by Bryan Dunn
The iceberg rolled.
Thousands of tons of ice swept toward the ship. The auger snapped like a twig. And as the buried grapple disappeared beneath the water, the chain was pulled tight – and the stern of the ship was dragged beneath the crushing ice. Steel plates buckled. A jagged tear yawned in the hull. The anguished moans of rending metal echoed across the ocean’s surface. The Ice Machine foundered. Seconds later the stern parted, and the ship began to sink.
The captain was thrown across the bridge and had to claw his way forward to reach the radio. Bleeding and in shock, he began to broadcast a mayday. “Mayday, mayday… this is the captain of the working vessel Ice Machine…”
* * * *
With the Twin Otter on course and making good time toward the wreck of the Titanic, Harry flipped on the autopilot and was about to pour himself a cup of coffee when Goodacre’s wobbly voice drifted into the cockpit.
“I-I don’t think I can go on. Please, please can we just drop the wreath here and turn back?”
Boots reached over and nudged Harry. “Harry, he wants to drop the wreath here.”
“Thanks for telling me, Boots. I was three inches farther away and didn’t hear him.” Harry motioned to the GPS. “Punch up the elapsed time to the shipping lanes.”
Boots tapped a couple of keys and retrieved the data. “Twenty minutes, Harry.”
Harry leaned out of the cockpit and looked at Goodacre. “Hear that, Mr. Goodacre? Only twenty more minutes and I’ll have you smack dab in the shipping lanes.”
“I don’t care. I can’t go on,” Goodacre mewled.
“The weather looks good. The air should be smooth as butter.”
The word ‘butter’ made Goodacre swallow hard and take a careful breath. “Listen, I paid for this, Mr. McNills,” Goodacre protested. “And I’m telling you I want to do it now! I want to dump the wreath and go back.”
Harry shrugged. It was no skin off his back. In fact, it would save him forty minutes of fuel. “Okay, it’s your nickel, Mr. Goodacre.” He hooked a thumb at Boots. “Go help Mr. Goodacre with the wreath.”
Boots popped his seatbelt, stepped out of the cockpit and joined Goodacre in the cargo bay. Boots clipped on a safety harness, then got Goodacre on his feet and attached a harness to him as well.
Boots grabbed the wreath, handed it to Goodacre, then stepped up to the cargo door and looked at Goodacre. “Are you ready?”
Goodacre nodded weakly. Boots slid the cargo door open – and they were instantly hit by a blast of icy air and the roar of the engines. Boots positioned Goodacre in the center of the doorway and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, Mr. Goodacre, let her rip.”
Goodacre leaned forward, released the wreath – and for a brief moment watched it tumbling through the air before it was whipped out of sight. Then in a shaky, but reverential tone, Goodacre called for a prayer. “Gentlemen, if you will observe one minute of silence for the 1,500 souls lost aboard the Titanic this day ninety-five years ago.”
The cabin fell silent.
Then there was a sudden loud crunching sound as Boots began to chew a mouthful of Doritos he’d just shoveled into his mouth. Goodacre turned, flashing an angry look. Boots stopped chewing, his cheeks still bulging with chips.
Just as silence had been restored, the distressed voice of Captain Roscoe Rains crashed out of the radio. “Mayday, mayday… this is the vessel Ice Machine. We have struck ice and are shipping water. We are down at the stern and in danger of sinking. Our location is approximately twenty miles off the Avalon Peninsula. Last position
48-48N and 55-20W.”
“My God, it’s Roscoe!” Harry reached for the radio, switched channels, then tried to raise the Ice Machine. “Ice Machine, Ice Machine… this is a charter aircraft out of St. John’s. Do you copy?”
There was a moment of dead air. Then a burst of static. Finally Roscoe’s voice answered back. “Affirmative. Roger that. I copy loud and clear. Harry is that – ”
And suddenly Roscoe was cut off. The radio went dead and then hissed a steady stream of static.
“Ice Machine, Ice Machine – you’re breaking up. Repeat transmission.” Harry waited, then tried again. “Ice Machine, Ice Machine... This is Arctic Air Adventures out of St. John’s. Do you copy?”
For the next couple of minutes Harry kept broadcasting, but it was no good.
“What do you think, Harry?” Boots asked.
“I think they’re in deep shit.” Harry handed Boots a slip of paper with the Ice Machine’s last reported position. “Boots, plot a new course and give me a heading.”
Boots stared at the slip of paper, silently reading the coordinates. “Harry, it’s too far. It’s cutting it too close. We don’t have the fuel.”
Harry knew he was pushing it.
“We’ll have a tailwind on the inbound leg.”
“A tailwind ?” Boots shook his head in disbelief. “Harry, we have a tailwind now! It’s gonna be uphill all the way home.”
“Boots, snort a Twinkie, steady your nerves, and get me a course and elapsed time to the Ice Machine.”
“Aye, aye, skipper,” Boots said unenthusiastically, then mumbled something unintelligible.
Harry tried to raise the Ice Machine again but got nothing. He switched channels, contacted the Coast Guard, and notified them of the mayday call and the Ice Machine’s last reported position.
Goodacre, who’d been quietly listening to everything and growing more horrified by the moment, jumped out of his seat and thrust his head into the cockpit. “Captain McNills, this is my charter and I demand we return to St. John’s immediately.”
Harry turned, giving Goodacre a direct look. “Mr. Goodacre, a ship is in trouble and we are obliged to try and help them.”
“No sir, you are obliged to serve your client. And as your client, I insist we return now!”
Boots looked at Goodacre, then back at Harry. Boots watched Harry’s face darken and decided to stay out of it.
“Mr. Goodacre, as your captain I’m going to give you two choices. You can jump out and swim back to St. John’s, or you can make yourself useful by returning to your seat and shutting up.”
Goodacre was about to protest when he suddenly had to bolt back for another airsick bag.
Boots slid a Twinkie into his mouth, bit it in half, then began reading off coordinates to Harry. “Make your course one-zero-five, Harry. We should be over that iceberg in thirty-five minutes.”
“Turning one-zero-five,” Harry confirmed grimly, and then began trimming the plane for the new heading.
* * * *
Thirty minutes later the Twin Otter was circling the iceberg. There was no sign of the Ice Machine except for a telltale oil slick that had formed on the ocean’s surface. Strong currents and a building sea had scattered debris in a mile-long swath.
“Look for survivors, Boots,” Harry said, and kept the plane banking around the wreck.
“I have been, Harry.” Then in a nervous voice Boots said, “Harry… where are the lifeboats?”
Boots’s question hung in the air. Harry had been thinking the same thing. There should’ve been lifeboats or at least a life raft. Roscoe was an experienced captain. He’d know what to do. He’d know how to save the crew. And if men had gone into the thirty- degree water, even with survival suits on, they couldn’t last more than about fifteen minutes.
They circled again. Harry got on the radio, called the Coast Guard and reported what they’d found. The Coast Guard confirmed his report and told him the cutter Disko Bay was en route and a chopper was standing by. Harry informed the Coast Guard they were approaching bingo fuel and could not remain on station any longer.
They circled the iceberg one last time. Harry couldn’t believe Roscoe and his crew were gone. They were all seasoned sailors. Something must have gone terribly wrong.
Boots shucked the wrapper off a Snickers bar, raised it to his mouth and, amazingly, didn’t seem to be able to eat it. He lowered the candy bar.
“Harry,” he pointed to the fuel gage. “We’ve got a problem.”
Harry looked at Boots, narrowed his eyes and thought: gee Boots, thanks for pointing that out. I wasn’t aware that we just responded to an emergency and have used up our reserve. “Dammit Boots, I know!” he snapped. The cockpit fell silent, then Harry added, “I’m thinking.”
He pulled off his headset, leaned around his seat and scanned the cargo bay. The first thing he noticed was Goodacre hunched over in his seat writing furiously in a notepad. Not a good sign, Harry thought. He didn’t even want to think about what the jerk was scribbling. Behind Goodacre, secured under a cargo net, were a few boxes of supplies that they hadn’t bothered to unload. Harry’s eyes drifted back to Goodacre. He was still writing. Harry shook his head, turned back around, and replaced his headset.
Boots looked at Harry. The dual emotions of hope and despair vied for dominance in his facial expression. “What, Harry?” Boots asked. The suspense was too much for him. “You got an idea?”
“Yeah, Boots. I’m thinking we need to lighten the load.”
“Lighten the load, Harry?”
“Boots, what do we have back there that is totally useless?”
Goodacre suddenly stopped writing. He looked up and saw Harry and Boots staring back at him. “I’ll have you know, Mr McNills,” Goodacre said in a tremulous voice, “I’m recording everything that has happened here today.” He raised his notepad, shaking it in the air. “My attorney and the FAA and the public in general are going to find out how you endanger the lives of your passengers.”
“Is that right?” Harry scoffed. “Well, Mr. Goodacre, the way I see it you’ve got one little problem…”
Rising to his feet, Goodacre took the bait. “What are you talking about?”
“When the last of the fuel is sucked out of the tanks, and the engines flame-out, and the propellers stop turning, and we plunge toward the freezing sea – you’re going to have to ask yourself one question – how do I keep my notepad dry?”
“Are you saying we’re going to crash?” Goodacre bleated.
“Of course, there is one thing you could do – before we hit the water, you could always cram it up your ass.”
A little color finally returned to Goodacre’s face as he reddened in silent rage.
Boots burst into laughter. Harry stopped him with a raised hand. “Boots, go aft and strip out anything not bolted down in the cargo bay and pitch it out the door.”
“I’m on it, Har.” Boots jumped up, squeezed past Goodacre, dismantled the cargo net, threw open the door and began pitching boxes out of the plane. He quickly worked his way through the stack. There were just two left. He lifted one, moved to the door, then stopped and yelled forward to the cockpit. “Hey, Harry, what about these?”
Harry turned, looking to see what Boots was talking about – and his face instantly fell. “Two cases of Laphroaig single malt,” Harry said, wistfully. “It’s a crime to throw them out. Hell, it’s damn near worth keeping them and taking a chance on crashing.”
Harry’s last comment was too much for Goodacre. “I can tell you, sir, I don’t drink and I don’t approve of the habit. And furthermore, if it’s a choice between a filthy vice and us crashing – ”
“Save the scotch!” Harry yelled to Boots. “And throw Goodacre out!”
Goodacre’s unhealthy pallor returned and he yelled, “What?”
Harry turned back to the controls and after tamping down his rage, said, “Go ahead, Boots, dump it.”
Boots quickly pitched the two cases overboard and slid the door shut.
Goodacre was furiously writing in his notebook again, and, as Boots dropped into the cockpit, the instrument panel caught his eye. “Harry! Look! We’ve got a tailwind!”
“Of course we do,” Harry said nonchalantly. “What did I tell you?”
Chapter 5
The Next Day
Newfoundland, St. John’s Airport
Amy and Lockwood emerged from a 737, deplaned, and crossed the tarmac toward a cargo hanger. They were both sensibly dressed in hiking boots and fleece parkas. Though Lockwood had ditched the Italian suit, he still managed to look pompous and too perfect. Amy looked relaxed and comfortable and could’ve been on a ski vacation.
She took a deep breath of the pure air. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Untamed.”
“Untamed?” Lockwood questioned. “Well, yes, if one disregards the jetport.”
“Very funny,” Amy said. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes. It’s spectacular country.”
They continued walking, and Lockwood suddenly looped an arm around Amy’s shoulder. “Ah, there’s adventure in the air.”
Amy slipped out from beneath his arm, ignoring the move, not letting it ruin the moment.
Lockwood smiled to himself, then angled toward a cargo handler. “Excuse me. But I just want to make sure those crates marked Cryolabs are safely stored in Hanger One. Cryolabs has rented the entire space.”
The cargo handler looked at Lockwood. “And you are?”
“Doctor Hayden Lockwood,” he said, pronouncing his name with royal fondness. The lord addressing the serf.
The cargo handler looked underwhelmed. He pressed his lips together and paged through a clipboard. “Okay, gotcha, right, Cryolabs. Fifteen boxes. Scientific equipment.”
“Excellent,” Lockwood said. “And could you direct us to a Mr. – ?” Lockwood reached inside his coat, removed a slip of paper and read the name. “A Mr. McNills, Arctic Air Adventures?”
“Harry?” The cargo handler smiled and seemed a little surprised. “You’ll find him over at the Frozen Coconut.”
“The Frozen Coconut?” Lockwood asked with a puzzled look on his face.
“It’s a pub. The cab driver will know.”
“Yes, of course he will,” Lockwood said. “Thank you.”
The Frozen Coconut was a local’s spot filled with lunchtime drinkers. The clientele were mostly fisherman and dockworkers, guys in boots and hard hats drinking Jack Daniels and beer. At night they had dancing. Tourists didn’t go there, and if they did drop by, they almost never stayed long enough for a drink. Thirty years ago someone had done a bad job trying to make it look like a Caribbean beach bar. Grimy bamboo lined the walls and trimmed the bar. A net filled with coconuts hung from the ceiling. Tattered Hawaiian prints bookended an old black-and-white photo of Duke Kahanamoku riding an ancient paddle board. Below that, Papa Hemingway stood proudly next to a giant marlin hanging from a scale. Behind the bar, lined up in front of a mirror, a collection of plastic hula dolls completed the look.
Harry and Boots were sitting at a table sharing a pitcher of beer. Harry drained his glass and let his eyes drift across the bar. He loved this place. The Cuban music. The patrons. The ersatz decor. This was as close as he was going to get to Wilkie, his float plane, and his dream of the tropics for a couple of years.
Harry refilled his glass, then raised it and made a toast. “Here’s to Roscoe and Skeeter and Porter and the entire crew of the Ice Machine. If they have pubs in heaven, Roscoe is already shit-faced.”
Harry watched Boots maneuver a gob of gum across his mouth and into a cheek. “To the whole crew,” Boots said, raising his glass and taking a sip.
Harry took another drink, then looked at Boots. “Why anyone would want to drink beer and chew gum at the same time, I’ll never understand.”
“What?” Boots said, a blank expression spreading across his face.
“How the hell can you chew gum and drink beer at the same time, Boots?”
“I always chew gum when I drink, Harry. You know that.”
“Well, it’s uncouth. You’re uncouth, Boots.”
“What the heck is that?” Boots asked defensively. “What is that suppose to mean?”
Harry saw that Boots was getting upset. Not wanting to push it, he clapped him warmly on the back and laughed. “It means you don’t give a shit about what anybody thinks. And come to think of
it – that’s what I like about you, Boots.”
Boots looked at Harry, wondering if he should still be upset – then decided to let it go. “Well, alright then,” he raised his glass. “Here’s to being uncouth!”
Harry raised his beer and just as their glasses clinked together, Keith “Nowhere Man” Le Marche, a six-foot-two Coast Guard pilot dressed in a flight suit and holding an empty glass and a pitcher of beer, dropped into a seat and said, “Cheers, boys.” Nowhere Man filled his glass. “Looks like you fellers got a head start on me.”
“We’ve been waiting for over an hour,” Harry said impatiently. “What’s going on, Nowhere?”
Nowhere Man pointed to the empty pitcher. “Looks like you’ve been doing more than waiting, Harry.”
“C’mon, Nowhere, you guys find anyone?” Boots asked.
Nowhere Man took a long pull on his beer. “One person,” he said solemnly. And then added, “Correction, make that half a person. The Disko Bay pulled a body out of the water two nautical miles south of the iceberg.”
“Jesus,” Harry said. “No survivors?”
“Not as of noon today.”
“Who was it, Nowhere? Who’d they find?” Harry asked quietly.
“I made the I. D. No one knew who it was on account of the fact that the top half was missing, head and all.”
“Lord Almighty,” Boots whispered.
Nowhere Man looked down at his beer. “When I saw the tattoo – a clown with a teardrop falling out of its eye – I knew…”
“Porter,” Harry said.
Nowhere Man nodded and took a sip of beer.
The table fell silent. Then Harry asked, “Any theories as to what happened to the rest of the crew?”
“The best guess is the iceberg rolled, tearing off the stern and sinking the Ice Machine in a thousand feet of water. It was probably sudden and violent – and they just didn’t have enough time to abandon ship.”
Boots let out a sibilant stream of air and shook his head.
“They were operating right on the lip of a trench. They just missed the bottom at a hundred and fifty feet before slipping over the edge. We may never know for sure what happened.”