R.R.S. James Clark Ross

12.25 P.M, December 5th, 2004

It took them a further twenty minutes to traverse the fifty feet of passageway and ten stairs to the bridge, and both McIntyre and CJ had gained a painful collection of grazes and cuts as they had tried to progress along a frozen deck that was now rolling through ever more extreme arcs. CJ had twice suggested turning back but McIntyre pushed on grimly. He was beginning to suspect that the James Clark Ross was no longer under helm, and that they were swinging broadside to the storm. If that was the case, and the wildly pitching deck told him it probably was, then it was only a matter of time before the ocean capsized them and that would be it.

He also wondered – though not very hard – what had happened to Tony Willis. At the very least, McIntyre thought that the weatherman was injured and immobile, which gave him another reason to get to the bridge as fast as possible. So the two of them, the grizzled engineer and the far-from-home student, pushed on, battering themselves to pieces to get somewhere they didn't really want to see.

And now they were here. McIntyre had taken two paces into the bridge and CJ was holding onto to the frame of the hatchway, both of them had screwed their faces up against the battering of spray that flew in through the torn-open bulkhead.

McIntyre allowed himself one second of relief as he saw the figure of Tony Willis, stood stock against the storm with one hand on the ships wheel and the other grasped on the throttle. Then he drew in a breath to prepare for an official bollocking. There was nothing wrong with Willis and there was no excuse for letting the James Clark Ross drift off course. He laid on hand on the weatherman's shoulder and turned him round…

What happened next was something that McIntyre was never to forget for the rest of his life.

As soon as the engineer laid his hand down on Willis' shoulder he just knew, instinctively, that something was not right. He couldn't tell what it was, and didn't have time to think because at that very moment there was a noise like a gunshot and the frozen corpse of Tony Willis toppled backwards like a fallen statue. His body seemed to fall through a majestic slow-motion arc before crashing into the deck and shattering into a million shards of human porcelain.

McIntyre took a faltering step back in horror. Behind him, even above the roar of the storm, he could hear the sound of CJ being noisily sick. Trying not to look at the abattoir confetti that was all that remained of James Clark Ross' weatherman his eyes instead fell on the two feet which remained frozen to the deck, and the two gloved hands that seemed to grow out of thin air to keep a final death grip onto the ship's wheel and throttle bar.

He jumped as a glove clamped down on his shoulder.

"What the fuck happened?" CJ screamed into his ear.

McIntyre struggled to get his voice into gear. His throat felt dry and closed up and he had to cough twice to clear it before he could speak.

"I don't know!" he yelled back. "But I've got to get us pointed back into the wind before we sink!" He swallowed nervously, before moving towards the helm station. He tried to focus his mind on steering the ship as he crunched through the mortal remains of Tony Willis. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a green-faced CJ cringe visibly. Now faced with the disembodied hands on the helm he tried further to blank his imagination as he grabbed them and pulled.

They were stuck. Frozen, obviously. He felt panic rise in his gut, but managed to quickly bury it with oft-practiced ease. His face now set like stone he grasped the dead hands and yanked them away in one swift motion. He didn't even give them a second look as he tossed them aside, where they broke up on the deck.

Right, McIntyre thought, time to get back in business. He took hold of the wheel and throttle and gently began to turn the James Clark Ross' bow back into the teeth of the storm. A minute passed, and it was then he noticed with a sinking sensation in his stomach that the compass had not changed one degree. The ship's steering was gone.

CJ must have noticed his expression change because he suddenly appeared beside McIntyre.

"What's wrong?" he yelled.

"We've lost steering!" McIntyre shouted back. He was testing his theory by turning the wheel the other way and getting no response. The James Clark Ross was now utterly helpless, out of control in the worst storm in history. McIntyre closed his eyes for a second before a brainwave hit him in a flash of inspiration. He staggered as fast as possible across the bridge to the engineering station. He ran his eyes with the pace of a professional eye across the bank of dials until he came to the one he was looking for.

"There!" he cried, stabbing one gloved finger against the dial labelled 'hydraulic pressure'.

CJ peered over his shoulder, squinted through the water running down his face.

"What is it?"

"We've lost pressure in the hydraulics system. I think the hydraulic fluid froze and without it we can't steer the ship!"

"Can we do anything?" CJ asked, a hint of pleading edging into his voice.

McIntyre fell silent for a second, his brain running through a furious series of calculations. Then suddenly he wheeled around to face CJ, his eyes ablaze.

"We've got to get down to the blueprint storage locker," he said, pushing past the student who looked at him in bafflement.

"What? Why?"

"I need to check the plans of the ship." McIntyre made his way off the bridge as fast as possible across the ice-rink that the deck had become. CJ began to follow after he dismissed the bewilderment that clouded his mind.

"Okay, pal, whatever you say."

"C'mon!" McIntyre's retreating form cried. "We don't have long to get this done!"