by Amy Cross
“Hang on!” I turn to the pilot. “The ferry’s about three or four miles out. Is there any chance we could get there and take a look?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“If we’re gonna do it,” he replies, “we need to do it fast. There’s worse weather closing in from the south-west.”
“But we can do it?”
“We can do it.”
“We’re going to go straight out there!” I tell Mark, raising my voice so he can hear me over the patchy connection. “We’re not going to land first!”
“No!” he shouts back. “We’ve had an official order not to let any helicopters take off in this weather!”
“Who said anything about taking off?” I point out. “We’re already up here!”
“No!” Mark says again. “Tell John to set you down to the north of our relief camp. I need you here!”
I turn to the pilot again. “Are you sure you can get us out there to the ferry?” I ask. “Mark’s telling me it’s not possible.”
“I can get us there,” he replies. “The only thing I can’t do is wait around while you guys debate the matter endlessly. If we’re going, we have to do it now, before conditions worsen.”
“I’m ordering you to land!” Mark shouts over the phone. “Put John on the line!”
I pause for a moment. “Sorry!” I shout back to him. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying, but I think you just said you want us to go out and take a look at the ferry!”
“No!” Mark shouts. “That’s the exact opposite of what I said!”
“The pilot says he can handle it!” I tell him. “Seriously, we’ll be fine! Come on, Mark, you know this makes sense.”
Cutting the call, I toss my phone onto the seat.
“What are the coordinates?” the pilot asks.
Checking the data on my phone, I hold the screen up for him to see. “I don’t think the ferry has any lights,” I tell him. “It’s drifting without power, so it might be difficult to spot.”
Reaching down, he opens a panel near the control unit and pulls a lever, and a moment later a bright light blazes out from the helicopter’s undercarriage.
“Think that might help?” he asks with a smile, as we’re buffeted by another strong blast of wind.
Looking out the side window, I watch as we fly over huge, crashing waves that have turned the sea off the Cornish coast into a violent maelstrom. Mark was right earlier: this must be one of the strongest storms to hit the UK since the late 1980s, and it’s hard to believe that any kind of vessel would have tried to navigate these waters in such terrible conditions. As I watch the sea flashing past beneath us, I see a huge wave rising up, coming within a few meters of hitting our landing skids.
“Sorry!” the pilot calls out, “this thing was built for bad weather. I just need to keep low to avoid the worst of the storm!”
“It’s fine!” I tell him, turning to look out through the cockpit window again. For a moment, I stare down at the sea and tell myself there’s no need to be scared, although I can’t help thinking back to the night I almost drowned. Still, I have to fight that fear, so I turn to the pilot. “How much further?”
“We’re almost at the scene,” he replies. “With these conditions, though, the ferry could’ve moved a fair way.”
“Just keep your eyes peeled,” I tell him, making my way to the side window and looking out. In the distance, a few miles behind us, I can just about make out the lights of the shoreline camp. I know they’re doing their best back there, but a bunch of equipment on dry land is no substitute for actually getting to the scene and checking out the ferry. We need to -
“There it is!” the pilot shouts suddenly.
Turning, I look out through the cockpit window, but all I see is the rough water below.
“Over there!” he adds, pointing to the right.
It takes a moment, but finally I see a dark shape being tossed against a huge wave, almost toppling over as it’s sent crashing back down. A few seconds later, the helicopter’s spotlight swings around and picks out the ferry, and my heart seems to twist in my chest when I see the state of the damn thing: I’d been expecting something reasonably modern, but instead it looks like something from fifty or sixty years ago, just a creaking old metal vessel that’d probably have trouble navigating a canal on a clear day, let alone a full storm in the English Channel. Even worse, it’s tilting to the starboard side, as if it has already started taking on water. Frankly, it’s a miracle it’s still afloat.
“What the hell is something like that doing out here?” the pilot asks, clearly thinking the same thing. “Looks like it should be in a junkyard.”
“Mark said they haven’t been able to identify it so far,” I tell him, grabbing a set of binoculars from a pouch behind the seat and training them on the ferry. “There are no identifying signals at all, no markers, no nothing. They haven’t even been able to establish contact.”
“You think it’s a ghost ship?” he replies. “Maybe somehow it got cut loose from a scrapyard and now it’s just floating out here.”
“Let’s hope so,” I mutter, focusing the binoculars on the ferry. “I hope to God there’s no-one on-board We’ve never been able to get a response from it before.”
“Before?” He turns to me. “This isn’t the first time you guys have seen it?”
“Long story,” I whisper, adjusting the binoculars.
It takes a moment, but I’m finally able to get a proper look at the ferry as we fly closer. In the past, we only ever saw brief glimpses, and this is the first time I’ve managed to really see it clearly. The whole thing looks like it’s being held together by string and spit, and it’s clearly an old boat, perhaps something from half a century back or more. There are no lights showing through any of the windows, and even the bridge looks to be in complete darkness. Using the binoculars to look across the ferry’s deck, I realize with relief that there’s no sign of anyone at all. Maybe the ghost ship idea was right after all. It’s just a hulk, spending its final moments being dashed by the storm.
Hearing a blast of static nearby, I turn and see that the helicopter’s pilot is turning various dials on the radio.
“This is EA71,” he says, speaking into his headset’s microphone. “If anyone can hear me on this frequency, please respond.” He turns to me. “Gotta be worth a try, right?”
“I really don’t see any sign of life,” I tell him.
“I’ll take us closer,” he replies. “I can’t get too close, not with these winds, but maybe we can spot some kind of identifying mark.”
As the helicopter swings around, I use the binoculars to watch the ferry’s dark bridge. I’m starting to feel more and more convinced that the whole vessel has been abandoned, which means it was most likely ‘liberated’ from a junkyard and then set free, for reasons I can’t even imagine right now. Still, dealing with an unmanned wreck in a storm like this is far less of a problem than dealing with a ferry full of people who could drown at any moment. Feeling a rush of relief, I figure that we can hopefully just let the damn thing break apart.
“Holding her steady,” the pilot says after a moment, as the helicopter slows and we get to within about twenty feet of the ferry’s aft side. “I only want to do this once, so let’s make it count.”
With huge waves rising up all around us, the helicopter pitches slightly as we make our way past the ferry. I keep the binoculars trained on the bridge’s windows, but there’s definitely no sign of anyone in there, and after a moment I’m able to make out the navigation wheel, which looks to be completely unattended even though there’s an empty chair a little further back. Raising the binoculars slightly, I look at the very front of the boat, but once again there’s no-one there. A moment later, the ferry rises up on the crest of another huge wave and then crashes down, filling the air with a wall of spray.
For a few seconds, I start wondering whether the vessel has finally broken apart, but then I spot it a
gain. I guess these old boats were built to last.
“The upper cargo hatch is open!” the pilot shouts, tapping the window. “I’m going to try the spotlight.”
Lowering the binoculars, I watch as the spotlight swings around, flashing across the side of the boat. A moment later, I feel my phone vibrating again.
“Hey,” I say as soon as I answer, “Mark, we’re just taking a look right now.”
“There’s another front moving in on your location,” he replies. “You need to get out of there. I don’t care how good that helicopter is, it won’t withstand those conditions for much longer.”
“I think the ferry’s abandoned,” I tell him. “We’re just checking to be sure. Either someone left after it got into trouble, or -”
I freeze suddenly as the spotlight flashes over the open cargo hold. For a fraction of a second, I swear I just spotted human figures down there, in the bowels of the ferry, staring straight up at us.
“Did you see anything?” the pilot asks.
“Turn us again,” I tell him, suddenly gripped with a sense of nauseating panic, deep in my gut.
“What’s wrong?” Mark asks over the phone.
“Hang on,” I tell him, squinting as I watch the dark ferry. The spotlight is moving toward the open hatch again, although it’s difficult to be precise in such high winds. A moment later, the light falls through the hatch and I see to my horror that there are scores of people, maybe a hundred or more, huddling in the cargo hold and staring up at us. I can’t make them out in detail, I can just see the dark dots of their eyes, but they’re definitely there.
“Crap,” the pilot whispers.
“We have a huge problem,” I tell Mark, trying not to panic. “There are people on-board Not on the bridge and not on the deck, not as far as I can see, but there are people in the hold. Lots of people. I think the crew must have abandoned them!”
“Are you sure there are people?” Mark asks.
“I’m sure,” I reply, raising the binoculars and trying to get a better view of the huddled masses in the hold. It takes a moment, but suddenly I see scores of faces staring right back from inside the hold. For a moment, I’m shocked by their calm, empty expressions, and by the way their eyes seem to have locked onto me. The spotlight is shining straight at them, casting sharp, angular shadows across their faces and making them look even more unworldly. I try to refocus the binoculars, and finally I see that the faces seem distorted somehow, and some of the dots-for-eyes seem more like holes in the skulls. I try to adjust the focus again, but a moment later the helicopter shudders a little and the light is lost.
“Incoming!” the pilot shouts.
I barely have time to turn before a huge waves crashes into the helicopter, washing over us and jolting us so hard that for a moment I feel as if we’re going to spin around. There’s a brief surging sound from the rotor above, but the blades keep spinning.
“Okay,” the pilot continues, turning the control column and bringing the helicopter around, “that’s enough warning for me. I have to take us to shore. If we’re going to be out in this kind of weather, I need to make some changes first.”
“But -” Before I can finish, I realize he’s right. With the storm getting worse and worse, it’s only a matter of time before we’re brought crashing down into the waves. As the helicopter swings out over the dark water and heads back to shore, I look down at the dark ferry and watch as it’s battered by yet another huge wave.
“Don’t worry,” the pilot tells me. “I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble. We’ll get back to base.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I reply, moving to the other window and watching as we get further and further from the stricken ferry. “How the hell are we going to get all those people off the ferry?”
Chapter Three
“Are you sure there were people on-board?” Mark shouts, as we hurry away from the helicopter and across the slippery grass, heading for the trailers nearby. “Are you sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”
“Ask the pilot!” I shout back at him. “He saw them too, they’re packed into the cargo hold! I think you were right, I think it’s some kind of people-smuggling operation. When they hit trouble, the crew probably abandoned ship and left the The damn thing’s probably weighed down. The helicopter’s camera was running, you should have the images by now.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see any sign of a crew, or someone in charge?”
“I just saw the people in the hold,” I reply. “They were just standing there, staring back at me. It’s like they weren’t even trying to get to safety, they weren’t panicking at all, but they definitely saw us.”
“There’s not much they can do,” he points out, opening the door to the nearest trailer and waiting as I make my way inside. “From the images we’ve been able to analyze so far, there don’t seem to be any life-rafts except maybe one very rickety-looking boat on the aft side. Those people are sitting ducks.”
“I’ve got the files!” shouts one of the technicians at a computer terminal, waving at us. “Downloading from the server now.” He checks the screen. “Done!”
“Find a shot of the cargo hold,” I tell him.
“Working on it,” he mutters, turning a wheel on the keyboard and speeding through the footage before stopping it suddenly and pausing. “What the hell are those things?”
Staring at the screen, I realize that the figures in the hold look even more unreal now, packing in tightly and staring out at us through the glow of the helicopter’s searchlight. The quality of the footage isn’t great, but each of the figures has two dark eyes that seem to almost burn through the screen, still staring straight at me. I reach forward and hit a button on the keyboard, moving the image on a few frames, but the effect is the same. Whoever those people are, they look almost as if they’re from another world, and the grainy image makes their faces look more like bare, hollow skulls.
“Who do you think they are?” the technician asks. “They look… I dunno, maybe Eastern European?”
“Maybe the Middle East,” another technician suggests. “Maybe they came up from Africa.”
“Let’s not worry about that yet,” Mark tells them. “Right now, we’ve got a worsening storm and scores of people trapped out there on that thing. Wherever they come from, they need our help.”
“They’re all bald,” I point out suddenly.
He turns to me.
“Look!” I tap the screen. “I know it’s hard to make out much, but from this image it looks like every single one of the people down there is completely bald. I noticed it earlier, but I thought it was a trick of the light.”
“Great,” the first technician mutters. “Not just a boat full of asylum seekers, but a boat full of sick asylum seekers.” He turns and holds out a hand for me to shake. “Louis Cole. I plug things in around here and get absolutely no thanks for my efforts.” He eyes me cautiously. “So you’re the one Mark’s always talking about, huh?”
“Ignore Louis,” Mark says, leaning over him and flicking a switch on one of the monitors. “He’s great with computers, but appallingly cack-handed with anything that involves human interaction.”
“This ferry can’t have come out of nowhere,” Louis continues. “It has to have an IMO number, and given where it’s ended up, there are only a few routes it could have taken to get here. It either came down from the east, maybe from Scandinavia or the Baltic region, or it came up the English Channel from the west. I’ve been backtracking along those routes, using the shipping records provided by the relevant authorities down past France and Portugal, and also up toward Greenland, but so far I’m not having any luck. Even if this vessel was trying to attract as little attention as possible, it should have at least shown up on radar. This is the twenty-first century. A boat can’t roam the high seas unnoticed, even if it doesn’t have transponders of its own.”
“We can worry about that later,” I point out. “Right now, we have to get
those people out of there.”
“The storm’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Mark replies. “It might be dawn before we can safely mount a rescue mission.”
“Then we’ll have to take a few risks,” I tell him.
“Not under -”
“There are hundreds of people out there,” I continue, trying not to raise my voice too much. “They’re all going to drown when that ferry capsizes, or if the hull breaks. We can’t let that happen!” I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be hesitating. “You didn’t invite me down here to watch a bunch of people die,” I point out. “The ferry isn’t just a mystery for us to solve, it’s also a boat with a lot of people on-board and we have to get to them.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“The pilot said he can fly again once he’s made a few changes.”
“I know, but -”
“But what?” I ask, trying not to let my frustration show. “Mark, what’s holding you back?”
Grabbing my arm, he pulls me across the room until we’re away from Louis. “There’s a man coming from up-country to take charge of this operation. His name is David Stratton and he does everything, and I mean everything, by the book. Once he gets here, the people on that ferry are dead, do you understand? By the time he’s finished running through all the procedures we have to follow, the ferry will be at the bottom of the sea and all those people will have drowned. I’ve seen it happen time and again since Stratton got into position a couple of years ago.” He checks his watch. “There’s nothing we can do, not unless we want to break the new rules he put in place.”
Staring at him, I finally realize what he means.
“It’s the ferry, isn’t it?” I ask. “That’s all you care about. You just want to solve the mystery!”
“No, but -”
“There are people on there! When lives are at risk, we always go the extra mile!”
“That’s how things used to be,” he replies, “but these days the rules have been tightened. We’re not allowed to put ourselves in a position of extreme risk.”