Acton raised a finger. “Fun fact. Where did the term ‘mayday’ come from?”
Milton stifled a grin, accustomed to Acton’s tangents.
Acton ignored him.
Judy shrugged. “Some commie thing?”
It was Acton’s turn to stifle it. “No, though some might suggest close. It’s actually a play on the French m’aidez which means ‘help me’.” He waved his hand, erasing the tangent. “Sorry, back to what I was saying. The Carpathia was the closest ship to respond, but it wasn’t the closest ship.”
“What?”
Steve’s outburst sent a shiver up Acton’s spine, the pleasure endorphins kicking in as his delight in educating grew. “The SS Californian was actually within sight of the Titanic as she sank. Her crew could see the distress flares, and even noted that the deck lights seemed to be odd, probably because they were tilted on the horizon due to her sinking at the bow.”
Judy seemed to have checked her skepticism, instead leaning forward, enthralled. “Why didn’t they help?”
“Their Captain apparently thought it was just a fireworks display, and rather than wake his radio operator, he told the crew to just monitor the situation visually. They were stopped for the night because of heavy ice so the lookouts watched it sink and eventually disappear on the horizon. It wasn’t until the next morning that they turned on their radio and discovered what had happened.”
“That’s insane!” cried Steve. “How could that possibly happen?”
“Rules were different back then. Actually, the sinking of the Titanic probably saved lives in the long run. Because it was so high profile, new rules were brought in that required enough lifeboats for every passenger, standardized distress signals, standardized response to any suspected distress and a lot more, including design changes. Unfortunately, all of these things were too late to save the Titanic.”
Judy’s mouth had been open in shock for several minutes, widening it seemed with each word out of Acton. “When this ship—the Californian?—discovered what had happened, did they at least help?”
“Sort of. They actually steamed away then came back in a roundabout fashion. Their captain claimed heavy ice in the area, however many people think he could have safely sailed to the Titanic directly. By the time they arrived, the Carpathia had already taken aboard the survivors. The Californian stayed behind to look for more survivors in the water, but there were none.”
“So if the Captain had woken his radio operator, they might have saved some of those people.” Steve shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“It is, isn’t it. But that’s not the only thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, there were reports of at least one other ship in the vicinity.”
“You mean…”
“Some people claim there was yet another ship.”
North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912
Brett Jones pulled on the oars, glancing over his shoulder at the stricken ship. When he had been tasked for this mission he had been eager for a glimpse of the already famous Titanic. To be aboard her for her maiden voyage would be historical, though it would be something he’d never be able to share with his grandchildren.
Otherwise he’d have to kill them.
Especially now.
He had been sent on some ruthless assignments by his anonymous taskmasters over the years, though he had to admit this was pretty coldhearted. The ship that had brought them here was less than two miles away and could easily save hundreds of these poor, condemned souls, but Commander Whitman had forbidden it.
He’s a bastard if there ever was one.
Jones had only met the man once before on a mission that had resulted in half a dozen dead, some politician’s family in England who had apparently wronged someone.
Who, he didn’t question.
He had spent a couple of years in the military but had been dishonorably discharged, his inability to obey his superiors constantly getting him in trouble despite his superior combat skills.
He wasn’t Army material.
But he was somebody’s.
He had been approached within weeks of his ignominious departure by a man in a suit and a hat, the brim pulled low. He had laughed at him, the man almost a caricature of what the entertainment industry thought spies should look like.
He had given him an envelope with two hundred dollars and a piece of paper with an address and time.
“Be there if you want more.”
Two hundred dollars was more money than he had seen at one time in his entire life.
He had tied one on, buying the entire bar drinks all night, making out with some of the sleaziest girls one could imagine, girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day the night before.
It had been an amazing night.
One he could barely remember.
Yet it had given him a taste of the good life.
And he wanted more.
He had gone to the meeting, been interviewed, mostly questions about loyalty to his country—he had none after his discharge—his family—he had none—and his friends—few, none close.
He was a loner and alone.
Apparently perfect, from what he had learned since.
It had been several weeks before his first assignment. A simple courier job. Pick up an envelope, deliver it. More courier jobs followed, then after several months, things got interesting.
Weapons were provided, partners, and some action was involved.
It wasn’t until his second year that he had to kill someone.
By then he was too addicted to the money to even question carrying out the job.
He had done it.
And vomited the first moment he was out of sight of his partner.
It became easier.
Too easy.
Now he was almost always assigned the kill-jobs, as some of the others called them. He almost never worked with the same person twice, which was why he had been surprised to see “Commander Whitman” again. The last time they had met he was an Army Major named Fitzgerald. The fact they had met before wasn’t acknowledged, instead a knowing look exchanged then nothing.
And that was the way it was in this business. Working for someone, who he didn’t know, killing people for huge sums of money. It was eating away at his soul, he now numb to it all. His life consisted of long bouts of alcohol, opium and women with questionable backgrounds interrupted periodically for brief stints of work.
He was living the dream.
And it was killing him.
Physically and mentally.
Until he met Margo.
She had changed everything.
A sweet girl, cute as can be, demure but not too compliant.
She was a waitress at a bar he frequented. Never put up with much from the patrons, never dated them.
Until him.
But that wasn’t because of the bar. He had met her waiting for the bus, her struggling with a load of groceries. She had agreed to a familiar face helping her, then invited him in for a lemonade, her mother chaperoning.
He had made it a point to try and be at the same bus stop at the same time, often waiting for over an hour for her to show up and pretend it was just a coincidence.
And the lemonades had continued.
As had her mother.
And now they were officially courting.
She knew nothing of his life, and he wanted to keep it that way, but if they were to make a go of this relationship, things would have to change.
Which was why he had begun hiding away a large portion of his paydays. He was going to leave the business, marry Margo, and start a family.
If they’d let him.
The screams and cries for help were all around them now, lifeboats making their way toward their ship, apparently revealed by a flare. The boat bumped into something and a frozen hand broke the surface beside him, an unfortunate so
ul who had apparently jumped overboard early in a fit of panic.
He ignored it.
By the look of things, there would be many more such deaths before the night was through.
The boat bumped against the side of the massive vessel and he raised his oar, looking up at the hulking mass towering above them.
And the closed cargo hatch directly overhead.
“I thought it was supposed to be open?”
Commander Whitman looked at him. “The original plan had them opening it for us at the rendezvous.” He motioned with his hand at the ship above. “With all this going on, who the hell knows if they’re even alive?” He pointed to several lines leading to the water, apparently left behind by lowered lifeboats. “Let’s start climbing gentlemen.” He pointed at one of the men. “You stay with the boat. Under no circumstances does anyone come on board, understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
Whitman led the way, the man’s skills at rope climbing exceptional, the rest of the team following. Whitman disappeared over the railing above and Jones continued after him, the panicked passengers getting louder with each pull on the rope.
He reached the brightly lit deck and peered over to find hundreds of pairs of feet rushing to and fro. A hand reached over and grabbed him, hauling him to the deck. It was Whitman. He looked about and no one seemed to be paying them any mind, their clothes worthy of any second class passenger.
The rest of the team quietly joined them then Whitman led the way toward the First Class purser’s office, his briefing indicating it was located near what was called the Grand Staircase on the starboard side of the ship. Crew were struggling to load passengers into lifeboats on the boat deck, their shouts growing more desperate as time ran out. Cries of women and children filled the air, the panicked, angry shouts of men competing with the wails.
And some simply stood in stunned silence, the expressions on their faces an odd sort of shocked resignation, as if they realized their fate was already set, these poor souls already dead.
It made him wonder what he would do if he knew he were going to die.
I wouldn’t be just standing around!
He’d grab a bottle and a woman and have a grand old time.
At least the old version of him would.
But now with Margo in the picture, what would he do?
If they were together, like some of the couples he saw clinging to each other as they passed, he’d do everything in his power to save her. To get her on one of the lifeboats, then do his damnedest to survive.
But should he die, he’d take tremendous satisfaction in knowing she had lived.
He had no illusions though that they’d be reunited in the afterlife.
He was going to Hell.
A man didn’t kill as much as he did without his soul being condemned.
The purser’s office had been abandoned, its door ajar, the ship at a concerning angle now, stray objects rolling slowly across the deck as the bow sank deeper into what would become the icy grave of so many.
Commander Whitman immediately made for the safe, it locked, one of the men pulling out some gear, his job to crack it.
But Jones had a different job.
One that would certainly cement his place in fiery brimstone.
Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day
“Another ship?” Steve Wainwright shook his head. “How come nobody knows about this?”
Acton shrugged. “It wasn’t in the movie, I guess.” He winked at Laura. “Now remember, the Californian is proven, historical fact. There was an inquiry and everything. Nobody disputes that it was in the area, though some dispute how far away it actually was.”
“And this other ship?”
“That hasn’t been proven. There were reports of another ship nearby that definitely wasn’t the Californian or the Carpathia. People reported seeing it nearby, close enough that some lifeboats tried rowing toward it, but they reported that they seemed to never get closer. This has never been proven, but the witnesses when interviewed were adamant there was another ship.”
“Who could it have been?” asked Judy. “Wouldn’t they know what ships were in the area at the time?”
Acton nodded. “Yes, they would. All civilian ships reported their intended courses and radioed updates if things changed. The wireless operators were in constant contact with each other relaying updates including weather and sea conditions. The problem with the witness testimony is that there was no other ship in the area, so their statements were dismissed.”
Steve was pinching his chin, staring at the floor. “You said civilian ships reported their courses. What about military?”
Acton’s breath caught for a moment. “You said your grandfather was a Navy captain?”
Steve nodded, his face clouding over. “Yes.”
Acton looked at Laura then Milton. “Then I think we might have just found our mystery ship.”
North Atlantic Ocean
RMS Titanic
April 15th, 1912
Brett Jones spotted his target helping a young woman into one of the lifeboats, impeccably dressed as expected in a blue serge suit with a crisp blue handkerchief sporting the initials A.V. His polished brown boots matched his flannel shirt. He held the woman’s hand, her tear stained cheeks and trembling lip suggesting this was his wife.
“Might I join my wife? She’s in a delicate condition.”
Delicate.
He knew from his briefing that she was pregnant, the reason for their return. She wanted the child to be born in America, and if it weren’t for that reason, they would never have boarded the ill-fated Titanic.
“I’m sorry sir, no man is allowed on this boat or any of the boats until the women and children are off.”
Astor nodded. If he were upset, he was hiding it like any good gentleman would. “Well, tell me what is the number of this boat so I may find her afterward.”
“Number four, sir.”
Astor gave his wife’s hand one last squeeze then stepped back as the crew began to lower the boat to the freezing ocean below. He calmly lit a cigarette then stepped forward, tossing his gloves down to his wife, before stepping back and out of the way of the busy crew. When his wife was out of sight, a much younger man joined him, then after a few words, walked away in a hurry.
He approached Astor from the side, jamming his finger in the man’s back. “Mr. Astor, come with me.” Astor froze for a moment, then nodded, stepping away from the wall. “Let’s go to your room, shall we?”
Astor again said nothing and they walked in silence as the chaos continued around them. Astor’s suite, C-62, was impressively massive, one of the finest available and unthinkably expensive, Jones was certain.
A touch of envy took hold.
“Do you have the papers you stole?”
Astor took a drag of his cigarette. “Surely you don’t expect me to cooperate.”
Jones smiled. “Of course I don’t, but I have to ask.”
Astor stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray probably worth more than the average annual wage of one of the men who toiled to build the doomed vessel. “I can assure you, my good sir, that I do not have any papers on me.”
“The chief purser’s safe then.”
Astor smiled. “If you already know, then why ask?”
“Again, I have to.”
Astor motioned to the wall safe. “Would you like me to open it?”
“Please.”
Astor complied then stood back. Inside were several stacks of notes in various currencies, along with a few items of jewelry. Jones stuffed the cash in his pocket, clasping a fist around the jewelry.
“Real?”
Astor raised his eyebrows slightly, as if the question were ridiculous.
Of course it is.
He shoved the jewels in his pocket.
“Is that why you’re here, to rob me?”
Jones smiled. “No. I’m here to deliver a message.”
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Astor pursed his lips.
Jones raised his weapon.
“And what exactly is this message?”
“My employers wanted you to know that you should never have betrayed them.”
A foot scraped behind him and he spun toward the noise to find the young man from earlier rushing at him. Jones sidestepped the charge, shoving the man off balance with his free hand, sending him tumbling into a table, it shattering from the impact. Astor moved to help the man when Jones wagged his gun back and forth.
“Un-uh. Get back.”
Astor frowned but complied as the young man struggled to his feet, his face flush, a small gash on his upper cheek sending a trickle of blood down his face.
“And you are?”
“Henry Dodge.”
“Ahh, Mr. Dodge. I see my colleagues failed to deal with you. Unfortunate.” The man paled, clearly aware of what he was referring to. Jones shrugged. “No matter, you’ll be dealt with now.”
“Why?”
Jones’ eyes narrowed as he turned toward Astor. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why? What’s the point? We’re all going to die here tonight.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. My job is to make certain you do.”
“I just put my pregnant wife on a lifeboat. They are not allowing men aboard. There aren’t enough lifeboats for all of us. We are going to die.” He nodded toward Jones. “Including you.”
Jones smiled. “No, I won’t be dying today, Colonel.”
Astor and Dodge exchanged glances. “How do you plan to escape?”
Jones’ smile broadened. “The same way I came aboard.”
Both men looked puzzled, then the young man’s jaw dropped. “You came on a ship!”
“Give the man a cigar!” He pointed at Dodge with his gun. “Colonel, I’d tell you to hire this man right now, before he gets away, but alas, it’s too late.”
Astor put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I would be honored to have this gentlemen in my employ.” He nodded toward the pocket Jones had stuffed the money into. “You have enough cash and jewels there to change your life forever. To make a good life for you and your family. Why not take it?”
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 6