The SS Nordic Princesswas a sleek cruise liner, and nearly brand-new. Built on a fiord in Norway, she was 527 feet long and carried a gross tonnage of 16,500. She had seven decks, four hundred cabins, two heated swimming pools, five restaurants, eight bars, a spa, a library, a bowling alley, fifty slot machines, and a video arcade. There was also a branch of Chase Manhattan on the gambling mezzanine. The Nordic Princesswas served by a crew of three hundred, mostly Dominicans and Haitians, with a few obligatory white Englishmen to serve as bell captains and maitre d's.
Many of the passengers on the Friendship Cruise had never before sailed on an ocean liner. One of them was Mack Dane, the new travel writer from the Tulsa Express.Dane was a spry and earnest fellow in his mid-sixties who had spent most of his newspaper career trying to cover the oil industry. As a reward for his thirty-two years of service (and also to get him out of the way to make room for a young reporter), the Expresshad "promoted" him to the travel beat. The Orange Bowl was his first assignment, the Friendship Cruise his maiden voyage.
Like most of the guests aboard the Nordic Princess,Mack Dane was tickled to be in Miami in December. He had just spoken to his daughter back in Oklahoma and learned that there was three feet of fresh snow and a wind chill of forty-two below, and that the dog had frozen to the doorstep.
As the ship glided out of Government Cut, Mack Dane found his way to the top deck and strategically positioned himself near a tray of fresh stone crabs and jumbo shrimp. Christmas lights were strung festively from the ship's smokestacks, and a live salsaband was performing a medley of Jimmy Buffett tunes in a fashion that no one had ever dreamed possible. A strong breeze blew in from the ocean, pushing clouds and a promise of light rain. Mack Dane grabbed another banana daiquiri. He was having a grand time. He wondered if any of his fellow travel writers were young and pretty.
Two tourists stood at the rail and waved at the tiny figures of snook fishermen out on the jetty. Mack Dane watched the tourists for a few minutes and decided to interview them for his story. They looked like a reasonable couple.
"The Gilberts," they said warmly. "Montreal."
Sam Gilbert was about forty years old. He wore pale yellow slacks and an expensive toupee that was having a rough go of it with the wind. Other than that, he was a handsome-looking gentleman with a pleasant smile. His wife appeared to be in her late thirties. She was dressed in a tasteful beige pantsuit, a sheer silk scarf tucked around her neck. Her hair was so unnaturally blond that it was attracting fireflies, but other than that Mrs. Gilbert looked like a friendly and decent person.
"This your first cruise?" Mack Dane asked.
"Yes," Mrs. Gilbert said. "We had to book four months in advance. This is a very popular trip."
Mack Dane told them he was a travel writer, and a guest of the Chamber of Commerce.
"You didn't have to pay?" Mrs. Gilbert said.
'Well, no."
"What a great job," said Sam Gilbert.
"First trip to Miami?" Mack Dane asked.
"Right," Gilbert said. "We're here to see the Irish stomp the Huskers." Notre Dame was playing the University of Nebraska in the Orange Bowl football game on New Year's Day. According to many sportswriters, the game would determine the national collegiate football championship.
"I don't like football," Mrs. Gilbert confided. "I'm here for the sunshine and shopping."
"We just bought a winter home in Boca Raton," Sam Gilbert said. "Not a home, actually, a condominium."
"Sam's a doctor," Mrs. Gilbert explained.
Mack Dane felt like another drink. The Nordic Princesswas out to sea, rocking ever so lightly in the northeast chop. Behind her, the skies of Miami glowed a burnished orange from the sodium anticrime lights.
"So it's safe to say you're really enjoying this trip," Mack Dane said.
"Oh yes." Mrs. Gilbert noisily attacked a stone-crab claw. Mack Dane wondered if she'd considered removing the shell first.
"Put in your article," she said, "that Dr. and Mrs. Samuel Gilbert of Montreal, Canada, are having the time of their lives."
Sam Gilbert said, "I wouldn't go that far."
"Mr. Dane, could you do us a favor? Could you take our picture?"
"Sure." Mack Dane put away his notebook and wiped his hands on a cocktail napkin that was decorated with the seal of the State of Florida. Mrs. Gilbert handed him a small thirty-five-millimeter camera with a built-in flash and built-in focus and built-in light meter.
The Gilberts posed arm-in-arm against the rail of the ship. Sam Gilbert wore his doctor face while Mrs. Gilbert kept reaching up and fiddling with his toupee, which, in the strong wind, had begun to resemble a dead starling.
Mack Dane squinted through the viewfinder and tried to frame the Gilberts romantically, with the lights of Miami shining over their shoulders. At first it was a perfect picture—if only there'd been a full moon! Then something went wrong. Suddenly Mack Dane couldn't see the Gilberts anymore; he couldn't see anything through the camera except a white light. He figured something broke on the focus.
But when he took the camera away from his face, Mack Dane realized that the white light was reaclass="underline" a beam piercing down from the heavens. Or from something inthe heavens. Something that hovered like a dragonfly high above the SS Nordic Princess.
"A helicopter," Mack Dane said. "A big one." He knew the sound of a chopper. He'd flown them lots of times out to the oil rigs.
The Gilberts craned their necks and stared into the sky, shielding their eyes from the powerful search beam. The other partiers crowded together, pointing. The salsaband took a break.
Mack Dane said, "It's coming down."
The helicopter did seem to be descending slowly, but it was no longer in a hover, it was flying in a slow arc. Trailing behind the chopper was a long advertising banner.
"This is really tacky," Sam Gilbert said.
Mack Dane put on eyeglasses and turned in circles, trying to read the streamer. In four-foot letters it said: "AVAST AND AHOY: WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTI—"
"Revoluti?" puzzled Sam Gilbert.
"Maybe it's a new perfume," said his wife.
Mack Dane wondered if some letters had fallen off the advertisement.
The helicopter dropped lower and lower, and soon the partiers aboard the Friendship Cruise found themselves drowned to silence by the rotor noise. When the chopper was no more than one hundred feet above the deck, the banner was cut loose. It fluttered into the sea like an enormous confetti. The crowd ooooohhhed, and a few even applauded.
Mack Dane noticed that the top deck—the Royal Sun Deck, according to the ship's guide—was filling with tourists and VIPs and travel writers who had come up from below to investigate the commotion. Before long, people were packed elbow to elbow. In the meantime, the captain of the SS Nordic Princesshad grown concerned about the reckless helicopter and cut his speed to eight knots.
"Hello, folks!" said a brassy male voice. Somebody on the helicopter had an electric bullhorn.
"Having a good time in Florida?" the voice called.
"Yeaaaah!" shouted the partiers, their faces upturned brightly. Some of the stuffy civic-leader types—the mayor, the Orange Bowl committeemen, the Chamber of Commerce life members—were miffed at the interruption of the cruise but, not wanting to spoil anyone's fun, said nothing.
The loud voice in the helicopter said: "How would all of you like some genuine Florida souvenirs?"