Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:
Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all really here.
Titanic is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a huge legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)
Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.
In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!
Onward and upward…
~ Chapter Two ~
The Cold Truth
Staring into the inferno before her, Rose was only peripherally aware of the frantic commotion going on above. One hundred and thirty feet into the jet black sky, the crow's nest bell sounded its resonant tone across the deck and a thickly accented voice screamed warnings into a telephone receiver. Behind that, the bridge was similarly chaotic as shouted orders and affirmative replies were relayed from the wings to the wheelhouse and back again.
A thousand questions swirled through her head as the seconds ticked past. What had just happened? Where had this deliverance come from? How did Jack know? What was the nature of his involvement? Who was he even, this wonderful, caring man who had taught her so much and touched her heart in so many ways, and yet seemed to be harboring so many secrets.
She stood transfixed, as the fiery mountain of ice loomed ever larger in front of them, slowly shifting to the right as the great ship responded to the commands of the helm. As it drew closer, a great slab melted away and plunged into sea with an eruption of foam and steam. Closer still, and she felt the heat of the fire play itself across her face as the berg slid silently past, a scant fifty feet distant from the rail.
With a mighty heave she released the breath that she had been unaware of holding, and turned to Jack. Whatever his involvement in this miracle may have been, it had likely spared them all from eminent disaster, and she could be forever thankful to him for that. Regardless of what dark corners of his soul he may be hiding from her.
But it was questions of those very secrets that came flooding back to her when she saw him reach deeply into his pocket and pull out an item that she did not recognize. It was too small to be a wallet, and too rigid to be a notepad. It seemed to have a vaguely metallic finish around its edge, but was clearly polished glass on its face. There were no other appendages to its featureless surface… Nothing to offer any clues regarding its identity or function. It was just a small box: Too thin to contain much of anything… too thick to be either a hand mirror or beverage coaster.
Seemingly unaware that he was under observation, Jack spared the briefest of glances into its reflective surface before turning his gaze skyward. He pinched his face into a grimace, and began a slow countdown to some unknown event.
"Five… four… three… two… one…"
Right on cue, the face of the mystery item lit up like a Christmas tree in a department store window, accompanied by a shrill tone sufficient to grab the attention of anyone within earshot.
"Yep. Right on schedule." He lightly laughed, although the mirth in his words did not reach to his eyes. He brushed his thumb lightly across the glass, and by the miracle of all miracles, the item in question began to speak of its own accord.
"Hey Jackie! What the hell is going on up there?" a familiar voice that Rose couldn't quite place called out mysteriously from Jack's hand. "There's all kinds of rumors of down here, and they're spreadin' faster than mono through a kissing contest!"
"We just had a blast." Jack flatly replied.
"Well I'm glad to hear you're having yourself a good time."
"Blast as in explosion, you nimrod!"
"So noted. You got a back story to lay on me then?"
"Best I can tell, some yahoo just plunked a Paveway into the berg." Jack said matter-of-factly, as if such gibberish was the most normal thing in the world to him. "Or maybe a Walleye. I can't be sure."
There was thoughtful silence for several seconds after the exchange.
"So when do you think the hilos will show up?" the voice in Jacks hand finally spoke once more.
"Not sure, but they've got to be on their way." Jack said with a shake of his head. "I'm guessing ten minutes, tops. Where do you suppose they'll be putting down?"
"My money's on the fan tail. It's about the only open section of deck they've got that isn't fouled by a mast or stay cable of some sort."
"With all those benches back there?"
"Already scoped it out. It's a tight squeeze, but there's enough room to park a Seahawk."
"If you say so. Meet up on the stern, then?"
"Roger that. I'll grab Fabrizio and head that way. We'll rally under the docking bridge. Don't be taking the scenic route now!"
"I wouldn't dream of it. Jack out." Jack replied, brushing his thumb over the glass once more, this time plunging the small device into darkness. Stuffing it back into his pocket, he glanced to Rose who fixed him with a glare that was part hero-worship, part frustration and all confusion. It was all he could do to simply stand there and smile sheepishly, like a cat that had just been caught in an otherwise empty canary cage, a solitary feather dangling from its mouth.
"Jack! What the hell was…?"
"No time to explain, Rose! We've got to move!" he cut her off abruptly, grabbing her hand and dragging her toward the stairs that would lead them to the third class decks and the pedestrian thoroughfare known as Scotland Road. They had to make it back to the stern, and do so quickly.
There was far more at stake than either of them yet knew.
It was exactly ten minutes later when a somewhat more frazzled-looking young couple ascended the steps from the aft well deck to the poop deck and spotted their quarry amongst the shadows of the docking bridge.
"Jackie! Glad you could make it!" Tommy greeted as Jack approached the group with a somewhat breathless Rose in tow. "And I see you brought a friend as well." He added somewhat less enthusiastically.
Jack wasn't in the mood for such judgmental notions.
"Doesn't really matter, now does it?" he responded to the accusation. "Not when everyone on board is going to know soon enough."
Tommy simply shrugged and nodded his head in acquiescence. The observation was valid enough.
"So, any sign of them yet?" Jack asked, casting a watchful gaze to the sky.
"No, nothing." Tommy replied with a huff. "Everything's quiet so far, except for Fabrizio's incessant harping."
"Hey! All I'm saying is that it wouldn't kill them to stop dropping these things in our laps so last minute-ish!" Fabrizio grumbled to himself, his eyes also pasted to the darkened sky.
"Well what do you expect from the intelligence department." Tommy chuckled to no one in particular. "You do know that they were only named ironically, after all."
For his part, Fabrizio appeared entirely un-amused. But he was a veritable barrel of laughs compared to the indignation that was coursing through Rose's veins at that moment.
"All right! This little secret society of yours has officially run its course!" She angrily shouted, drawing the immediate attention of all three young men around her. "I've been dragged up and down the length and breadth of this ship being thoroughly ignored for the better part of this evening, and I have officially had it! Now somebody had better explain to me exactly what the hell is going on right now, or else I'm going to have an absolute fit right here on this very spot!"
The outburst had its desired effect, as three sets of eyes were immediately upon her. Jack's glance shifted repeatedly between the seething redhead and Tommy, as if unsure what to do.
It wasn't difficult for Tommy to sense the fearful uncertainty of his friend's position, and he decided after several second to take pity on the unfortunate young man. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, arched his back, and thoughtfully clicked his tongue before offering his latest bit of sage advice.
"You better do what she says, my friend." He offered. "'Cause when a woman gets like that, there's nothin' else you can do."
Jack regarded Tommy with a plaintive stare and sighed, before dropping his shoulders and reaching resignedly into his pocket. It was time to reveal all, and finally face the music.
"Here." He said to Rose, withdrawing a small card from the pocket of his trousers and placing it in her hand. "This should clarify some things, and probably muddy several others." He cryptically explained. "Just be aware that things are going to seem pretty weird after you read it."
The limited illumination of the deck lights made reading anything difficult, and Rose found herself squinting intensely at the fine print on the card. Slowly, the amorphous blur congealed into letters, and the letters soon organized themselves into words. Satisfied that the card was at last legible, she began to read aloud what it said, paying special attention to each and every syllable.
"Lieutenant Jonathan Ulysses Dawson: United States Marine Corps." She read, looking up to regard him with a questioning glance. Left to her own assumptions, she would have never pegged him as the military type.
"Semper fi." Jack grinned and shrugged.
"Hoo-rah." Fabrizio casually offered from the background.
"Service number six five three two seven nine five double-zero." She continued reading after a momentary pause. "Religion: Lutheran. Hometown: Chipewa Falls, Wisconsin. Date of birth: May twentieth, nineteen…"
The remainder of the sentence died in her throat as her eyes grew wide in astonishment. It didn't make any sense to her, the words on the card running in direct opposition to everything she knew about reality and the universe. She blinked repeatedly, thinking that perhaps she was simply misreading, but each and every time she looked back to find the exact same letters and numbers in the exact same order. She looked in askance to Jack, her eyes pleading for some sort of clarification. But Jack only nodded silently, his eyes confirming to her that there was nothing wrong with her comprehension, and that it was most definitely not a misprint.
"Nineteen ninety two." She finished breathlessly, her tone posing it more as a question than a statement of fact.
"Told you it would be weird." Jack apologetically shrugged.
Rose could only gape in silent astonishment, staring deeply into the crystal-blue eyes of a man who she now knew did not exist: A man yet to be born, from a world yet to be created, and a time yet to occur.
From the moment she had fist laid eyes on him, she had known he was special. There was a strange aura that he carried about him; a certain ill-defined quality that she could never quite put a finger on. It was something that defied description, simultaneously mysterious and wonderful, and whenever she tried to define it, it would simply evaporate into the either before rematerializing somewhere else. Pinning it down was like trying to nail smoke to a wall: An impossible task. And yet she could always tell that it was there, whatever it was. Elusive as a phantom and amorphous as the wind, but still there.
And now, with the truth having finally been revealed to her, the mystery of this wonderful man only seemed to deepen. The more she knew, the less she understood, and the farther down the rabbit hole she seemed to fall. Jack had said that meeting her had made things "wonderfully complicated." If only she had known just how complicated things could be.
She wanted answers, but did not know what questions ask. She sought clarity, but clarity of what she could not understand. She craved comprehension, but the matter at hand was so opaque to her that she could not even identify the subject, let alone seek such understanding.
These thoughts and a thousand others spun through her mind as she stared in wide-eyed wonderment at the trio of men before her. These explorers from another world; virtual aliens walking unseen and unnoticed among her own kind, carrying with them a knowledge perhaps greater than anyone else who had ever lived. It was almost too much to accept.
But the debate of acceptance versus rejection was quickly shoved aside as the nighttime sky came alive again, this time not with the roar of thunder, but with a deep and resonant thrum. It fell to earth in a series of dull and guttural vibrations, passing through her sinuses and into her stomach with a rapid pulsation that put her mind to images of an over-sized eggbeater, or a wagon driving over a giant washboard. It grew ever louder as the unseen source gradually approached, descending ever closer to where they stood until it finally hovered directly over head. Four sets of eyes peered upward from beneath the bridge, and one set was astonished at what it saw.
A wondrous craft, sleek and yet slightly hunchbacked, hung suspended against the star-studded sky. Gray as an ocean mist, it dangled motionless from a set of whirling blades whose frightening speed made them but a faint blur against the darkened backdrop of the heavens. A open doorway along its flank revealed a dimly lit interior and a small gaggle of human forms, silhouetted against the red glow of a safety light.
And then it began to descend once more, dropping slowly and methodically toward the polished teak surface of the deck below. The roar of the blades became ever more deafening as the great bird drew closer, and a wind of hurricane proportions surged downward from its belly, washing across the deck with a force that pushed her backward, whipping the hem of her dress into a billowing, frenzied sail.
Her footing began to give way under the blustering onslaught, and her heart surged into her throat as she felt herself stumble backwards toward the rail. She made ready to cry out for help, but before she could even form the words, Jack's strong hands reached out for her. He snagged her by her shoulders and slipped an arm solidly around her slim waist before wrapping his free hand around one of the bridge's support columns, effectively anchoring them both to the spot. They would be safe for the time being.
The craft continued to descend until a trio of rubber tires gently kissed the teak planks, and like a great bird settling into its nest, the machine began to power down. Its mighty roar subsided as the deadly blades gradually slowed in their ferocity, finally coming to hang motionless across the open deck.
With the threat of decapitation removed, the occupants of the strange craft emerged into the open and surveyed their surroundings. Wearing clothing of mottled, multi-hued green, the helmeted forms stood heavily laden with equipment. Bulky packs sat strapped to their backs while a multitude of other items hung from their belts and harnesses. They wore bulky, protective garb of one form or another across much of their bodies, and in their hands they carried what she could only suppose were weapons of some sort: Small, black, and menacing… and sprouting a variety of strange appendages. But even through all the clutter she was able to identify the standard components of a stalk, barrel and trigger. These were clearly men who meant business.
"Wait here, Rose." Jack whispered to her as Tommy and Fabrizio stepped forward toward the new arrivals. "I'll be back in just a sec."
Left to her own devices, Rose watched intently from the shelter of the bridge as Jack and his two companions approached these men from the sky. As the two groups came together, one man in particular stepped forward from the gaggle of newcomers. Distinguishable from the others by his choice of a cap rather than a helmet, he carried himself with an aura of authority: An observation that was confirmed when Jack and his friends drew themselves to attention and saluted before him.
"Greetings, Marines." His booming voice carried across the deck, making eavesdropping an easy task. "Sorry to drop in like this on your little vacation."
"That's not the only thing you dropped, sir." Jack pointed out, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder toward the bow. "That was quite a fireworks show your flyboys put on back there."
"Yes. Well, we needed a way to get your attention." The man in charge explained.
"There's always e-mail." Tommy pointed out bluntly.
"Be that as it may," the apparent commanding officer continued, "we've got bigger fish to fry here. We recently received intelligence regarding a credible threat against the ship. And it's the sort of thing that doesn't bode well for the time stream in any way, shape or form."
"So what's the skinny then?" Fabrizio asked aloud. "Who and what exactly are we facing, sir?"
"It'll all be explained in the briefing." The anonymous officer concluded. "Upstairs in five minutes… first class lounge."
"Yes sir!" all three of them reflexively responded, snapping to attention and saluting before folding themselves into the larger group and heading forward toward the first-class sections of the ship. Rose stepped aside as the group strode past, only to find herself being swept along as well when Jack reached out from the crowd to take her arm and guide her along with the rest. They walked in silence as they crossed the well deck, but once they had begun to ascend the second-class stairs, she felt compelled to speak.
"So you're not even born yet?" she whispered to Jack, still seeking to confirm her belief in the unbelievable.
"Are you kidding me?" he chuckled in reply. "My parents aren't even born yet."
"But you said your parents were dead."
"No, I said that they weren't alive. Technically, that's true."
"Only technically."
"But still true."
It was moments like this that reminded her just why she had hated him when they first met that night along the stern railing. That smug, self-assuredness… The belief that he could size up any situation in the span of a few seconds… It had grated her to no end at first. It wasn't until she had gotten to know the sensitive artist underneath that she had begun to fall in love with him.
"All right, mister smarty-pants. How about a new question then?" she redirected as the party exited the stairs onto the A-Deck promenade and began making their way forward.
"Shoot." Jack agreed.
"Your two friends here. Tommy and… and…"
"Fabrizio?"
"That's him! Didn't they both have accents the last time I met them? In fact, I seem to recall that Fabrizio could barely speak English at all."
"Aye lassie! Ye be 'membrin' we lads as ones with th' funny talk, now do ye?" Tommy responded with an exaggerated smile, which he quickly dropped. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."
"And my command of English is suspect in any accent." Fabrizio flippantly offered.
"For our assignment, we needed to blend in below decks, and three Americans traveling together isn't exactly typical down there," Jack explained as they approached the entrance to the aft grand staircase, "so we figured a multi-cultural act would let us mesh a little easier."
"So you're all actually Americans then?" Rose inquired.
"As American as apple pie, purple mountains, and a healthy distrust of authority." Tommy playfully offered.
Jack affixed him with a most un-amused glare.
"What my associate, Yankee Doodle Dippy here is trying to say," he offered apologetically, "is that yes, we're all Americans."
"And what was this assignment precisely?"
As he walked, Jack ran his hand over his face and sighed deeply. He was in this far too deep now. There was no other course than to tell her everything.
"We're a team of scholar soldiers, if you will." He began. "In a nutshell, our job is to live amongst the people in steerage and document their lives, because unfortunately the history books haven't treated them much better than the folks in contemporary high society. They've been pretty much ignored by the narrative, which has left a rather large hole in the historic record."
"And it's our job to fill that hole." Tommy added. "The data we bring back to our time helps flesh out the details that history has missed. It helps complete our understanding of the past."
"And your tickets." Rose continued to prod. "Did you really win them in a poker game? Or was that just another lie."
"No, that was true." Jack insisted. "I really did win them. I had to… to sell our story."
"But isn't poker a game of chance?"
"Not the way he plays it." Tommy offered over his shoulder.
"So you cheated then?" she said with an accusatory glare toward Jack.
"I prefer the term 'creative odds-making'." He offered meekly. "But some might consider it cheating, I suppose."
"And the iceberg? You knew about that?"
"Yes."
"We were supposed to hit it, weren't we?"
"That's right."
"Is that why you snickered at dinner last night when the waiter asked you if you wanted ice in your drink?"
"Oh, you caught that, huh?"
"Yes, I did."
"Oops! Busted!" Tommy playfully ribbed.
"Hey! I'm not the smart-ass who snuck into the library and left copies of "Futility" laying out all over the place, smart-ass!" Jack fired back defensively.
"I'm sorry! And who's the one who asked Wallace Hartley if he knew any Charlie Daniels tunes?"
Ignoring the sudden bout of verbal sparing, Rose thought back to previous moments in the conversation. She pondered these words for the longest moment as the group turned to enter the atrium of the aft grand staircase. There was no avoiding the fact that much of what she knew about Jack was pure fiction. And such knowledge begged the question of just how far the fiction went. Exactly how much of him was fake? Exactly how much of them was fake? Such questions chilled her to the very core of her soul.
"So then none of it was real?" she asked softly, feeling her heart slowly sink within her chest. "It was all just an act? Your accents? Your family stories? Us?"
It was the dejected, desperate tone with which Rose said that final word that caught Jack's attention, forcing him to stop abruptly just outside the staircase entrance. In a flash he rounded on his heel and grabbed her shoulders, capturing her sad and frightened eyes with his own, trying to convey the true depth of his feelings.
"No! Not all of it! Don't you even think that!" he said with as much determination as he could muster. "Our biographies and birth dates may have been fudged somewhat, but this," he waved his hand across the short distance between them, "this isn't an act! This is as real as it gets!"
"But… you had your assignment… to…" she whimpered softly in protest, prompting him to pull her into a tight embrace. He held her close, gently stroking her crimson curls as he tried to make sense of it all, not just for her, but for both of them.
"The assignment was to watch and learn. Nothing more." He explained, although he suspected that no explanation he could come up with would be sufficient to the situation. "Meeting you wasn't part of that script. And when you get right down to it, becoming involved with you probably broke at least a half-dozen mission parameters by itself."
"Eight of them, to be precise." Tommy offered from the side.
"Okay, eight." He corrected, tossing a momentary glare in Tommy's direction. "But my point is that pursuing you in the way that I did went against the plan. I had orders not to get involved like this, and yet I just couldn't help myself. That's how strongly I feel about you! I'm willing to risk my career and everything else just to be with you and make sure you're safe! Don't you ever forget that!"
Rose whimpered softly into his shoulder, nodding that she understood. She could believe Jack in this regard, even if everything else about him had been a lie.
"Now c'mon. Let's get ourselves out of this cold." He said, taking her by the shoulders and gently guiding both of them inside.
By now, crowds were beginning to gather throughout the ship. The hallways and stairways of first class began to fill with confused and sleepy-eyed people who had been roused from their beds by the recent commotion. Heads turned and conversations stopped as a group of men the likes of which none had ever seen strode briskly and brashly across the polished marble floor, making a B-line toward the lounge and roughly shoving an objecting steward from their path in the process.
"All right! First thing, I want those tables over there dragged to the center. Put them in a big 'U' shape with the base at that end." The as still yet unnamed officer in charge ordered as they burst into the elegant, mirror-paneled room. "Grab some chairs and set them to the outside, here and here. And somebody scrounge me up a spare bed sheet. We'll hang it from the wall over there and use it as the big screen."
Uniformed men scrambled about the room like bees following the directions of their queen. Depositing their weapons in the far corner of the room and setting about their assigned tasks, the opulent space was soon filled with the sound of heavy furniture being dragged across the polished floor. Tables and chairs were briskly moved into position, and some of those present began setting out a strange array of items that they then connected with one another through a series of thin wires.
"Corporal Leyland! Find some outlets and start plugging in those laptops!" The order was given. "And where the hell is my LCD projector? C'mon boys! Clock's a-tickin'!"
Passengers and crew alike were by now starting to filter into the finely appointed room, drawn to the chaos and commotion like moths to a flame. With bewildered curiosity they watched as these men of mystery worked feverishly in preparation; but preparation for what, they did not know. Captain Smith and the bulk of his officers were there, as were Andrews and Ismay. Molly and the Countess of Rothes were gossiping in the corner, pointing and gesticulating at various things as they wildly speculated about the meaning of it all. Cal soon appeared toward the back of the room, having so hastily abandoned the comforts of the first-class smoking room that he still clutched a half-empty snifter of brandy in one hand and the extinguished stump of a cigar in the other.
Ignoring the chaotic environs that surrounded her, Rose slipped unnoticed toward the corner where the small cache of armaments had been so hastily deposited. At this close of a range she could clearly identify them as firearms, the brass and copper-hued glint of ammunition being plainly visible. She took careful note of the various features, and began to draw some startling conclusions.
As a proper woman of society, guns and weaponry had been just about the farthest thing from her cloistered upbringing. But there was something that most members of that society did not know about her: She was the daughter of an avid big-game hunter.
Growing up in her family's palatial country estate outside London, she had spent many an afternoon in her father's study, sitting quietly while he worked at his desk, admiring the dozens of hunting trophies that adorned the walls. Often times he would pause from his efforts to point out a particular specimen and relate the story of intrigue and adventure that lay behind it. Other times, he would go to the closet and retrieve one of his prized hunting rifles. He would sit with her by the great stone fireplace, explaining the weapon's various features and the principals that governed its function. As a result, she slowly came to possess a basic understanding of a firearm. She knew how a rifle was supposed to look and feel, what it was designed to do and how it did it, and what she saw before her now took the balance of that knowledge in an entirely new direction.
Unlike the bulky rifles that she had always known, with their long barrels and hand-polished wooden stalks, these weapons were small and compact, featuring components molded from some sort of synthetic material that gave no evidence of any sheen at all. Extended magazines containing dozens and dozens of rounds indicated a rate of fire far greater than any contemporary weapon, and a variety of sights, scopes and other auxiliary items presented an image of something customized for maximum effectiveness. The overall feel was one of lethal efficiency… A pairing down of military force to the most essential elements and adapting those same elements to the greatest possible effect. The art of war would one day become a far faster, smarter, more deadly affair, she soon concluded: Perhaps the ultimate effect of industrialization and its cold calculus upon the human condition.
"Alright! Gather 'round everyone!" the now familiar voice of authority called out. "While we're tidying up our diggings, let's get this dog-and-pony show started. Sergeant Heywood… the dossiers, if you would please."
"Evans… DiVienci… Dawson." A young enlisted man called out, handing a manila folder to each name as called.
"As you can see from the intro page gentlemen," the officer began to inform loudly enough for the entire room to hear, "we've received definitive intel that a militant neo-fascist group intends to attack and sink this vessel some time tomorrow morning."
A collective gasp of astonishment arose from the entire room.
"They're plan, as we understand it, is to give credit for the attack to certain Serbian-nationalist organizations centered in the Balkans, thus bolstering the credibility of said groups."
"So the Black Hand is getting a handout." Tommy remarked, casually flipping a page in his folder. "Bonus points for irony."
"I'm sure Gavrilo Princip appreciates the effort." Fabrizio added.
"It's not entirely magnanimous." The officer replied. "Their ultimate goal is to create a political climate in Europe that prevents the First World War from occurring, thereby creating a stable environment in which Nazism can grow and flourish unopposed."
Watching the proceedings from a few feet away, Rose could only stand rooted to the floor in stunned silence. Her already overwhelmed mind was absolutely racing at this point, trying to decide which idea she found more disturbing: The prospect of a conflict so massive in scale that it would earn the title of "World War," or that such a horrific conflagration could actually transpire more than once.
"Ahem! If I may beg y'all's pardon for just a moment," a loud and booming voice suddenly called out from the back of the quickly swelling crowd, drawing the room's attention to the portly and straightforward brunet standing in the corner, "but I'd like to pose a practical question if that's all right with you."
Rose couldn't help but smile inwardly. In a room filled with self-proclaimed giants among men, of course it would be to Molly to take the proverbial bull by the horns.
"Yes ma'am?" the officer allowed.
"Just who in the name of Eddie Harriman's ass are you fellas?"
All eyes quickly turned to the uniformed man at the center of the commotion.
"Lieutenant Colonel Spencer Braxton, United States Marine Corps, ma'am." he crisply and efficiently responded.
Molly simply smirked, clearly unimpressed with this answer.
"Well that's just good for you, Colonel." She panned. "Now would you mind answering my real question?"
"Saviors, Maggie." Rose reflexively blurted out under her breath. Her voice was soft… little more than a whisper… and yet it still managed to draw the attention all present. "Saviors from the future."
If it was even possible for the collective sense of astonishment within the room to increase, this was the moment in which it occurred. Stifled gasps and murmured remarks raced through the crowd, fanning the flames of speculation and rumor. The situation was in danger of spinning completely out of control when the clearing of an authoritative throat drew everyone's full attention back to the source of the ruckus.
"Very good, ma'am." The man now known as Colonel Braxton nodded toward Rose. "Your powers of deduction are quite impressive."
"Do those come with tights and a cape?" Tommy whispered to Jack.
Braxton then turned to address the balance of the room.
"Since everything seems to be out in the open now, there's really no sense in keeping things under wraps." He began. "As you all just heard, we are what you might call 'time travelers': Specifically, from the early twenty-first century. We're a highly trained, specially equipped unit tasked with intervening at key points within the time stream. Officially, we're known as the 'Temporal Operations Command'."
"TOC?" Molly half-laughed in amused astonishment. "The acronym for you fellas is TOC?"
"Yeah, yeah… Tick-TOC time soldiers." Braxton groaned with a roll of his eyes. "Go ahead and get it out of your system. Everyone always does."
"Well when ya'll make it so darn easy…"
"Moving on!" Braxton growled, clearly eager to proceed with the matters at hand. "As stated, we have received reports of an eminent attack against this ship and all those aboard her. There's a group of ideological zealots out there with the intention of sinking this vessel, and our intention is to stop them."
"Well in that case I am quite sorry to inform you that your services are not required." A mustached man with an Italian suit and an arrogant expression spoke up from another corner of the room. "For while we certainly appreciate your concern, I believe you will find said goal to be a quite impossible task."
Braxton regarded the smirking form of John Ismay with an annoyed sneer.
"Really? That's what you're going with, is it? The 'unsinkable' defense?" he drolled with crossed arms.
Ismay's smug grin suddenly vanished from beneath his mustache. There was something in Braxton's tone that made his very blood run cold.
"Perhaps you'd like to tell me then, sir," Braxton bored into him, "by how many feet did your unsinkable ship miss that berg tonight? A hundred? Fifty? Was it even that much?"
When a silent glare was Ismay's only response, Braxton pressed onward.
"And exactly how long would it have taken your ever-vigilant lookouts to see said berg if we hadn't painted it up the way we did? Huh? How many precious seconds would have ticked by before any sort of response could have been mounted? Things happen quickly at twenty-one knots, sir. At that speed, each and every second is another thirty-six linear feet."
"Well… Be that as it may," Ismay finally managed to find his voice, "I hardly find that to be cause for…"
"Oh, right… right. The 'unsinkable' thing." Braxton threw his head back and scoffed as he turned toward the small group of White Star officers who stood gathered in the near corner. "Mister Murdoch, if I may have a word with you please, sir."
The first officer stepped forward and faced the camouflage-clad man before him with eyes of steel.
"The order you gave to Mister Hitchens a short wile ago. 'Wheel hard a-starboard, engines full astern' was it?" Braxton began his interrogation, noting that the steel in Murdoch's gaze buckled a bit under his words. He allowed himself the luxury of a small smile, confident that he had hit his mark.
"And then you tried to port around it?"
Murdoch's eyes again faltered.
"I thought so." Braxton grinned. "Now tell me sir, precisely what is the overall effect of such a maneuver? Exactly how much of your flank did you expose? A hundred feet? Two hundred? Stop me when I'm getting close."
By this point, the young officer was nearly shaking in his finely polished shoes. So far all of Braxton's assertions had been spot-on, and he knew the larger implications of what had been said.
"Mister Andrews! If you would please?"
Now it was the master shipbuilder's turn to stand beneath the withering heat of the Colonel's grilling.
"Sir, what would happen if ice were to strike this ship under the conditions which we've heard described so far?" Braxton was laying into the Irish architect like a courtroom attorney on cross-examination. "Say, if the zone of damage extended from the peak tank, back through the first three cargo holds and into Boiler Room Six?"
"Well… I… I would need to consult… my drawings…" Andrews awkwardly and fearfully stammered.
"Oh c'mon Tommy!" Braxton laughed enthusiastically, slapping the engineer heartily across the back. "You designed this girl! She's your baby, for cryin' out loud! You know every rivet and bulkhead she has! Surely you can do this sort of math in your head!"
"Well, given the… given the conditions described. And taking into account the… uh… height of the bulkheads. And the overall… umm…" He stuttered mightily as he figured, trying desperately to avoid the conclusion that deep down, he knew he would inevitably be forced to make.
"…Titanic… would founder." He finally said with a dejected and defeated sigh. There was simply no getting around it. He knew enough about his creation to recognize the elements of a fatal blow, and Braxton had just described them to a tee.
A collective gasp rose from the assembled crowd once more, as the true gravity of the night's events finally came into focus. Stunned silence reigned amongst the rafters of the elegantly vaulted ceiling, except for in one particular corner, where acceptance of this now alternate reality was not so forthcoming.
"For the love of the Lord, would you please grab hold of yourself, Thomas?" Ismay derided his architect. "This ship can't sink! Everyone knows that!"
"She's made of iron, sir!" Andrews shot back, wheeling around to face his employer's chief client. "I assure you that she can sink, and under the aforementioned circumstances, she would! Flooding of the first five compartments would pull the bow down far enough to allow passage of the water over the bulkheads into the next compartment, and then the next, and the next after that. There would be nothing anyone could do to stop it."
"But the pumps!" Ismay objected, gripping his temples in frustration. He seemed not to notice the visage of Captain Smith standing next to him, his bearded face bearing the expression of a man who had just been gut-punched.
"The pumps can only buy you time!" Andrews shouted, cutting off the White Star's chairman. "And even then you would only gain a few minutes at most! It would all take an hour to transpire. Perhaps two even. But by the time the sun rose tomorrow, all this," he gestured to the opulent surroundings, "would be on the bottom of the Atlantic!"
"I wouldn't beat myself up too much if I were you." Braxton consoled the distraught designer, stepping in between him and his employer. "There would be plenty of blame to go 'round for this fiasco." He turned to face the bulk of the officer corps.
"For instance," he growled, his face turning stern once more, "our friend Mister Phillips should realize that it's not a good idea to insult the radio men on other ships!" He sought out the face of the young Marconi operator amongst the crowd. "Otherwise, you risk convincing them to shut down their sets and turn in early. Now that's generally not a good idea, sir. I don't care if they are interrupting your precious conversation with Cape Race!
"Furthermore, it's generally not good policy Captain," he affixed Smith with a glare as icy as the sea that surrounded them, "to light all your boilers and go steaming off flank speed and hell bent for leather into an ice field that you know is there! You tend to run into things that you typically don't want to run into under those circumstances!
"And as for you, J.B.," he turned his attention to Ismay once more, his rant rolling along at full steam, "here's a little something for future reference: Stop meddling in other people's business and let your crew do their goddamn jobs! You're paying them good money for their expertise, after all. Don't tell them how to sail the ship and they won't tell you how to manipulate markets or organize a freakin' coal strike!
"And Mister Lightoller! Where is Chucky-boy anyway?" Braxton inquired, searching the room for the ship's second officer and locating him near the entrance to the reading room.
"Another detail, for your own future benefit," he continued, "when the order is given to load women and children first, that doesn't translate to women and children only! If you've got space in a boat, fill it! Otherwise you run the risk of winding up with something totally stupid, like say, only seven hundred and five survivors when you've got space for eleven hundred! Jeez! I mean seriously, guys! Are you professional seamen or aren't you?"
His energy and anger finally spent, Braxton ended his rant and allowed the stunned silence to take hold once more. He hated doing it, but after a lifetime spent reading about the brash arrogance and malignant recklessness that had so defined this night to remember, he couldn't help but unload some small measure of his anger onto those who history had long held responsible.
"So how many?" the voice of Benjamin Guggenheim broke through the deafening silence after several seconds.
"Sir?" Braxton inquired.
"How many would have been lost?" The industrialist clarified.
Braxton looked toward the three members of his unit who had been present for this epic voyage since its origin, and nodded his permission: A small but meaningful gesture that prodded Tommy to finally step forward into the fray.
"Fifteen hundred and twenty-three." He mechanically said, his voice bearing the cold detachment of a person for whom such horrific numbers were simply footnotes in a dusty reference volume.
Astonished gasps and murmured disbelief rolled through the room like a wave.
"And what of us?" Guggenheim pressed further. "Who among us was to be lost as well?"
Tommy looked to his commanding officer, and received another curt nod as permission to continue.
"You," he admitted to the well-rounded aristocrat, "and Mister Thayer… Mister Andrews… Mister Murdoch… Captain Smith…" he paused after calling each name, seeking out the face of that person in the crowd and making eye contact, driving home the full weight of what they had been spared.
"Mister Phillips…" he continued on, "Mister Lee, up in the crow's nest… Mister and Missus Strauss… and Mister Astor." This final admission drew a strangled cry from Madeline Astor, who reached for her husband with one hand and her midsection with the other, grasping at the slight mound of the child within her.
"And who else?" Guggenheim begged as silent weeping could now be heard throughout every corner of the room.
Tommy ran through the Rolodex in his mind, flipping through the list of names that he knew so well. There was one name that he had yet to call, but somehow he didn't feel as though he had the right to pronounce the untimely death of this particular individual. Instead, he turned to his friend and fellow officer with a thoroughly unreadable expression.
"You want to take this one, Jackie?" he asked.
Jack sighed and nodded, turning away from the assembled throng and facing the wall as he collected his thoughts. This would be difficult… perhaps one of the most difficult things he'd ever have to say… but Tommy was right: He should be the one to say it.
"Before I begin, perhaps I should preface what I'm about to say." He began to explain after several thoughtful moments, not sure of where to begin his story, but diving into it still. "In our time, the wreck of the Titanic has become legendary. As such, her remains have become a magnet for deep-sea explorers and professional treasure hunters. Up here on the surface, there's practically a line of explorers and their submarines, all waiting for their turn to go down and explore, and in many cases, salvage items from the wreck.
"One of the more fascinating things that they tend to find are shoes." He continued. "It sounds strange, I know, but it turns out that the tanning process leaves behind a residue that acts as a sort of natural preservative, so after a body decays away to nothing, the shoes and other leather items remain in place, always in a position that indicates they clearly didn't just fall there in their own."
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the iPhone that he had been keeping concealed since they boarded in Southampton. Activating the screen, he began flicking through photos, searching for the one image that haunted him more than any other.
"A recent expedition came across this particular scene, about a hundred and twenty yards due south from the remains of the stern." He said, turning to face Rose, who was by now watching him with rapt attention. "It's a pair of women's shoes, size five by best guess, and obviously first class. But what really grabbed their attention was the small metallic flash here, right about where the wearer's left hand would have been." He showed the ghostly image to Rose, pointing to the faint sparkle in question, clearly visible against the murky dullness of the seabed.
"Do you see it?" he asked.
"Yes. I see it." Rose whispered in confirmation, not knowing where Jack was going with all of this.
"They thought it might be jewelry of some sort, and so being a salvage operation, they moved in to collect it." Jack explained. "This is what they found." He flicked over to another image, this one far clearer and brighter, and held it out for Rose to inspect.
"But… that's my… I mean Cal's…" she gasped in astonishment, her eyes shifting quickly and repeatedly between the sparkler on her finger and the perfectly identical image on the screen. Suddenly an overwhelming sense of dread washed over her, waves of nausea welling up from within.
"Go back." She softly whispered.
Doing as instructed, Jack returned the small device to the previous image and watched as Rose studied it intensely, her focus now not on the glint of silver that laid half-buried in the mud, but on the shoes beneath it: Shoes that suddenly seemed hauntingly familiar to her.
"Oh my God." She croaked out, her voice barely more than a strangled whisper. She blinked back mightily against the blurriness that was invading her vision, but to no avail.
"Oh my God." she repeated, a little more forcefully this time, as she felt her knees begin to weaken. The entire room was spinning now, her surroundings slowly pulling back and fading away into an ill-defined fog of nothingness. A tsunami of recognition was crashing over her, crushing her senses and gripping her very soul with a frigid grasp as cold and unforgiving as the sea itself.
"Oh my God!" she wailed in agony, collapsing forward into Jacks strong embrace. The device in his hand clattered to the floor as he caught her falling form and held her close, trying valiantly to console her as she convulsed and sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder, screaming out the terrible truth that now stared her unflinchingly in the face.
"I'm dead!"
Author's Notes:
Well now, wasn't that fun? The plot thickens a bit with the application of heat, and the characters learn what a massive bullet they just dodged. Although you've got to wonder just how relieved they're actually feeling right now, knowing that there's another bullet still out there with its crosshairs directly on them.
And then of course, there's Rose: Pretty harsh, learning that you're essentially a walking ghost. None of us is ever keen on confronting our own mortality, but to have it shoved in your face in such a way, with the added insult of knowing that your ultimate role in the universe is that of "crab chow"… Well, that's the sort of thing that one doesn't simply shrug off and walk away from. We'll see how she handles it going forward.
Now I'll admit that there was fair amount of technical mumbo-jumbo in this chapter. And although it was really just a small taste of what's coming later, it still bears spending a little time spent explaining things. So for the sake of full disclosure, here goes…
"Paveway" and "Walleye" are members of a family of weapons collectively referred to in the popular vernacular as "smart bombs." The Paveway series features a laser-guidance system consisting of a seeker head in the bomb itself, and a separate designating laser, which an operator will use to "paint the target," marking the precise point where the impact will be made.
"Walleye" weapons, on the other hand, feature an electro-optical guidance system. In a nutshell, this means that there's a digital video camera within the nose of the bomb, sending a continuous stream of data back to a weapons officer equipped with a video monitor and a joystick. The officer uses this data link to control the trajectory of the weapon, effectively flying the bomb into the target with a high degree of precision. It's something akin a video game, except in this case the resulting devastation is far from fictional.
Futility: A novel published in 1898 by author Morgan Robertson, it's perhaps more well known by its subtitle: The Wreck of the Titan.
In a nutshell, it traces out a story of disgrace and eventual redemption for a young naval officer aboard a newly launched ocean liner that strikes an iceberg and sinks on its maiden voyage. Details of the narrative are uncanny, as many would later point out, correctly predicting the general appearance of the Titanic, the location of the ice strike and the nature of the damage caused: A remarkable feat, considering that the book was published eleven years before the keel of Titanic was even laid. Such similarities have led some to even suggest that the book is actually a work of prophecy rather than fiction, but of course this represents pure speculation on the part of a few imaginative history buffs.
Wallace Hartley: The first violinist and bandleader on board the R.M.S. Titanic. A talented musician from a very early age, Hartley worked as a string musician for Cunard Lines, serving aboard such ships as the Mauretania and Lusitania. Later, he would accept a job offer with the talent agency of C. W. & F. N. Black, which in turn would land him an assignment with the White Star Lines.
During the sinking, the band attempted to calm the crowds with a selection of lively ragtime tunes. Starting in the First-Class Lounge, the eight-person ensemble soon moved to the Grand Staircase, followed by the port side of Boat Deck, just outside the Grand Staircase entrance. Late in the sinking, when the forward portions of Boat Deck became awash, the band played their final tune, which many later identified as the hymn "Nearer My God to The." There is some debate regarding this point however, as other survivors identified the tune as "Autumn." Hartley himself was last seen aft of Funnel # 1, clinging to the rail above the deckhouse just as the area around the Grand Staircase went under.
Hartley's body was eventually recovered by the salvage ship MacKay-Bennett and transferred to the White Star Liner Arabic for the return trip to his hometown of Colne, Lancashire. Regarded as a hero of the tragedy, his funeral was attended by 1,000 people, while 40,000 lined the procession route to the cemetery.
Sadly, such would be the only consideration afforded to Hartley the other fallen musicians. For his employee agreement with the Black Agency meant he was not an employee of the White Star, but rather contracted labor. For this reason, White Star had not taken out life insurance policies on any of its musicians, claiming that such matters were the responsibility of the employing agency. Black & Associates, on the other hand, claimed that such responsibilities belonged to the shipping line, and they had consequently also neglected to carry any such insurance. As a result, no policies were in force at the time of the sinking, and the families of the eight band members received nothing.
It's enough to make you suspect that the "Justice System" was only named ironically.
And as for the Charlie Daniels reference, those of you who aren't musically inclined can just Google "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," and prepare yourselves to be utterly amazed. (How that fiddle doesn't spontaneously combust from the friction, I'll never know.)
Gavrilo Princip & The Black Hand: With the annexation of the Serbian provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina by Austria on October 6th of 1908, several Serbian Nationalist organizations were formed as a means of resisting said occupation. These groups operated semi-openly at first, but mounting pressure from Austria soon forced them underground where they reorganized themselves into a loose network of guerrilla warfare organizations. One of the most prominent among these was a group known as "Ujedinjenje ili Smrt," meaning "Union or Death." However, they soon came to be known colloquially as "The Black Hand."
Known for their strong political influence and their willingness to use assassination as a tool of leverage, The Black Hand was a force to be reckoned with in Serbian political circles. And in 1914, they decided to pres their advantage by staging an assassination that they hoped would provoke a regional war, drawing in their Russian allies, and ultimately forcing Austria to withdraw its forces from all Serbian territories.
The plot was carried out in downtown Sarajevo on June 28th of that year by a young Black Hand member named Gavrilo Princip. Unemployed, destitute and suffering from an untreatable case of Tuberculosis, Princip was a classic case of a person with nothing left to lose. Although he initially abandoned his post during the early stages of the mission, a twist of fate put him face to face with his target, Archduke Franz Ferdinand: Heir to the Austrian Throne. Princip took advantage of what he considered a sign of his destiny, and shot both the Archduke and his wife to death in the back of their open-topped sedan.
At first, the effect of the plot was just as the Black Hand leadership had anticipated. Austria sent an occupation force into Serbia, prompting Russia to send a support force and force the Austrian's to withdraw. But things quickly spiraled out of hand from there. Germany entered the conflict in support of Austria, which then prompted France to reject a pending neutrality pact with Germany. Interpreting said rejection as a declaration of war, Germany invaded Belgium as a means of attacking France, and this in turn prompted Great Britain to come to France's aid with their own declaration of war on Germany.
...And the First World War was off and running!
And so at this point, the spring of 1912 is shaping up to be a far different experience than the one in our reality. (Smart phones and choppers and bombs, oh my!) So what will happen next? What form will this new and dangerous threat take? And how are Jack and his chrono-naut companions going to be involved with it? I ain't saying nuttin' here, so you'll just have to wait for Chapter Three to find out.
Take care, one and all!
Nutzkie…