by Brian Toal
Chris sagged to his knees, half against Carman. "Chris. Be quiet. It’s not worth it." She said, reaching out for him.
Chris turned towards her, blood pouring from beneath his eye. "No!" His voice a determined croak. Hard. Death-like. "It is worth it."
Behind them the door crashed open, and one of the men from the lifeboat propped it open with a bucket. "Give us a hand," he beckoned to the two women and Charlie, "we can’t get it past the cars."
The three bunched together as they passed through the narrow metal hatch, as Chris rose to his feet beside Carman.
"What are you doing?" Carman whispered.
Chris looked down at her. "Get off the ship." He said, his voice flat and cold. "Or you die."
Carman grabbed at his ankle. "What are you going to do?"
Behind Chris, she could see a group of them struggling with it, pushing it forward on a set of rollers, but there was a van parked close to the hatchway and there wasn't enough room between the wall and the van for them to get the long box through. Four of the men began to push against the side of the van. Trying to slide it sideways on the metal plates.
"Get off the ship." Chris muttered, his hand shoved deep in his front pocket. "They all must die - and now, so do I."
"Chris, No! No one needs to die! Let's get out of here while we can."
Jon was leaning forward looking beyond her into the hold. "Yeah, let's do it, while they’re still busy. Let's get the fuck out of here." He crawled towards the life-rings.
"Go. Go now." Chris said, pulling Jon's Bic lighter out his pocket. "I know what I have to do."
"Chris! God, no!" Carman leapt to her feet as Chris turned towards the doorway, the lighter in his hand held high.
He stepped into the hold.
"Chris, no! Carman screamed throwing herself after him, feeling Jon's hands pluck at her sweater, his voice panicked behind her.
She grabbed at the doorframe and pulled herself inside.
"Carman!" Jon screamed from behind her.
Chris was ten feet in front of her, between the rear of the van and the steel walls of the ship. The fumes were intense billowing and shimmering in the air currents from the open door. The four men who had been pushing against the side on the van, stood at its front watching him walk towards them.
Ten feet separated them from Chris, who held the lighter out in front of him, his thumb on the igniter. "We all die now!" Chris' yelled. "You, me, my mother and that thing that began it all..."
His thumb moved on the igniter.
"Chris! No!" Carman dove at his back, wrapping her arms around him, pulling his arm down as his thumb moved, the lighter flying from his hands. Chris screamed and twisted in her arms as one of the men dove to the floor in front him, catching the lighter in mid-air, before it could hit the steel plates.
"No!" Chris screamed.
She felt Jon's arms slide around her, grabbing at Chris' arms and shoulders, pulling them both backwards towards the open hatchway.
"No! No! No!" Chris' elbows pounded her in the stomach, his feet kicking at her legs as Jon dragged them away.
Chris' mother and aunt appeared around the front of the van, moving past the four silent men towards her.
Chris bit at her hands, pounded her with his fists, twisted in her arms, screaming, kicking with his feet as Jon pulled them both through the door, onto the metal deck outside and the Pacific sky bright behind them.
In the hold, the L.E.D. numerals flickered and then changed to twenty-five. A relay behind the thermostat clicked, sending twelve volts to the solenoid on the starter motor of the diesel engine. The spark was short. Less than an eighth of an inch. A bright, blue-white snap of electricity. But, it was enough. As the diesel engine coughed...
The Queen of Selkirk detonated.
THIRTEEN - SEVEN
Captain Spencer was three-quarters of a mile away, his own decks lined with passengers watching the drifting Queen of Selkirk. The sea was dotted with life-rafts and, although three of the lifeboats were desperately attempting to corral the rafts closest to them, the fourth was rapidly moving away from all shipping. The Queen of Selkirk’s zodiac was still tight up against her stern, its crew unwilling or unable to assist the helpless passengers drifting in the rafts. His own zodiac was standing back from the Queen of Selkirk, four life-rafts tied alongside and waiting for a fifth to be lowered, when there was a dull thump, almost like an awesome belch of a great underwater monster.
For a moment nothing happened, the passengers below his bridge windows still happy with their cameras and camcorders. Then with a thundering roar, the massive bow doors of the Queen of Selkirk tore off the ship, a huge tongue of flame engulfing and surrounding them as they hurtled through the air.
The Queen of Selkirk shuddered, actually seemed to turn slightly towards him, when the second explosion came. A huge explosion of flaming thunder. Fire erupted from every opening along the lower deck, pieces - entire cars - flying out of the gapping maw at the front. A life-raft lowered half-way down the side, flipped end over end, little black bodies tumbling from it as it fell through the flames and into the sea. Other black specks milled about on the upper decks. Their screams audible across the water and through the fiery haze. Smoke poured from the lower decks, blackening the sky over-head.
But the Queen of Selkirk was still afloat. Drifting. Belching smoke and flames. Captain Spencer reached for the bridge phone that linked him with the engine room.
The worst had happened. The Queen of Selkirk had exploded. It was time to get those people off the upper decks! He signaled full ahead.
Over six hundred passengers were removed from the upper decks of the Queen of Selkirk, using a long loading ramp, linking the Queen of Purcell with the Queen of Selkirk. Smoke blackened the sides of the Queen of Purcell, pouring into her lower decks, sucked into the engine room, driving her passengers from her top decks - although the best pictures were about to be had.
For ten horrific minutes, eighty feet above the water, passengers ran down a narrow ramp, through the smoke and flames roaring up the side of the Queen of Selkirk, and over to the Queen of Purcell. Two didn't make it. Overcome by the heat or smoke, they fell, slipping under the single hand-railing and then falling through the raging inferno below and into the sea. The endless steel walls of the two ships rising above them.
After ten minutes there was no one left on the upper decks and Captain Spencer pulled the Queen of Purcell away, the metal ramp falling into the sea between them.
Another eight hundred were recovered from the lifeboats and life-rafts and the sea itself. Including two little girls that screamed, tears pouring down their face as they joined with Mrs. Hill's class. Thirty-six persons were missing and another forty-eight jammed in the Captain Spencer's cabin under lock and key. Two ratings stood outside with the guns they had removed from the strangely passive and quiet group of people in the lifeboat.
At around six-thirty, as Captain Spencer turned the Queen of Purcell towards Nanaimo, the Queen of Selkirk began to list to starboard. Smoke and flames now poured from all three levels below the upper deck. Continuous explosions blew sheets of flames out the side windows as gas tanks erupted one after the other. Two firefighting tugs were ploughing over the horizon their six-inch water cannons ready to attack the flames, but they were too late.
At six forty-five the Queen of Selkirk took on a severe list to starboard and her open bow door, twenty-three feet wide, dipped below the surface only twice before the water was rushing in and down the full length of her cavernous hold.
Three minutes later, she was gone.
As The Queen of Purcell pulled into her dock in Nanaimo, just over fifteen miles away and eighteen hundred feet above where the Queen of Selkirk now lay on the bottom, the forty-eight passengers from Detroit, locked in the Captain's stern cabin began, to yell and pound on the door.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was mid-July and the sun was hot upon the shoulders of the thousands of spectators that crowded the tee-off at th
e eighteenth hole. Some had been standing there for hours, others for days as the four-day tournament came to a close.
There was a rustle among the crowd as the two golfers came into view, their caddies strung out behind them, like lumbering cannons of war.
As the TV cameras swung to cover their arrival, Bob Fawcett with ESPN, and his co-anchor, Stan Phillips, pulled their boom microphones in front of their lips and waited for the go signal from their camera crew.
The two professional golfers came closer, walking together like a couple of school buddies out for an afternoon of golf at the local club. They were tied at eleven-under par, their nearest competitors finished and waiting in the club house at a distant nine-under. If either of them made a mistake or either of them had a particularly lucky shot, one of them would be several hundred thousand dollars richer. This last hole might decide.
Bob Fawcett's cameraman counted him down from five.
"Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the eighteenth hole of The Masters. It has been a tight race this afternoon in Augusta, Georgia and the two golfers you see coming up to the eighteenth tee are tied for first place, both at eleven-under. Shorty Malone from Australia has had a great day, starting at nine under and by the tenth catching up with last year's champion who has maintained his eleven-under lead all day."
"Yes..." Stan interjected "...and they both look a little tired from today's competition. It’s close to a hundred degrees out here today and, if it wasn't for the stiff breeze blowing in from the south, a lot of us would be suffering from heat stroke worse than we are."
"Yes, it’s been a tough day for us all." Bob stepped forward two paces as the second camera crew indicated they were switching from the shot of the golfers over to him. "For both the spectators and the golfers, and in this heat, Shorty Malone has had to work hard. His drives are still no where near the length of the other members of the tour but, as we all know, the Australian's short game is deadly. And he has been demonstrating that skill this afternoon. And... I think they are about to tee off...no...our American friend has gone back to speak with his caddie."
"Well, he has had a good day, hasn't he Bob?" Stan Phillips picked up the slack, "but I understand this will be his last event until the U.S. Open, while he does some of his volunteer work overseas."
"Yes, I believe you’re right, Stan. As most of our viewers know, he spends at least four months a year in Bangladesh and India and even in some African countries. And he doesn't just contribute money either."
"No, that’s the interesting part and a bit frightening for the U.S. Golf Association. Not only does the P.G.A. Champion of the last two years donate hundreds of thousands of dollars to causes worldwide, but he actually personally volunteers in hospitals and clinics in some of the most deprived and disease-ridden countries of the world."
"You're right Stan. Some countries I wouldn’t want to go to, even if I was like him again; only twenty-three and strong as an ox."
"That's true, Bob, I'm not sure I would choose to visit those countries either, but he has a real following over there. And, even though he doesn't have any formal medical training, he’s known as the Miracle Worker and apparently hundreds of people owe their very lives to his ability."
"Amazing isn't it...well, ladies and gentlemen it looks like they are ready to tee off."
The cameras swung back to the tall golfer now standing over the tee with his driver in hand.
Bob spoke softly into his mic. "This last hole is a long par-four at 405 yards with a slight dogleg to the right and, with this strong wind blowing across the fairway, he’ll have to be careful his drive doesn't drift too much to the right. Any problems here and he could be in a par position and, with Malone hot on his heels that could spell trouble..."
There was a crack as the ball left the tee.
"Oh, ladies and gentlemen it looks like a good shot, he's a bit to the left of middle.... probably he was concerned with the wind...and its drifting...drifting...not much though...the wind must not be as strong as he had counted on...straight down the middle...straight down the middle...oh...oh...a bit short! He’s a bit short of where he wanted to be. He was probably counting on the wind to carry the ball a bit further and to the right, but not a bad shot though. He probably wanted to cut off a bit more of that dog-leg, but he is well set up for a long chip onto the green."
"Yes, Bob. He can't be entirely unhappy with that. Undoubtedly he was worried about drifting into the trees and so he didn't cut it a bit closer, but he’s still in a good position for Birdie."
"That's right Stan. He’s in a good position, but Malone can easily match that drive and so it’s going to be close."
There was another crack as the blond Australian blasted a ball off the tee. Hard to the right, it hung just outside of the row of trees running down the edge of the fairway. At the last moment, it hooked slightly to the right, landing in the center of the fairway, a good twenty yards closer to the green.
"Oh! Ladies and gentlemen that was a superb shot. Just where he wanted it! Long. Very long. One of the longest drives Malone has had during this tournament. He’s in good shape for a short, accurate chip onto the green. We could see a new Champion today. Hopefully they have a green jacket ready in extra-small."
Stan laughed. "I'm sure Shorty would take any green jacket they had in stock. Our American Champion has some work ahead of him now."
"I'd say so, Stan. He's over talking with his caddy now. The next shot he makes will probably decide the outcome of this game...at least his caddy knows he has a job when this tournament is over - win or lose."
Bob moved so that the next camera shot would include the golfer and his caddy speaking together at a distance behind him. "That's true Stan, as most of our viewers know by now, the current PGA Champion has used the same caddy for all four of his years as a Professional Golfer."
"Well, there’s more to the story than that." Stan interjected as the camera light facing him came on, Shorty Malone passing behind him. "His caddy is more than just his mentor in golf. He is actually his father, as he and his wife adopted him at a very young age, when both of his parents were killed less than a month apart."
"A son they must indeed be proud of."
"I would think so! Just the good deeds he does throughout the developing world would make many a parent proud, but to be the PGA Champion as well..."
"Yes...unbelievable isn't it? Well, we’ll see if he can make them proud again, these next two shots are probably the most important he will make in all of the tournaments he has played this year."
"Yes, the tension is high now."
There was a pause for commercials, just enough time for Bob and Stan to hurry after the two golfers and continue their narrative as Shorty Malone predictably chipped his ball within two feet of the flag and...
"Oh, he has got to be worried now." Bob continued, "Our American champion has a long chip of forty yards and Shorty is definitely going to birdie it. He is going to have to be real exacting with this next shot and....oh! Look at that...someone from the crowd has just thrown Shorty Malone a can of..."
"Beer." Stan interrupted, as his camera man motioned him to begin. "Undoubtedly Foster's Beer, one of Malone's sponsors from Australia...and look at that...he has popped the top and is drinking some of it too. I guess he figures the game is his and, from his position by the cup, it probably is...ladies and gentlemen I think we are about to see a new champion at this year's Masters, unless our young American Champion can...and he is getting set for his shot now...."
There was silence from the crowd as the golfer standing forty yards away from the green took a practice swing.
"Yes...ladies and gentlemen this is his last chance to tie this game up and go into a sudden-death final. He will be hard pressed to beat Shorty's setup, but if he gets close enough for a one-putt, he could do it and..."
There was a short crack as the golfer hit the ball, the ball curving up, high above the fairway, rising through the air, closer, closer, landing at the edg
e of the green."
Oh...oh...ladies and gentlemen it doesn't look good at all...he's too short...too short...it’s going to be a long putt...no... no...no wait! Look at that roll...look at that roll! It's curving towards the pin, the green must be faster than it looked...it's coming...it's coming...oh my God! Look at that! Look at that! Oh my God!"
On National TV, Bob Fawcett jumped into the air, screaming. "It's in! It's in! An Eagle! A chip from forty yards and into the cup! Unbelievable! Amazing! Champion again for another year...and listen to this crowd..."
"Well, Bob maybe we should adopt the name they have for him overseas." Stan spoke above the roar of the spectators behind him.
"I agree Stan. The Miracle Worker...and ladies and gentlemen that was a miracle today, right here. A forty-yard chip, a miraculous roll the entire length of the green and into the cup. A miracle indeed..."
The caddy carried the golf bag over to the edge of the green and looked around to ensure there was reasonable distance separating him from the roaring crowd, as well as Shorty Malone and his caddy standing stunned a few yards away. He waited as the golfer, club raised above his head in victory, walked over to him.
"There’s no way you made that shot.” The caddy said, a massive grin on his face. "That ball almost stopped when it landed on the green, then it took off like it had a little rocket behind it."
Chris McCarter grinned. "That's true, but Carman would understand. I need the money for the new project in Bangladesh."
"Then I suppose that’s where we’ll be taking our vacation too." Jon gave a big thumbs up to Carman Abrams standing at the edge of the crowd.