Throughout this verbal assault the President had said nothing. But he had nodded with approval.
The size of Jimmy's mistake was beyond colossal. And he didn't have a clue what to do about it. If Mohican didn't kill him, the rest of his troop would as soon as they found out about the food.
Jimmy sighed, saluted, then turned to go.
'One moment, Private,' said the President.
Perhaps, perhaps a ray of hope . . .
Jimmy faced the President again. 'Sir?'
'Private, I want a full run-down of the Titanic's defences, weapons, how many men at arms there are on board.'
'Uh . . . Yes, sir — but why?'
The President nodded at his son. 'Kyle — if a ship's in United States territorial waters and we're going through a national emergency, then we're perfectly within our rights to seize it, aren't we?'
'Yes, Father.'
'Excellent. There's your answer, Private Armstrong. Your arrival at Fort Hope is indeed fortuitous — not only do we gain a soldier, but he brings us the mighty Titanic as well. Well done, son!'
16
The Nightmare
After twenty minutes of arguing against all logic that it could not possibly have been a nightmare, Claire finally had to concede first that it could have been one, then that it probably was one, before eventually admitting that yes, it definitely had been a nightmare. The minister, Rev. Calvin Cleaver, could not possibly have entered the locked Presidential Suite to attack her; he could not have ghosted past her father, sitting smoking a cigar in the lounge, or vanished into a puff of smoke when he raced into her bedroom moments after she started screaming.
'OK, all right.' Her pyjamas were damp from the cold sweat that had drenched her. Her chest was tight with anxiety. 'It was a nightmare. But Dad, don't you see? It means something.'
'It means you're still weak after your injury,' said Mr Stanford, patting her shoulder reassuringly. 'It's obviously far too soon for you to be back at work . . .'
'It's not that — it's . . . it's like — a sign.'
Her father sighed.
'Dad — I'm serious, he—'
'I blame it on the cheese.' It was her mother, coming to lend her support.
Husband and daughter looked at her, still not quite used to the fact that she was from another planet, where logic had not yet been invented.
'What?' asked Claire.
'Cheese, it gives you nightmares. That's what they say.'
'Mum — I haven't had any cheese.'
'No, but you had two cups of hot chocolate. It's made with milk. So is cheese. I'm sure there's a connection.'
She drifted back out of the room. Father and daughter looked at each other and smiled. He ruffled her hair. 'Try and get some sleep, and then take it easy tomorrow, all right?'
'All right, Dad.'
Of course, Claire had no intention of taking it easy. She had a paper to run — and a killer to unmask.
Claire was proud of that morning's paper. They all were. It was packed with good news stories and features. There was a glowing tribute to Jimmy — under the headline Jimmy Armstrong: Missing In Action. On her way to work she was stopped several times and congratulated on the production. This, she knew, was a rare event in newspapers — usually you only heard from the general public when they had a complaint. When she reached the office the team was all there, busy chatting amongst themselves.
'You all did a really good job last night,' she said, sitting on the edge of her desk. 'Now we've got to do it all over again today.'
They let out a resigned groan.
'I want a pay rise,' said Andy.
'Double pay for everyone,' said Claire, then pretended to do a mental calculation. 'What's the double of nothing?'
They laughed politely. Claire liked them. She liked being in charge. If Jimmy returned he would have a fight on his hands if he wanted his old job back.
She shook herself. When Jimmy returned.
Claire clapped her hands together. 'OK, let's take a look at what we've got today. Ty?'
'I have some more from Jonas Jones. The problem with the engines — I'd thought we were looking for some massive replacement part, but it turns out it's about this size . . .' He held up his thumb and forefinger, about ten centimetres apart. 'Don't quite understand what it does although Jonas spent about an hour explaining it to me, but that's what we need. It's manufactured in two places in the whole world — Belfast, where the ship was built, and a place in New Jersey not far from New York. That's where we have to get to.'
'OK,' said Claire,'we're a couple of days out of New York yet. I'll do the photos, but I'll need a reporter along as well. Any volunteers?'
Everyone raised their hands, including the idiot who made the tea.
'If. . . you don't mind?' It was Ty again. 'I'm from New Jersey — I know the area, and I'd kind of like to see if any of my family . . .'
Claire nodded. His parents had both died during the plague, here on the ship. She hadn't asked if he had other family. That's how it worked on board, you rarely asked friends and colleagues about family — it was too painful.
'Of course, Ty.'
She spent another ten minutes discussing stories and handing out assignments before arriving at what was really on her mind.
'OK, I have another assignment here. We have a minister on board, Reverend Calvin Cleaver, came on yesterday. Looking for a profile of him, nice big interview, any volunteers . . . ?'
'Boring,' said Debs.
'I know. But it'll be good to have on file in case we have a quiet news day.'
'Remind me of the last time that was.' Debs laughed.
Claire was deliberately trying to make it sound boring. She was uncomfortable doing this, but she didn't want to let them know her real reason for wanting the story in case the interviewer inadvertently tipped Cleaver off that she thought he was a murderer.
'So?'
Nobody was interested. They were all keen to get started on their own assignments.
Then slowly, slowly, the idiot who made the tea raised his hand.
'Alan,' said Claire.
'Brian,' said Brian.
'Yes, of course . . . ahm, you want to do this?' Brian nodded. 'You haven't written anything for us yet, have you?' Brian shook his head. He looked at the floor.
Claire wasn't sure if she'd ever actually spoken to him. She couldn't quite recall how he'd ever arrived in the first place. He had just started hanging around, sitting in the corner, watching mostly, until someone ordered him to make the tea or get lost. She thought it was Ty who'd started calling him the idiot who makes the tea — behind his back, of course — and it had just kind of caught on. She should have put a stop to it. Or Jimmy should. But they weren't perfect.
None of them had known how to write a story when they'd started, but they'd all been given their chance. Most of their first stories had been awful. But they'd learned how to do it and were now reasonably good at it. Brian deserved his chance.
'OK, Brian,' said Claire. 'Why don't you take a shot at it?' She glanced across at Ty, who was looking surprised. She smiled at Brian. 'Just remember, I want as much detail as possible — don't be afraid to ask him anything.' Brian nodded. 'You have a notebook?'