Ride the Titanic! (23 page)

No such comfy bed waits for me tonight, though – or Lewis either – as half-asleep and exhausted, we fix the glitch, and strap ourselves into the EMV to test the
Lookout
Scene. It takes place approximately three minutes into the ride, when, after being welcomed by the 3D image of Captain Smith on the bridge, the lifeboat swoops high above the deck to the crow’s nest, where lookouts scan the night sea for icebergs.

Lewis says, ‘White meat or dark?’

‘Dark.’

He keys his headset connecting him to the team leaders spread out across the hangar. ‘Stand down. Ride’s going live for five in the dark.’

A faraway buzzer sounds, followed by an air horn that wakes the dead. The constant buzz of hammering, grinding, whining and banging slowly stutters to a stop, leaving a cathedral-like hush in the cavernous space.

‘Ready Captain Smith?’ Lewis says.

‘All ahead, Mr. Murdoch.’

The hangar maintenance lights go out with a BANG, plunging our world of cables, piping, light fixtures, projections screens and scampering workers into complete darkness. Seconds later the EMV pulses into life with a shudder of electromagnetic inducers, and lifts us straight up along vertical guide rails. As we do so, a rack of
HiPro
DS8K projectors beam a crystal clear, twenty megapixel replica of the Atlantic Ocean the way the lookouts must have seen it on the night of April 14th, 1912. The stars gleam like silver sand sprinkled on black velvet. Their reflection, mirrored perfectly on the glass-smooth sea, creates the optical illusion of flying through outer space.

One of the ironies of the tragedy comes to mind.

‘If there’d been a moon that night this never would have happened. The lookouts would have spotted that thing a lot sooner and Murdoch would have steered clear in time.’

Lewis doesn’t miss a beat ‘And we’d be cubicle slaves tonight instead of having ourselves one hell of a ride.’

‘True.’

A mysterious shape becomes ghostly grey, then brighter and brighter as it draws closer and closer. Murdoch and Fleet spot it and shout their warning. Down on the bridge First Officer Murdoch hollers, ‘Hard-a-starboard! Reverse engines!’

The scene zooms back as Reginald Lee points into the distance, his arms shaking.

‘She’s answering the helm.’

Fleet’s voice breaks, ‘Not in time. . .’

Ever onward the iceberg rushes until it sweeps to starboard, past the
Titanic’s
desperately turning bow, and just as it does, our EMV plunges downward to meet the iceberg’s menacing, grinding, tumbling passage in close-up, including a rush of ice-cold air from liquid nitrogen tanks and atomized salt water spray that simulate sea mist. As the iceberg passes directly in front of us, the EMV pivots on its axis and lurches slightly as if absorbing the blow from the towering mass of ice.

A drunk in a tuxedo staggers near the railing, stoops down, picks up a handful of ice shavings and brandishes them in the air.

‘Wan’ lil’ ice in your drinkie-poo?’

When Ellie originally filmed the
Boat Deck
(Sub scene #3)
,
she had the actor throw the ice at the camera, which he did, and now, simultaneously with his throwing motion, a gentle shower of crushed ice sprinkles over on us, delivered by hidden ice machines.

Just as the ice falls, we dart forward, seemingly off the ship and into the darkness, when in truth we’re rushing into another scene, that, when we’re up and running for real, is the
Forward Cargo Hold
scene, where the ship’s chief designer Thomas Andrews regards the fast-rising water and informs Captain Smith the
Titanic
is doomed. Smiths’ disbelief gives way to stunned acceptance as the greenish sea water surges inward and upward.

But what greets us tonight is a blast of an air horn, a raspy buzzer, and work lights blossoming on all around the hangar. Our EMV rocks to a stop before a blank projection screen upon which seconds ago held the unforgiving shape of a monster iceberg.

Lewis and I sit in silence for a moment, partly absorbing the emotions of what happened, along with the specific ride components that created those feelings.

I nudge my partner. ‘Thoughts?’

‘Fleet’s good. Lee’s a little off.’

‘Too late, we’re picture-locked. And besides, I think they both did fine. What about the salt water spray? Too much? Too little?’

Lewis licks his lips. ‘As Goldilocks said about the porridge. ‘Just right.’’

‘Agreed.’

He brushes a few flecks of crushed ice off my shoulders. ‘You and your Italian ice machines.’

‘Joe’s idea, not mine. And besides, they work don’t they?’

‘We got Italians coming out of the woodwork on this thing.’

‘Out of the sky you mean.’

Lewis checks his watch and yawns. ‘Plane’s due on the ground in less than an hour.’

‘That makes five sections so far.’

‘Who’s counting?’

‘Me. And while I’m being paranoid, all these new faces. They checking out okay?’

Lewis regards the swarm of tech teams working on the multitude of ride components, both electronic and mechanical.

‘Not a spy among them. Saboteurs, either. Or so HR tells me.’

‘How do they know for sure?’

Lewis moans. ‘Christ crucified, I remember when I used to have fun around you.’

‘Still do.’

‘Look in a mirror lately? You’re the Grinch times ten.’

I rub my face reflexively. ‘Bullshit.’

‘Granted, his skin was green and yours is pasty white. But other than that and his wimpy little dog. . . .’

‘I want this to work.’

‘And I don’t?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Remind me.’

The clamor and clatter of the hangar increases as I fumble to put into words what it feels like to be so close to a dream coming true, only to see it go up in smoke – or down in flames – not because of what we did wrong, but because of a bunch of short-sighted, old men determined to stop us.

‘I don’t see any bad guys around here, do you?’ Lewis says.

‘That’s the problem, I don’t either. But I know Grayson’s Geezers are out there and they want us to fail.’

‘Fuck ‘em.’

‘Rather not.’

‘Time for a history lesson, partner.’

Lewis hops out of the EMV and leans on the gunwale, his face inches from mine, his breath a mixture of garlic and gin and tonic. ‘What sank the
Titanic?’

‘Don’t be pedantic.’

‘C’mon, tell me.’

‘The iceberg.’

‘Like hell it did. That ship started sinking the day it left Southampton. Know why?’

‘You’re going to tell me whether I do or not.’

‘Because people like Fleet and Murdoch and Lee had been there and done that with ocean liners for so damn long they stopped living in the present. Instead, they stuck their heads up their sorry asses and started dreaming about the future and the past, and everything in between, but NOT being where they were that night and what the hell they were supposed to be doing, which is exactly what we ARE doing.’

‘And that is. . .’

‘Being right here and now, in this very moment, and the moon is full and the ocean is calm and we see that damned geezer iceberg coming straight at us, and we’re going to steer around it as easy as we would a puppy dog on the freeway, and we’ll save its life and ours, and this magical ride of yours will open as planned, providing you and me – unlike Murdoch and Fleet – become lookouts from hell.’

The massive, six-engine, Antonov 225 cargo jet
Mria
lumbers onto final approach for landing at McCarran International Airport. Its immense shoulder-mounted wings droop like a weary hawk’s after its four thousand-mile journey from Trieste, Italy. Like a benevolent sign from the gods, the sun peeks above the black velvet silhouette of Sunrise Mountain to the east of Vegas, bathing the plane’s white, whale-sized fuselage in gold.

Lewis shakes his fist at the approaching behemoth and shouts in a fractured New England accent, ‘Hand me thy harpoon, Qweequeg, for I spit my last breath at thee, ye damned whale.’

The gigantic Russian plane doesn’t land so much as it smooshes onto the runway like an enormous hen brooding over her eggs, leaving a trail of smoking rubber as her thirty-two wheel landing gear skids and scuffs until it finally grabs hold of the tarmac. The pilot reverses engines to use his 300,000 pounds of thrust to slow down Moby Dick to a dignified halt.

The clam-shell nose barely starts opening before Max appears and scrambles down the side ladder to greet us with a beaming smile and a night’s growth of beard that scratches against my cheeks as he sideswipes me with the double-cheek kiss that only Italians can deliver without a hint of embarrassment.

‘
Ciao-ciao, Ciao-ciao, Ciao, CIAO! Finalmente
,
Michele
, we arrive at long last!’

‘Problems?’

‘Nothing a little discussion did not solve.’

‘With who?’

He waves indifferently. ‘As always,
il capitano
claims we are overweight and refuses to take off. As always, I prove him wrong of course with my superior calculations.’

‘We’re you too heavy?’

‘Si, un po.
A little,
but la donna mia
, this plane; the Russians built a monster. It can lift all of Italy, I think.’

‘I’ll settle for hull section 66-68.’

Max makes a slight bow. ‘From the mouth of the whale now it comes, straight from
Fincantini Navali
Shipyards to Las Vegas, Nevada, and this time I do not return home like before. This time I get to see where this wonderful ship of yours is going to sink.
E vero?
True?’

‘You’ll get the cook’s tour like I promised.’

‘Yet another English expression I do not know.’

Lewis says, ‘When we’re done you will.’

While we’re talking, cargo handlers enter the Antonov’s massive open maw to prepare the hull section for extraction onto a bright yellow
Cometto EVO2
, a multi-wheel, self-steerable transport trailer. Normally used to move massive turbines and transformers from point A to point B, this unorthodox vehicle has no tractor pulling it. Instead, electric motors power each of its solid rubber, independently-steerable wheels, allowing it to move like a massive multi-footed caterpillar forward, backwards, even crabbing sideways.

And onto it, foot by foot, slides pressure hull section 66-68 for
Ride the Titanic,
while Max flutters like a nervous father-to-be, shouting orders left and right, mostly ignored by the experienced personnel who have, to date, safely transported five of these massive structures. And the way things are progressing, today’s load will be no different.

As proof, our
Cometto
convoy departs the airport grounds right on schedule, surrounded by a blue-light-flashing fleet of Las Vegas Police and Nevada Highway Patrol cars creeping along Las Vegas Boulevard at a stately two-miles-an-hour, with occasional bursts to three.

Lewis and I ride in the command car, a specially-designed utility van that precedes the transporter. Inside in the back, facing the rear, a trained
Cometto
technician peers through Plexiglas panels installed in the van’s rear doors. With a perfect view of the transport, he operates a small joystick that wirelessly controls speed and direction. Max hovers over his shoulder, eyes wide, whispering occasionally, his mouth curved in a proud smile.

‘
Cometto
,’ he croons. ‘A fabulous company. Italian of course. We use their lift equipment in our shipyard all the time.’ He wipes his face. ‘
Mamma mia
, it is hot for early morning. Not even the sun yet and I am sweating.’

‘Welcome to Las Vegas.’

‘I cannot wait!’ His beaming smile wavers. ‘Of course, Elena told me not to gamble.’

‘Won’t be easy. Everybody does.’

‘Even you?’

‘Only with my ride.’

He frowns. ‘You mean
our
ride. I am in this up to my jaw.’

‘Neck.’

‘Whatever.’

As with the other five pressure hull sections already delivered and assembled, our plan is to arrive at the construction site at 5:30 am, a narrow window of time, just after the Strip’s night time reveling is ending but before the morning rush hour begins. The plan goes out the window, when the lead police car stops, the cop jumps out and waves our ponderous, half-mile, blue-flashing-light procession to a halt.

I scramble out of the van to meet him halfway.

His voice sharp, angry, ‘What’s the date on your permit, Mr. Sullivan?’

Stomach in free fall, I pull out the still-unopened envelope – why bother? The previous city-issued permits were all the same, right? I rip it open. Wrong. The date is for Wednesday, not today. Impossible. Tuesday was practically tattooed onto everyone’s brain for weeks. And yet. . .

The cop examines the permit. ‘You’re screwed.’

‘Look, we’ll pay the fine or whatever, but we’ve got to get this thing onto the site before the concrete pours. Let’s keep going.’

‘No way.’ He takes off his hat and wipes the sweat off his buzz-cut scalp. ‘Public works shut down the southbound lanes for repair. Road’s all dug up.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

He doesn’t bother responding. Boyish face, but he’s heard it all by now. Especially working the Vegas beat.