'So can I put in the paper that the ship's great but the Captain might run us into a big rock?'
Jonas burst into laughter. 'Be the last voyage I ever make if you do!'
***
Jimmy and Claire hurried back to the Times office, doing poor impressions of the Welshman's accent. Now Jimmy had to turn all those facts and figures into something interesting and Claire had to work on her photos. There was only space for one picture — but a single shot of the engineering crew wouldn't convey the power and majesty of the ship they ran, while just a picture of the engines would be rather boring. However, there was a software program on Scoop's computer that might allow her to merge two different shots so that the engines remained impressive while the crew could still provide the human interest without looking either like ants or giants.
Jimmy entered the office first and surprised Claire, following in behind, by swearing out loud. But then she saw what he was upset about: the computers had been overturned and lay on their sides on the floor, which was covered in reams of torn and crumpled paper.
'Jimmy — it's him, it's Pedroza, he's . . .' and then they heard a groan, and then a cough, and they hurried across the office and there was Scoop, lying face down but trying to get up on to his knees. He pulled himself halfway up, then collapsed down again and threw up.
'He's been attacked!' Claire cried. 'Pedroza's. . .'
But Jimmy had spotted something — what Scoop had been trying to get hold of. A bottle of vodka.
'He hasn't been attacked, Claire.'
Claire stared at Scoop. Her hands went to her face. 'The Red Death.' She took a step back.
'Nope,' said Jimmy. He picked up the bottle and turned the label to show her. Her eyes widened.
'Vodka . . .?'
'Yup.'
'You mean he's drunk?'
'Yes he is . . . and most of the time, apparently. He's an alcoholic. Dr Hill told me.'
Claire looked sadly down at the old reporter. He was snoring gently now. But her sympathy only lasted for a few moments. 'He's wrecked the place! All our work!'
Jimmy stood beside her, nodding. 'If we tell on him, your dad will sack him.'
'My dad wouldn't . . .' But then she stopped. 'Yes he would.'
'So what do we do?'
Claire thought for a moment.'OK. You clean up the sick, I'll check the computers.'
'I don't think so.'
'OK. I'll get him back into his room, you clean up the sick.'
'I think not.'
'Well, someone has to do it. We'll call the cleaners.'
'And make them promise not to tell anyone? I don't think so.'
'Well what then?'
'We do it between us.'
'We . . .' She looked truly horrified. 'But. . .'
'Come on,' said Jimmy.
***
Through a combination of dragging, pushing, prodding and shouting — mostly at each other, because Scoop remained out for the count — they managed to get him back into bed.
Then they cleaned up the sick.
They were nearly sick themselves.
They righted the computers and tried to switch them on, convinced that Scoop's frenzied assault on his own office — a crazy attempt to locate a hidden supply of alcohol — had sunk their attempt to produce the Titanic Times all by themselves.
And yet, amazingly, everything was working perfectly. The stories they had painstakingly written were just as they'd left them, saved, unharmed, on the computers. Claire's photos were still on file.
They got right back to work.
Jimmy wrote at speed, picking out the letters on the keyboard with increasing speed and occasional accuracy. Luckily there was a good spell check. Claire tried a dozen different variations of her merged engine-room photos before finally settling on one. When they were both finished they designed the feature page together before checking the rest of the pages one last time.
'It's a good read,' said Jimmy.
'And it looks good.'
'You couldn't tell the difference between our Times and Scoop's.'
'And that's the whole point. Let's print it.'
When the ship was fully functioning, three thousand copies would be required first thing every morning, seven days a week. But that wasn't their problem. They had done their job. Whoever came on board in Miami would inherit a fully functioning newspaper production office. And it would only smell slightly of vomit.
***
They had been given an eight p.m. deadline for providing finished copies of the Titanic Times for Captain Smith's approval. Once he gave the go-ahead the paper would be distributed to the skeleton crew. By the time they had finished printing it out they had just ten minutes to spare, and what with the size of the ship it took most of that time to get to the bridge. Claire, a regular visitor to this and many other bridges, was more than familiar with it, but it blew Jimmy's mind. He had always thought of ships' bridges as featuring — well, basically a big wheel, maybe a bell, with waves crashing against the window. And bluff men saying things like 'Ahoy there, Captain!' Perhaps, as a concession to the twenty-first century, there might be some electronic equipment. Like radar. Or a toaster for midnight snacks.
This was like mission control.
The place bristled with computer monitors.
Crewmen in short-sleeved shirts studied electronic charts and forecasts and maps and . . . well, he hadn't a clue what they were all doing or what half of the equipment was for. It was just incredibly impressive.
Captain Smith was seated behind a desk to the rear, examining a monitor with First Officer Jeffers on his left shoulder and Claire's father on his right. They were all looking very grave.
'We've brought the papers,' Claire said proudly. She wasn't supposed to say it proudly. It was, after all, supposed to be Scoop's paper, but she could hardly help herself.
Captain Smith barely looked up. 'Just leave them there.'
Claire set them down, but then took off the top copy and opened it to the centre pages. 'Look, Daddy,' she beamed. 'My photo.'
Mr Stanford sighed and took hold of the paper. He glanced at the photo, then quickly closed it over. 'Yes, very good.' He handed it back. 'Now run along, there's a good girl.'
But Claire stood her ground. 'You hardly even looked at it!'
'Yes I did, and I'm sure it's very good. Now if you don't mind—'
'No!' Claire exploded. 'You order me to do something useful and then when I do it you're not the slightest bit interested! I nearly froze to death and you hardly raised an eyebrow!'
'Claire, come on,' said Jimmy. He caught hold of her arm and tried to pull her away. He'd been arguing with his parents for years and knew how pointless it was. But she wasn't for moving.
'Claire, that's quite enough,' her father barked. 'We have more important things on our minds right now.'
'You always have!'
Captain Smith clasped his hands before him and said, 'Claire.'
She glared at him. 'It's not fair, I do my best and all—'
'Claire.'
She took a deep breath. 'What?'
'We've had some very bad news.'
Jimmy had thought the bridge was quiet for . . . well, a bridge. But now he realized it was more than that. It was as if a dank chill had settled over it.
Captain Smith gave a little shake of his head, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say. 'Claire . . . Jimmy. The President of the United States — they were taking him to a safe location. But his plane has disappeared. They think he's dead. This damned virus is going to get us all.'
15
Miami
The next few days should have been triumphant. The Titanic was the greatest cruise liner ever built and its arrival at the Port of Miami to undertake its first proper voyage should have been accompanied by brass bands and ticker tape and the excited commentary of television reporters. Instead hardly anyone noticed.