The Maltese Incident

by Russell Moran

  “What about the actual construction?” I pointed out. “We need some muscle for banging nails, digging trenches, and all that kind of physical stuff. I’m thinking about the crew in the engine room, but there are only six of them. Add the deck crew of eight and we’re up to fourteen. We’ll need some volunteers from the rest of the people to help out, and build some muscle of their own in the process.”

  “I’ve been thinking about how many residential units we’ll need,” Meg said. “Of the 1,010 people aboard, 30 percent of them are married couples, which equates to 303 multi-room units and 410 single apartments. I’m sure that other people will become couples, like Harry and me. We don’t have the luxury of building a suburban community of single family homes, so we’ll be looking at a prehistoric version of high density housing.”

  “Let’s not forget a hospital,” Randy said. “After what Dr. Theresa pointed out, we need to think about health, especially if we’re low on medicine.”

  “What about that guy Jason Thomas?” I said. “On the ship he always insisted that he have his own space, no matter how small.”

  “Some people relish their privacy,” Meg said. “But Dr. Theresa doesn’t trust him and refuses to work with him. Theresa’s a warm, easy-going person with a keen sense about people. If she doesn’t trust the guy, I’m not sure we should either.”

  “The guy really is kind of strange,” I said. “I once walked into his stateroom, mistaking it for a different place. He had just laid down what looked like a prayer rug. None of my business, but he seemed nervous and made up a story that he liked having a carpet in his room. I asked him if he was a Muslim, just to be friendly. He denied it like crazy.”

  “Now that you mentioned it,” Meg said, “he once approached me and suggested that all the women wear headscarves to cover their hair. I paid no attention to it and just forgot about the incident.”

  “Let’s stop talking about that jerk,” I said. “We have a zillion details to cover, so we’ll take it one thing at a time. Management, for now, will consist of the three of us plus people that we’ll add from time to time.”

  “This can work,” Meg said. “In a short time, those dinosaurs are going to have some incredible new neighbors.”

  “Did you say edible new neighbors?” I asked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Buster, it’s time for us to brainstorm,” Bill Carlini said.

  One of the things I like about Bill is that he’s an obsessive compulsive, like me. Just the other day he wished me well on my cruise, and now he wants to have a brainstorming meeting before I board the ship. That was perfectly fine with me. There’s nobody I enjoy brainstorming with more than Bill Carlini, and if there was ever a case that needed brainwork it was the Maltese Incident.

  “Let’s lay one theory of the Maltese Incident to rest,” Bill said. “Any of us who heard that a ship was missing, and then heard that gigantic sea creatures swam in the same waters where the ship disappeared, and then heard that the big fish intentionally bumped against a cruise ship and a warship—well, that all screams for a conclusion—that Mr. Megashark sank the ship. What’s wrong with that theory?”

  “The physical evidence, or lack thereof, is what’s wrong with it.” I said. “We know the approximate location of the Maltese before it disappeared. The American government has launched a fleet of mini-subs, both manned and unmanned. I believe the number was 75 submersibles. The Navy and Coast Guard have dropped hundreds of sonar listening devices—no result. So, we need to lay that theory to rest—the theory that the fish sank the Maltese. With all the thwarted engineering theories I just mentioned, we should also question whether the ship sank at all. But if it didn’t sink, where the hell did it go?”

  “We just came to the point that makes my head spin,” Carlini said. “From everything we know, the Maltese didn’t sink, it just disappeared. But things don’t just disappear, do they? And giant prehistoric sharks don’t just show up, do they? We’re trying like hell to connect those two dots, but the dots almost seem to repel one another.”

  “I think we’re stuck with basic flat-foot cop work, Bill,” I said. “I’d like to say that most of the cases I’ve crack were because of my brilliance as a CIA agent, but most of them were solved because some cop or new agent uncovered a clue that we all missed. So, I’m going to pose a theory that neither of us will like, but which makes sense because of the lack of physical evidence. And here’s my theory—Mr. Megashark did not sink the Maltese.”

  “I think you’re right, Buster. Even if there was a connection between the loss of the Maltese and the sightings of those giant sharks, that doesn’t mean that one of the big sharks sank the ship. There may be a connection between the two events only because they’re both out of the ordinary. I don’t believe in coincidences. Am I thinking inside or outside of the box, Buster?”

  “A bit of both, Bill. We know that the Maltese disappeared, and we know where it was when it happened because we have a good navigational fix. The problem is that no debris or metallic objects were found anywhere near that position. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I’m sure that none of the sharks ate the fucking ship.”

  “We can agree on that, Buster. The sharks didn’t eat the ship, nor did they sink it. So, we’re still at the starting block. We’ve ruled out an explosion because there was no debris. We’ve also ruled out the possibility that the ship suddenly sank, again because of no debris. I started out by saying that the Maltese Incident and the shark sightings had some connection, but we have no idea what.”

  “We can also eliminate another possibility,” I said. “We know that the shark or sharks tend to bump into ships, just like they did to the Melody. It’s theoretically possible that the fish loosened some plates and let in enough water to sink the ship. But we’ve already concluded that the Maltese did not sink, no matter what the cause. I can use a drink.”

  “Since when do you drink on the job, Mr. Super Spook?” Bill said.

  “I’m about to begin my assignment on a cruise ship and I’ve never encountered a case like this before. I’m going to be spending a lot of time chatting with people at the ship’s bar? How about joining me for a drink in the CIA lounge after our meeting.”

  “Buster, your father was a cop. Both of my parents were cops. We grew up with cop talk. There’s one thing I always heard my parents say about a tough case. The solution is seldom the result of brilliance on the part of a detective. You said the same thing. The solution is usually the result of basic police work—pounding the pavement and talking to people. The more you talk to people, the more people talk to you, and all of a sudden, a clue pops up in the middle of a conversation. I think it’s accurate to say that right now we’re clueless.”

  “Bill, you’re right, I need to interview people—but who? We’ve already spoken to a lot of cruise ship officers. So, who the hell do I talk to now?”

  “Max Feigenbaum, Buster. He’s the guy who was on Fox News the other day. Remember, he’s a paleontologist from the American Museum of Natural History. He told the anchorman Shepard Smith, that he was going to Lisbon to set up shop and track down information about the giant sharks. You know Smith personally. Why don’t you call him and ask where in Lisbon the professor is.”

  “News media people hate to share leads, Bill. I’ll hold Shepard in the background and call him only if I need to. But how about this? I’ll adopt one of my alter egos that I’ve used before. I’ll become a reporter for The Investigator, the new (make-believe) magazine. People love to talk to reporters, and they expect to be asked a lot of questions. I’ll simply call the American Museum of Natural History and ask where Feigenbaum is.”

  “Good thinking, Buster. I’ll take you up on that drink now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Meg, may I have a word with you?” Randy Borg said as we encountered each other on the promenade deck.

  I could tell that Randy had something important to talk about. He always begins heavy conversations with, “
May I have a word with you?”

  “Sure Randy, what’s up?”

  “You and Harry getting married has been the greatest thing to hit this God-forsaken ship. Everybody can tell that you two are very much in love. When you told us all about that book about Harry, I thought people were going to carry you both around on their shoulders.”

  “Well, I’ll admit that I’m in love with Harry,” Meg said.

  “A few of us were having drinks the other night,” Randy said. “Somebody suggested that you and Harry are like the president and first lady of the Maltese. I agree with that. You two bring a sense of, I don’t know, a sense of continuity to this crazy situation. If it weren’t for you two, our weird situation would be a lot worse.”

  Randy’s a great guy, but sometimes he takes forever to make a point. Where the hell is he going with this? I figured I’d ask.

  “Randy, thanks for your kind comments, but let me ask you—are you writing a song and looking for lyrics?”

  Randy cracked up.

  “You and Harry have the greatest wiseass senses of humor on the ship.”

  “So, two dinosaurs walk into a bar,” I said.

  When he stopped laughing, Randy got serious.

  “At the beginning of this conversation I said I’d like to have a word with you, and I’m afraid that I’m not being too clear. I’m the CEO of the company, and this ship is our property. Some people call me boss, but that’s inaccurate. I may be the CEO, but I’m not the boss. Harry is, and you help make him the boss.”

  “Harry is a natural leader, Randy. Putting him in operational charge was a great idea. So, what’s on your mind?”

  “I want Harry to be elected as our leader. It would give him a greater position at the top. It would also give the passengers and crew a vested interest in his success and the success of everyone on the Maltese. God knows what we’re facing, but having Harry Fenton as our leader, not just titular but elected, will make our crazy situation a lot more palatable. We know that we’ll be setting up a community compound ashore. It’s in our American blood to do things democratically, and to pull that off we need elected leadership. And he’s got a great first lady to back him up. I’d be happy to be his campaign manager.”

  “Do you expect opposition?”

  “Not at all. Well, there’s that crazy kid in the boiler room. But no, I want to give people more of a direct connection to Harry. My only concern is that he won’t go for it. He has a sense of modesty that’s inspiring. Hell, he even hid that book about him in the library. You jokingly referred to him as ‘Captain Humility’ and it isn’t just funny, it’s the truth. He takes his job seriously, but not himself. I want you to break it to him, and, if necessary, talk him into it. Meg, I’m overstating the obvious when I say that you have an enormous amount of influence on the captain.”

  “We’re not going to call him Mr. President are we?” I asked. “He won’t go for that.”

  “No, Meg. Harry is the captain. We’ll just make it an official vote by the crew and passengers rather than his simply being one of my appointments.

  “I think this is a good idea, Randy. If he lets it go to his head, I’m just the one to slap him around. Right now, he’s on watch—he insists on standing watch just like a subordinate. I’ll go to see him now.”

  I really did like Randy’s idea. We’re talking about moving ashore and creating a town. Soon we’ll no longer be the crew and passengers of the Maltese, but citizens of Malta Town. If Harry’s going to govern, he’ll need the consent of the governed. In a most simplistic way, that’s what democracy is all about. Unless Harry is elected, he will be a dictator, something that he’d hate. I just hope he goes for Randy’s idea. Maybe we’ll call him Mr. Mayor. Everybody loves Harry, and nobody as much as me. People will love and respect him even more if they vote to put him in office. Randy didn’t get to be CEO without having good ideas.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Steve Michaels and his wife Grace recently took possession of Steve’s retirement toy, a brand new 43-foot Grand Banks trawler. He loved the water all his life, and he always looked at the Grand Banks as the pinnacle of boating, even though its speed topped out at only 20 knots. With a sticker price of over $1 million, he saw the boat as a fitting cap to his career as an executive at Microsoft. They bought the boat from a dealer in Lisbon, where they vacationed at the home of friends, the Dixons.

  Phil and Arlene Dixon accompanied them on their boat’s first trip. The Michaels named the boat Terabyte, to celebrate Steve’s successful digital career. Steve plotted a course for Sao Miguel, one of the islands in the Azores, where they would visit with other friends. Their 900-mile journey would take almost two days from Lisbon, depending on the speed they could maintain.

  Steve Michaels and Phil Dixon were avid fishermen all their lives. But when he thought about fish guts all over his new yacht, Steve was careful to cover the rear deck with paper and canvas.

  “Don’t go catching any sharks you guys,” Grace said. “They’re too big and messy for our beautiful new boat.”

  “Don’t worry, hon, we’re after game fish. Make sure you keep the camera handy.”

  Shortly after they entered the Azores, Phil Dixon felt a heavy tug on his rod.

  “I think I’ve got something big, Steve.”

  Twenty-five feet behind the boat a beautiful blue marlin cleared the water. Steve checked the straps on Phil’s fishing chair.

  “You’re going to be busy right through cocktail hour, Phil.”

  The marlin cleared the water again. Then came another, and another, and another. Soon the water behind the boat erupted into a riotous scene of jumping blue marlins and other game fish.

  “Get the camera, hon,” Steve said to Grace. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Grace walked up to the rail with her camera, taking pictures as she did.

  “Something down there is scaring the hell out of those fish, guys,” Grace said. “Remember, no shark fishing. Holy shit, what was that?”

  The boat had just taken a 45-degree list to port. As the only one strapped down, Phil didn’t move. Steve, Grace, and Arlene tumbled across the deck and crashed against the portside bulkhead. When the boat finally righted itself, Phil unbuckled himself and first went to Grace, who sprained her wrist from slamming against the bulkhead. He then checked on Arlene, who seemed to have a fractured ankle. Steve’s forehead was bleeding but not too badly.

  “Was that a goddam whale?” Grace yelled. She had no sooner uttered the words when they felt a powerful slamming motion against the hull. The boat listed, this time to starboard, not as severely as the first time.

  “Dear God,” Phil said, as he grasped the railing and looked outward. A dorsal fin, which looked like it was at least 10 feet in height, cruised by them.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Steve asked.

  “Whatever it is it keeps coming closer. It’s like he’s circling us for another hit.”

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” Steve yelled into his radio, using the international code word for an emergency.

  “This is Terabyte, a 43-foot Grand Banks trawler that has just been attacked by an extremely large shark.” He then gave the coordinates of the boat’s position.

  “I read you, Terabyte,” came a reply, in perfect English, thank God. The man spoke with a slightly Southern accent. “This is Glory Jane, Captain Mickey Smith speaking. Just leave the big fella alone, captain, and he’ll ignore you. How large is the shark? Over.”

  “This is Terabyte. Four people aboard estimate that the animal is at least 60 feet long, possibly longer, over.” Captain Mickey looked at his friend Adalberto and they both laughed.

  “Terabyte, this is Glory Jane. A bit early for cocktails, I think. I repeat, just leave the fish alone and he’ll let you be, over.”

  “Glory Jane, this is Terabyte. You don’t underst…,” Steve said.

  The Glory Jane skipper heard a brief noise that sounded like a shout.

  �
�Terabyte this is Glory Jane. You cut out on me, buddy. Everything okay? I say again, is everything okay? Terabyte, Terabyte, this is Glory Jane. Come in please.”

  ***

  The Portuguese Coast Guard filed a report with the United States Coast Guard because Terabyte was registered in the U.S. A search boat found the 43-foot Grand Banks in 200 feet of water. Something large had penetrated its hull, leaving a gaping hole. Divers found strange teeth marks all over her hull, as well as a tooth that measured a foot long. They also found the partial remains of two human beings near the boat.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Whoever heard of electing a captain?” I said. “Captains are appointed.”

  “Not quite, Mr. Furrowed Brow,” Meg said. “Randy didn’t pick you all on his own. You were installed as captain by a vote of the Malta Investments board. Randy just delivered the message. On big cruise ships, the same thing goes. No single individual appoints a captain. They’re elected by a group, a board.”

  “Okay, Ms. Picky One. More than one person gets to select a captain, unless it’s a small boat or it’s owned by an individual. Can you imagine a large group of people responding to an election call for a ship’s captain? ‘All in favor, say aye.’ I don’t think so. What the hell does the average person know about running a ship?”

  “Hey, Mr. Knucklehead, open your mind. Randy didn’t say that he needs help in picking leadership. Hell, he’s an accomplished senior executive. But given our weird circumstance, Randy wants you to be formally established as our leader by the people aboard the Maltese. Your title will still be captain, but you’ll be more like a mayor.”