Seafire

2 – Fire Down Below

The explosion took place shortly after eleven, ripping out two plates under the waterline, flooding one of the crew mess decks, and causing several injuries.

That Caribbean Prince did not heel over and begin to sink immediately said much for its overall design, and the standard of building in the Italian shipyards where she had been launched in 1970.

Just before the incident, James Bond and Fredericka von Grüsse had slipped away from the bar, looking for some solitude.

They leaned close against the guardrail, aft on the sun deck, surrounded by a velvet night, watching the boiling plume of white water scarring the dark sea behind them.

"Well, at least that was different." Flicka leaned her head on his shoulder. "Old Sir Max Tarn has cleverly turned a potential loss into a big business gain, but this won't do his publicity much good."

"The point is," Bond said quietly, "Tarn was, rightly, convinced that there were people out there who would still pay a lot of money to go on exclusive cruises. Others have done it, but have you noticed how the program is so carefully chosen? A new show in the theater every other night, with big-name entertainers, while everywhere we've visited has been on days when no other cruise ship is in port – Jamaica, Curaçao, Venezuela, Barbados, Martinique, Puerto Rico, St. Thomas. Not another cruise ship in sight. No other crowds of tourists…"

"James." She held up a hand to stop him. "James, we had enough of that kind of talk during the courses, and the fine print of economics isn't really you, darling." Flicka turned, smiling up at him.

The courses of which she spoke had lasted for a little over a year. They included such relatively dull subjects as Accountancy (With Special Reference to Fraud); Fraudulent Conversion; Methods of Gathering Financial Intelligence from Offshore Banking; Smuggling and Laundering Money; Breaches in International Arms Control; Monitoring Illegal Arms Controls in the '90s; The Role of Terrorist Organizations Concerning Finance and Illicit Arms Shipments, together with other such allied subjects, like large-scale drug and art smuggling.

Officers of the British Intelligence and Security Services bemoaned these subjects as a far cry from the training sessions they had undergone during the Cold War, only to be quickly reminded that the Cold War was over. Now they were engaged in what might be called a Tepid War: one in which even their allies were suspect, and their former enemies required watching like viruses under a microscope.

Of the twenty-eight men and women who took the series of courses, only twelve were considered suitable following a rigorous amount of testing. James Bond was one of these, while, to his delight, Flicka was another.

Fredericka von Grüsse, formerly of Swiss Intelligence, had worked with Bond on the case concerning the infamous Dragonpol, and both of them had run foul of the Swiss authorities. Therefore, when the last strings had been tied on the Dragonpol business, Bond had been as surprised as Flicka when M offered her a place in the British Service. He was also astounded at the warm way M had accepted the fact that they were living together. This last was definitely out of character. Perhaps, they thought, the Old Man was desperately trying to keep in step with the times. Even possibly clinging to the office that he held, though everybody knew that his days as chief of that particular service were numbered.

When the courses were completed and the reorganization explained – in an exhaustive briefing – Bond and Flicka took a couple of weeks' leave with M's blessing.

"You're both going to need it," the old Chief told them gruffly. "If this new Double-Oh Section is going to work properly, you might get no more leave for a long time."

The new Double-Oh Section bore no resemblance to the old department of that name, which, at one time, included a license to kill.

The Two Zeros, as the newly organized section came to be known and which was now under Bond's command, consisted of highly trained men and women who could act as a troubleshooting group, dealing with cases concerning breach of international law and treaties that had a bearing on intelligence and security matters.

Two Zeros could be invited into a case by either the Intelligence or Security Service, or even the police. They were answerable not to their old Chief, M, but to a watch committee, dubbed MicroGlobe One, which consisted of the chiefs of both the Intelligence and Security Services, their deputies, a senior commissioner of police, and a new Government Minister who held the ambiguous title of Minister of Related Home and Foreign Affairs – an idiot-title that had come in for much ribaldry from the press. Nobody had missed the fact that this relatively small office was basically run by the government, for the government. The Double-Oh Section was not a nonpartisan organization – like the Intelligence and Security Services – divorced from the center of political power.

Bond smiled sheepishly. "You're right there, Fredericka." He held her close, his face tilted as if to kiss her. "You have enjoyed this bit of extra-expensive luxury, though, haven't you?"

"Of course I have. You made a good choice, James. Wouldn't mind doing this for a honeymoon. I even quite enjoyed the little set-to this evening. Quite like the old days." This last remark was delivered with a twinkling smile.

"Talking about the old days, I think we can find more excitement in our stateroom."

"Mmmmm." She nodded enthusiastically.

Bond and Flicka were just turning away, heading for their stateroom, when the ship shuddered and lifted as the explosion ripped through the metal plates on her starboard side.

The deck beneath them tilted violently, and Bond swore as his feet slid sideways, knocking him off balance, Flicka falling almost on top of him.

"Did the earth move for you too?" she half choked. "What the hell was that?"

Bond was on his feet, one hand holding the rail. "Lord knows. Come on."

The ship was listing badly to starboard, and the old, well-known scent of explosives was easily recognizable. By now the ship's siren was emitting the short series of blasts signaling abandon ship, calling all passengers to their boat stations – a drill that had been carefully rehearsed as they left Miami two weeks before.

The engines had stopped, but it was not easy to adjust to the slanting deck. Flicka threw off her shoes as they crabbed along making slow progress toward their stateroom on the port side.

A disembodied voice was giving instructions through the ship's communication system, and there was a background of cries edged with panic. As they came to the long row of stateroom doors and large curtained oblong windows set in the superstructure, they could see other passengers trying to keep upright on the slanting surface.

The deck was bathed in light from the emergency floods that had been turned on within seconds of the explosion. Beside the first door an elderly man was trying to assist his wife, who was sprawled on the deck wailing in miserable alarm. Bond went to her immediately, telling the husband to get the life jackets from his stateroom and indicating that Flicka should do the same for them.

The elderly woman had obviously damaged her arm, probably broken it, and a moment later, two of the ship's officers appeared, banging on the stateroom doors and calling for all passengers to muster by the boat station.

Bond was called to assist one of the crew members hacking at a stateroom door where they feared the occupants were somehow trapped, frozen in terror, as well they might be, for Caribbean Prince was listing even more violently. As he moved to help yet another passenger, he saw a deadly flicker of fire coming from the forward companion-way.

"Get to the lifeboats!" he yelled, reaching for the nearest extinguisher, banging the nozzle against one of the stanchions and directing the foam down into the fierce flames that reached upward like terrible claws.

Another of the ship's officers joined him in a battle they were rapidly losing. He crabbed his way aft and dragged another extinguisher to the companionway, once more pouring foam down onto the flames, hearing, in the background, the sound of the lifeboats being lowered. At the same time he was aware of people shouting to him, telling him to get off the ship, but he was already throwing the empty extinguisher to one side and moving for'ard to find a third.

He had gone scarcely two steps when he heard a great whoosh and felt the heat on his back. As he turned, he saw that the officer who had been beside him attacking the fire was enveloped in flames now gushing from belowdecks. The man had become a screaming walking torch, fighting his way toward the ship's rails, but falling before he could get to them. Bond flung his jacket off and leaped toward the doomed man, beating at the fire with the once-elegant dinner jacket, but it was too late. The flames had eaten away at the man's body and his screams had stopped.

Bond himself was now starting to feel the effects of the flame and smoke. His breathing was labored, and he knew that if he stayed on board, there was a distinct possibility of the smoke and heat overcoming him.

He lunged toward the ship's listing rail, climbed over, and leaped clear into the water below, immediately striking out for the nearest lifeboat.

The coxswain of one of the lifeboats spotted Bond in the water, and, in an act of great courage, turned back toward the crippled ship to help drag him from the water. Once aboard he looked for Fredericka, and to his relief, found her huddled in a corner of the boat.

The lifeboats were enclosed by tight orange-colored tarpaulins stretched over a light alloy framework, with thick mica panels for the coxswain and as light sources along the side. There were some forty people – passengers and crew – in the one that had rescued Bond, and once the craft hit the water, the survivors had become aware that the sea was less friendly than it had seemed on board Caribbean Prince. The lifeboat bounced and rolled, churning through the water with a low, almost sullen hum from its engine.

By craning to look through one of the forward windshields, he was aware of two other small boats nearby, and he caught a glimpse of the cruise ship, lit up overall but seeming to be dangerously top-heavy, and sparkling with the fire that at least one man had died fighting.

To his rear, a medical orderly worked on the elderly woman who had fallen close to her stateroom door. She was still groaning with pain, so Bond worked his way aft to see if he could assist.

"Broken arm, shoulder, and maybe a leg also," the orderly said with a distinct Scandinavian accent.

"Do we know what happened yet?"

"She fell."

"No, the explosion. Do we know what it was?"

The orderly shrugged. "An officer said he thought this was some mechanical problem. With the engines. An explosion with the engines. Could have been something those crooks set to explode after making their getaway, though."

Through one of the mica ports, he glimpsed Caribbean Prince, listing and wallowing, her lights and the fire blazing, throwing an eerie glow across the water.

Incongruously, an elderly female voice muttered, "What waste. You'd think they'd have turned the lights off when we abandoned ship."

"It never happened before," the orderly said, as though he could hardly believe it had occurred now.

No, Bond thought. No, it certainly never happened before, and it certainly was not the engines. Over many years he had become sensitive to distinctive odors, and he was certain about this one. While he was fighting the fire, his nostrils had been full of the scent of explosives.

The same aroma, explosives and the stink of smoke, continued to hang around them, and was still there at five-thirty in the morning, as he stood beside Flicka von Grüsse at the rail of one of the larger cruise ships. Several ships – including two of the mammoth liners from another company – had hastened to the stricken ship. Passengers had been rescued by the two larger cruise liners, and now, in the dawn, other craft were standing off while two U.S. Navy vessels were close by Caribbean Prince, having put out the fire, and were bent on taking her in tow, trying to keep her steady in the water.

"The ghost of Christmas past," Flicka muttered, giving Bond a quizzical took.

He nodded, his mind obviously far away, though he knew what she meant: stubble on his chin, hair tousled, the pair of ill-fitting jeans and denim shirt they had found for him to replace his soaking wet clothes. "You're not exactly a fashion plate yourself." As he said it, Bond reflected that this was not altogether correct. Even with no makeup, and the white Bill Blass evening gown – the one with the devastating slit almost to the left thigh – in a state similar to that of his own clothes, Flicka von Grüsse managed to remain stunning. "Girl of my dreams," he often called her, and the events of the past few hours seemed to have hardly touched her. In her current disheveled state, she could have walked into a reception for the royal family and still caused heads to turn at her poise and elegance.

The after-scent of the disaster dragged his train of thought away again. There had been no shots of battle, no urgency of attack, yet he felt as though the crippling of Caribbean Prince had been an act of war, the most likely explanation being the one suggested by the medical orderly – that the pirates had set charges to explode after they left the ship, probably in one of the lifeboats, or even in a craft arranged and factored into their plan.

Later, he was to remark that the cruise ship incident was the true beginning of the dangers that were to come in the next few months. He could still hear the Captain's voice coming through the speakers, giving the order to abandon ship, just as, in his mind, he saw the fragment of fear on the faces of officers and crew. In many ways, "abandon ship" was an apt command. After years of working for his old service and his country, Bond felt he was abandoning ship by taking command of the Two Zeros and leaving a familiar world.