed out to meet the plane. With his high-power binoculars, the Captain could see the launch swing up to the open door, watch as six men climbed carefully down into the launch. As soon as they started back he issued orders that the deck below, and the forward lift, be sealed off so the new arrivals could go directly to their suites without being seen or disturbed by the other passengers. He had no idea at all who the people were who had just come aboard, but considering the delicacy of the matter this seemed a wise precaution. In any case, whoever they were, they were politicians of some kind, Central or South American politicians. This had to mean trouble. Everything here, or in the Near East, meant trouble when politicians were involved. In addition to this, the Captain, as an ex-Navy man, had always entertained a deep suspicion of politicians whose prime function in life seemed to him to be that of cutting Naval appropriations.
Their table for two was set by the window, so Hank and Frances had a perfect view of the seaplane when it landed. They could see the ship’s launch when it picked up the new passengers, then returned, disappearing from sight below them.
“No prizes for guessing who just came aboard,” Hank said. Frances nodded agreement.
“The top twisters themselves. The principals finally on stage. I still find it a little hard to believe that I’m really involved in this. A few weeks ago I thought that Paraguay and Uruguay were a pair of stand-up comics — and Nazis were creatures you saw late at night on the box in old black and white films. I’ve just had an education.”
“Can I tell you how bad I feel about this? How sorry I am that I ever let you get involved…. “