Raising a nearly empty glass of sherry to the picture he asked, “How’s this for stirring, old chap?” He drained the final sip. “Largest vessel in the Royal Navy, largest damned aircraft carrier in the world.”
How many times had he heard his dad speak of the famous British naval officer who froze to death while exploring the Antarctic in 1912? Competing with his dad’s challenge that he might someday eclipse the fame of the intrepid explorer had become a lifelong source of inspiration and agitation until two weeks ago. He had been struck momentarily speechless when informed that he would command the HMS Prince of Wales after the heart attack and untimely death of the ship’s first commander, Nigel Blackstone.
Ainsley Scott, the captain’s father, had “swallowed the anchor,” naval slang for retiring from the Navy, after becoming one of the few Brits to be severely injured in the Faulkland Islands skirmish. Relegated to a wheelchair for the last 23 years of his life, Dad had not lived to share this triumph. Robert knew his dad would have shed tears of joy and redemption, as he had, once alone, during his first night in the captain’s quarters. His thoughts were interrupted by the ship’s intercom system.
“Captain?”
“Scott, here.”
“Captain, you asked to be informed when the U.N. helicopters arrived.”
“Well, have they?”
“Aye sir, and they’ve brought with them a bit of a celebrity.”
“A celebrity? You don’t say?” He rose, feeling frustrated. Tossing his napkin on the seat, he replied, “I’m on my way.” Neither wanting nor needing to hear the name of the visitor, he resigned himself to showing another blowhard the ship’s finer points. I’ve become a bloody tour guide, Dad. That’s what I am. Maybe, when I retire, I can move to Hollywood and show people where the movie stars live.
~~~
The cellar dimmed as the surrounding gaslights were lowered to the point where they became nothing more than mood setting flickers in the darkness surrounding the ancient ceremony. Electrical lighting recessed in the floor of the pond illuminated the messiah, beaming upward through the water, bathing his face and perfect body with an otherworldly glow. Above the soft, breathy notes of a flute Horus lifted his voice to the spirits from whom he descended.
“Hear me Osiris,” he cried out, raising his muscular arms to the foremost of the three majestic statues towering above him, “I have recited with your magic and I have spoken with your spells. I have exorcised the demons of Set with the wisdom of Thoth and your divine words. Oh, lord of all mankind, ruler of those judged to be righteous forever in the afterlife, may you drive away from me all the lions in the desert, all the soul devouring crocodiles in the river, all the venomous snakes in their holes. May you remove from me the pulsating poison of doubt and dismay that flows throughout my limbs. Your name, oh holy and eternal father, is invoked on this day. Your powers are sought for the greater glorification of Egypt by thine own, born again son, the reincarnation of the fruit of thy loins. Transfer unto me all powers wielded by my genetic twin so that like him, I may rule as lord over all beasts in the field and birds in the sky. Grant me dominion over the sun, moon, stars and all objects in the heavens. Bless me Osiris, join with me in this effort to restore all that Egypt was and is meant to be. I call out to thee for recognition and ask that you favor the messiah with thy strength. I am Horus, reborn proof of the miraculous and blessed union, son of Aset, queen of all mankind, giver of life and maker of magic. I am he who shall forever be known as the redeemer, the liberator, the ultimate and unconquerable savior.”
~~~
After the invocation of Osiris, Horus enjoyed the ardent attention of the maidens who completed the ancient bathing ritual. Long after the embodiment of the second coming had retired for the evening, followed up the stone staircase by the three maidens, the lector priests drank beer and conferred amongst themselves.
Munching on pungent sausages with bread and onions, they attempted to devise an appropriate and sensational means to introduce the world to the reborn messiah in a way that would erase any doubt as to his lineage or supernatural abilities. The holy men decided that the sinking of a ship would be less dramatic than for a ship, considered to be mankind’s definitive showcase of power and ingenuity, to be found unharmed, with its entire crew dead at their posts. Satisfied with their decision, the lector priests locked the entrance to the basement and ascended the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Around 0500 hours, Captain Scott pulled the blankets and sheets of his bed up around his neck while dreaming of being frozen to death along with his crew of 600.
The dream began with the cheers of a crowd gathered to honor the captain and crew of the world’s largest aircraft carrier. In the distance, from the docks of the shipyard, he heard the voice of his dead father. He spotted the old man in the crowd, sitting in his wheelchair. Rather than uttering congratulatory cheers and best wishes, his father waved his arms and cried out to convey some kind of warning. A mighty blast from the ship’s whistle drowned out everything. While he continued to dream, the crowd and the docks faded away, replaced by the familiar surroundings of his own quarters.
In the pale, bluish light of his moon bathed cabin, he detected a faint scratching noise coming from across the room that could have been made by the tiny fingernails of the diminutive Lilliputians that captured Gulliver. As a child, he had loved the story and dreamed of sailing to faraway places where he might someday meet up with and prove the existence of the little people. Would he awaken in the morning to find himself tethered to his bed, bound by their ropes?
His subconscious mind searched for a more plausible explanation such as an engine vibration. But this didn’t feel like the rattles or resonances attributable to a misaligned blade in the carrier’s gigantic turbines. A variance as insignificant as a millimeter could produce engine vibrations that might be felt or heard at hundreds of random locations throughout the ship. No, a misaligned blade couldn’t be blamed. Nor could it be the result of loose wiring or insulation within the walls, tossed against other materials due to rough seas. The warm Mediterranean waters had been calm for days. He squinted and reached for his classic gold wireframe glasses on the nightstand next to his bed as the ticking escalated into the insistent, frenzied sound of what might be roaches or perhaps even mice.
For as long as he could remember he had been obsessed with cleanliness. His compulsion to sweep away even the tiniest crumb after each meal had convinced his crew to nickname him Captain Whitegloves. He found it difficult to accept the thought of vermin in his cabin or the galley. But there, he heard the noise again. Could it be a mouse behind the portrait of the first Captain Scott? God forbid. Besides, how and for what possible purpose would a mouse have clawed its way up the side of the wall? No breadcrumbs or tiny remnants of meat would be found there. No, it couldn’t be a mouse.
But a cockroach...he shuddered. He hated roaches. His mother taught him that the presence of roaches indicated an unclean environment. He listened, his body as rigid as a well trained golden retriever, pointing out the location of a nest of quail.
Could it be the sound of crinkling wrapping or packing paper? Perhaps, he surmised, something dangling from the back of the picture’s frame? No, nothing would be blown by a breeze, tonight. The portholes were both closed and no hint of movement in the air existed. The noise came from something alive, all right, but what?
His mind settled on spiders. Yes. Yes, that could be it. Spiders hid in dark places, didn’t they? He imagined one, or perhaps several spiders, spinning delicate webs in the dark, safe, space between the wall and the frame, waiting for foolish insects.
The noise grew. Not louder, but it seemed to come from more than just one or two creatures. Maybe there were ten. Perhaps 20 or more. He envisioned more arriving with each passing moment.
Listening to the shuffling and tapping of their tiny feet Captain Scott recognized a recurring pattern, a rhythm. Could it be a blooming dance routine? My God, this beat
the flea circus his father took him to as a lad. What a discovery. Dancing spiders! Maybe 50, or a hundred, each one pirouetting on eight tiny shoes, sporting microscopic metal taps nailed to the toe and heel.
Immersed in the dream, his mind’s eyes strained to catch even a miniscule hint of movement. He half expected to see a spider emerge from behind the frame, whirling about like Gene Kelly with a tiny umbrella, warbling through his pincers in a thin, high-pitched voice, “I’m singing in the rain,” or maybe a Gregory Hines lookalike, performing a classic, eight legged tap dance.
The more he listened and waited, the more bizarre the dream grew. He thought he might see 16 legs worth of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, followed by the comical antics of Danny Kaye and Donald O’Connor, setting up a grand finale performed by the awe inspiring Mikhail Baryshnikov. His graceful, gravity defying leaps would seem to challenge the very laws of physics until one realized that the prolonged arc of the jumps were augmented by an imperceptible strand of webbing.
No longer anxious regarding vermin, the captain became enthralled with the advent of this once in a lifetime presentation. As he awaited the show’s beginning, the mysterious crackling noise continued to emanate exclusively from behind the four foot tall picture of the man for whom he had been named. He wondered, why there and nowhere else?
Like the itsy bitsy spider that climbed up the waterspout, the captain’s high expectations for the evening’s entertainment washed away and his dream took a decidedly nasty turn. With renewed, intensified fervor the crackling increased. Rather than the spider kingdom’s Bolshoi Ballet, a hoard of shimmering ice crystals emerged from behind the handsome frame. Like an army of foot soldiers crawling from the trenches, a sheet of ice crept and flowed over and around the polished brass corners of the antique wooden frame, leaving a frosty glaze across the portrait’s glass cover. Staring, transfixed, at the portrait, Captain Scott began to shiver as the room’s temperature plummeted. Each breath of frigid air burned his throat.
The soft light provided by the two portholes in his cabin dimmed behind the bubbling crystals that thickened and oozed over the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Glass, metal, and wood, popped, cracked, and sizzled as it froze. The ice moved as if it were alive and aware, filled with cold malevolence. Clearly, it had come for him — him and his crew.
Awakened at dawn by the chill that enveloped him, Captain Scott lay in his bed, shivering, his senses reeling. Unlike most nightmares, the details of this one refused to melt away as his eyes opened. They remained lodged in his mind like a frost coated ice pick. On occasion, he had dreamed about the fate of the original Captain Scott, but those dreams, while unpleasant, were about someone else’s misfortune.
He rose to one elbow. Mustering the courage, he forced himself to gaze in the direction of the portrait. Even without his glasses he could tell that the glittering ice crystals no longer covered the frame. Nothing seemed amiss. Through the clear glass, the late Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s familiar, confident pose reassured him.
Feeling warmer, he tossed the covers aside, sat up, and placed his bare feet on the cool floor. Cool, but not cold. The brightening sky beckoned from the portholes, convincing him to dismiss the notion that his terrifying nightmare might be some kind of an omen.
“Just a dream,” he said. He retrieved his glasses from the nightstand next to his bed and put them on. Adjusting them lightly on the bridge of his nose, he blinked, appreciating the improved clarity. “A damned peculiar dream to be sure,” he muttered. “But still, just a dream. All is well”
~~~
That morning, Horus and the three maidens who lay with him were awakened by someone knocking at the door and ringing the annoying bell to alert the inhabitants of a visitor. “Let someone else get the door,” Horus suggested. “Your god needs his rest.”
When it became apparent that no one else would do it, the nurse entrusted with Jeanne’s care answered the door. Uttering a string of expletives in Spanish, she signed a receipt for a large, metal canister. Formidable clamps on the lid prevented its contents from spilling. Closing the door without tipping the delivery man, who uttered his own string of obscenities, she made no attempt to lift the container. Instead, she turned and shouted to no one in particular, “Hey! Hey, Goddamn eet! Somebody better come and take a look at what we got here!” She stamped her bare foot in frustration. “Ay Dios! I said somebody got to come and take a look at thees theeng!”
Red letters on a yellow label adorned the side of the cylinder. “Exercise extreme caution, this vessel contains Liquid Nitrogen. Contact with unprotected tissue will produce severe injury. Direct inhalation of fumes may result in severe respiratory distress or death.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Among the detailed descriptions logged by the naval investigation team assigned to find a plausible explanation for the HMS Prince of Wales incident, incredibly little diversity surfaced among the opinions from eyewitnesses. According to the reports, winds were from the southwest at five to ten knots under a clear sky, offering unlimited visibility. Seas were calm when the wind fell eerily still: although, almost to a man, rather than saying it fell still, the witnesses claimed that the wind died, literally. It died as though life’s breath had been sucked from the atmosphere at the moment the white cloudbank materialized and hovered in the path of the HMS Prince of Wales.
The opaque wall of the anomaly floated with strangely undulating tentacles of vapor that stemmed from within the body of the mist. They could be seen through the haze, rolling, twisting, and intertwining like a pale, ghostly knot of writhing sea serpents waiting to snare and devour their prey.
Three destroyers preceded the mammoth aircraft carrier that day, none of which were affected by the fog-like apparition that appeared behind them. After being asked for the third time why he had not ordered his ship to come about and render aid, Captain Archibald Bishop of the HMS Vanguard, the ship that had been closest to the HMS Prince of Wales, pounded his fist in frustration on the table during the official inquiry and shouted, “Confound it! Nothing could be done, I tell you! The mist separated us from the rest of the fleet. It boiled up out of thin air like magic, like the evil steam from a witch’s cauldron. It rose up off our stern, developing and then disappearing as quickly as if it were some kind of a spectacular special effect produced for one of those Hollywood horror films.”
The ships trailing behind the carrier saw the carrier pass right through the fog and expected to do likewise. But as quickly as it appeared, the veil of mist enveloped the huge carrier and then vanished before they passed through it. To those who saw it, the HMS Prince of Wales seemed to have sucked the remains of the anomaly right up her tailpipe, had there been such a thing. No trace remained, not a hint, that the cloud, or fog, had ever existed, or what might have caused it.
At the moment of the fog’s manifestation the idle chatter on the com links between the fleet’s communications officers reflected the attitudes of men who were bored to the point of lassitude. The boredom became supplanted by virtual hysteria.
“These bloomin war games are worse than chess if you ask me, mate. Used to play it with me sister when I was growin up, I did. Waitin for her to play was like waitin for Christmas, or...hello, what’s this?”
“What’s what, Prince of Wales?”
“What’s this on the water, dead ahead?”
“Where did that come from?”
“What is it?”
“Was that there? I thought...”
“Vanguard here, that thing came up off our stern...”
Suddenly, as the giant aircraft carrier pierced the white wall, the sound of violent coughing coming from the communications officer on the HMS Prince of Wales filled the com-link offices aboard each ship. Then came the final words ever transmitted from anyone aboard the pride of the British Navy, “Can’t breathe!”
On board the Prince of Wales, from the bridge, a confident yet cautious Captain Scott set down his saucer and teacup on a waxed and buffed
wooden ledge and called for a slight reduction in speed. “Half ahead, steady as she goes.” The advent of penetrating the ghostly shroud that loomed before them seemed no more a harbinger of peril than moving through any fog bank, with the exception of the sound. A curious crackling noise began at the bow of the ship as the temperature of the tempered steel plummeted, causing the metal to contract.
Moving deeper into the cloud, the glass enclosing the wheelhouse came alive. As it contacted the mist, it hummed, vibrating with the stress caused by the temperature inversion. Tiny cracks formed and spidered their way around the entire structure before it shattered, showering the captain and crew with fragmented safety glass.
The captain’s involuntary gasp produced in him a far greater shock than the shattering and disappearance of the surrounding glass. Instead of oxygen, an atmosphere of super-cooled nitrogen invaded his body. The freezing of the respiratory tract began at the nasal passages and sinuses and continued into his lungs, burning like flaming napalm.
As tissue turned from fleshy pink to an icy, glazed yellow, he tried to claw at his throat, but could not. His arms and hands were frozen solid. Could he have done so, he would have collapsed, but his ankles, knees and legs were eternally locked in the position where he stood. His feet were fixed in frozen shoes to a freshly polished wooden floor, which shined brighter than ever, covered with a crystalline layer of ice.
Before dying, those stationed furthest down in the bowels of the great ship, near the heart of the propulsion system, heard the beginnings of the death rattle that came from the powerful gas turbines as the normally high pitched whine tumbled sickeningly to a low, gravelly sounding growl before lurching to a grinding, crunching halt. Flowing like blood through an entire system of veins and arteries, down each flight of stairs, under locked doors, into each hallway and each cabin, every fissure and crevice of the five billion dollar ship filled with the nitrogen as pupils dilated, the healthy white sclera changing to a sickly yellow, glazed over and frozen, leaving a horrified, cryogenically preserved stare to be pondered by the soon to arrive naval incident investigators and coroners.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 19