The QE2 Is Missing

“With what we know we can determine the area within which we must search. We know the time and the place of the last sighting of this ship. We know the time and place where next she was seen. Your officer will then take the QE2's service speed of twenty-eight and a half knots and, after making his computations, will mark out a circular area on this chart within which the occupants of the ship could possibly be. The outline of this area will be all the places the ship could have reached at this speed and then turned about to reach the arrival point at the appointed time. Or they could have been transferred to another ship in the area at that time. Few ships are large enough to hold this number of people and it will be easy enough to examine all of those that might be involved.”

The Admiral rubbed his chin and ran his finger over the chart. “I see what you mean. They could have gone anywhere out to sea here, then stopped and turned back. Or they could even have been put ashore here in Baja California, Central America…. “

“Or here, in Guatemala. That coast is all jungle, without communication. It is possible that they are there, on the shore — or anywhere else. We must search every square foot, on sea and on land. They have to be there!”

Admiral Mydland nodded. “You are absolutely right. They must be there somewhere, I tell you. They have to be there.” He did not add that they could be drowned, murdered, anything. Those kinds of thoughts could wait. “We have mounted a tremendous international effort over the past days, on sea and in the air, to find this ship. That effort will continue now, and on the land as well. No effort will be spared. I tell you, sir — they will be found.”

27

Captain Ernie Bush had been with Western Airlines for a long time — and had been flying for a good number of years before that. He clearly remembered B-29’s and C-47’s, crop dusting and barnstorming after the war, then the commercial airlines and Super Connies and the first jets. And now the pride of the pack, the 747. This was a plane he loved to fly. When Western had first considered buying these birds, he had pushed as hard as he dared to back the idea. He had taken his own holiday time and money to visit the plant where they were being built, to talk to the engineers and designers, and to go up in one of them. Things had worked out just as he had hoped and now he was Captain and pilot of one of these incredible aircraft and he could think of nothing in this world — or the next — that he would rather be doing with his life.

They would be taking off in a few hours. He had put his flight bag aboard, admired the great, empty, cool depths of the plane, and was now going to post his flight plan. The Met reports had been good. The Pacific storms of the last week had blown themselves out and he looked forward to a happy and uneventful flight.

The first hint of trouble came when he was called into the Flight Controller’s office. He stood there in the doorway, a tall and solid man with grizzled hair, fists half clenched, though he was not aware of it, ready to tackle anything.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong, Captain. Please come in. I don’t know if you gentlemen have met. Captain Bush, Western Airlines, this is Commander Gimelli, USN.”

“My pleasure, Captain,” Gimelli said, waving him to a chair on the other side of the conference table. Bush’s suspicions grew. He had never had much love for the Navy, having been in the Air Force, and was particularly unentranced by sawed-off gyrene brass with New York accents.

“I’ve been looking at your flight plan,” Gimelli said, “and I wonder if you would possibly consider some changes in it?”

“I see no reason to,” Bush said coldly.

Gimelli looked up at him through his bushy dark brows. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have phrased it so bluntly. Do you know what I am doing here?”

“No.” Said in a tone of voice that practically spelled out the unspoken next words — nor do I care.

“I’m area coordinator for the QE2 search, working with overseas flights…. ”

“They’ve found the ship, so you’re out of a job. If you don’t need me any more I’ll just get moving.”

“Captain Bush, are you naturally an ornery son of a bitch or just playing at it?” Gimelli’s voice cracked out sharply and Bush jumped to his feet, his face red with anger.

“Now just what the hell do you mean!”

“I mean exactly what I said. Don’t you know that the ship was found — but that the crew and passengers are still missing?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” Bush dropped back into his chair. “I’ve been out of touch.” He certainly had been — at a motel in Encinatas in Baja, California, with a stewardess, an old friend. He had heard a short radio announcement in Spanish and had not thought of the matter since. He never paid much attention to the news in any case.