She looked at him, really looked at him, perhaps for the first time in her life. She began to feel uneasy; perhaps she had underestimated him. It was a disquieting thought.
For some reason, she found herself thinking of jack-daws.
21. THE SUN KING
11 JANUARY 2008
“WHAT’S IN CAPE TOWN?” JENNIFER RED CLOUD ASKED as the amphibian jet tiptoed across the wave crests and into the air.
“Well, for one thing, there are a lot of shops where you can buy clothes,” Forte said pointedly. She was wearing a tight-fitting, high-necked, long-sleeved wool dress. It might have been applied with a spray can.
“Yes, there’s that. Anything else?”
“Sure. Giraffes, shantytowns, diamond mines, hamburgers and Afrikaans burghers, land sharks, great white sharks, pool sharks–you name it.”
“You’re certainly the one for sharing knowledge. How long a flight will it be?”
“Just under half an hour. Not time enough to figure out how to blow the Alamo out of the water.”
He got up and opened the door to the flight deck, occupied only by a squat, bearded man in the left-hand seat.
“Mind if I get in a little twin-engine time?” asked Forte.
“It’s your plane, mate,” the pilot pointed out.
It was a short, uneventful flight. The sun was already high in the sky when Forte set the boat down, a bit too roughly for the pilot’s taste, and turned over the controls for taxiing up to the dock jutting out into Table Bay.
Aft, with not a hair of her coiffure out of place, Jennifer Red Cloud had changed into something more befitting Cape Town’s balmy summer weather: a canary-yellow silk halter and a matching skirt split up one side, with a good deal of tanned, taut flesh showing.
The chartered helicopter awaited them on the dock. By 10 A.M. they were high above Table Mountain and heading past Devil’s Peak and Lion’s Head toward Simonstown, twenty miles due south.
They were met on Simonstown Dock Number Three, a jetty projecting more than a kilometer into False Bay, by Dr. Konrad Honikman, the mayor of the municipality, and a delegation of generals, engineers, civic officials, and a lone Japanese. Behind them milled many of the two-thousand-odd men and women who had worked on the project, waiting for the ceremonies to get under way and doubtless praying for few and short speeches so that they could get at the long tables behind the reviewing stand piled high with food and hard liquor.
Dr. Honikman seated his guests in a place of honor in the stands adjoining a monstrous iron vessel. To Jennifer
Red Cloud, it appeared to be a vast black Frisbee floating on the placid bay. The deck was featureless except for the stanchions like a line of white pickets around the periphery of the vessel, on which were strung three lines to prevent the crew, she supposed, from falling the seven or eight meters to the water below.
Her inspection was interrupted by martial music, as a military band broke into the strains of “Die Stem van Suid Afrika.” A preacher from the Dutch Reformed Church advanced to the podium and asked for the blessings of heaven, she gathered, in Afrikaans.
Then came Dr. Honikman. His was to be the first of several speeches that dragged on for the next three hours.
Elegant in cutaway and top hat, he addressed his fellow townsmen at great length in Afrikaans and then repeated, word for tedious word, the welcoming speech in English.
A general, his uniform resplendent in flashes and decorations, shared a few well-chosen thoughts about the importance of the project to the nation’s economy and national defense.
The ambassador of Texas affirmed that the project proved yet again the strong ties between the Republic of Texas and South Africa.
The chief engineer praised his crew for assembling the largest floating craft in history, the first, he hoped, of many.
Finally Toshikazu Okada, the president of Masayuke Hara, Inc., dilated on the great difficulties that had been overcome in constructing the components in Japan and shipping them to Simonstown for assembly by stalwart South Africans working around the clock for many, many months.
It was Forte’s turn. Looking as uncomfortable as he felt, dressed in suit and tie, he gazed out upon the sea of faces. He said that the success or failure of Iceberg International, Incorporated, and the survival of the Sovereign Republic of Texas, were riding on their labors. He thanked them for their hard work and sacrifices. He hoped they were all hungry and thirsty, because it would be a shame for all that good food to go to waste. He sat down.
He got the biggest hand so far.
Mrs. Red Cloud had endured the ceremonies in sullen silence, furious because she was obviously the only one in this crowd of thousands who had not the faintest idea of the function of the ship being so lengthily and fulsomely praised.
Ripley Forte leaned toward her and whispered: “You’re next, Red.”
“Me? What am I supposed to do?”
“What you do so well–you’re to christen the ship.”
“It might help,” she said coldly, “if I knew the name of the ship.”
“Try Sun King.”
Dr. Honikman crossed the platform to present her with a beribboned bottle of Tulbagh champagne and in the name of the Republic of South Africa invited her to christen the largest ship ever built, a ship that would change the course of history.
She suddenly felt a great deal better. It wasn’t every day a woman could christen the biggest ship ever built, a ship that would change the course of history. And to be sure, of all the eminent women in the world, Jennifer Red Cloud was the only logical person to do it. Perhaps Ripley Forte wasn’t a totally unfeeling clod after all in insisting that she have the honor.
She stood, grasped the bottle in her right hand, said in a ringing voice, “I christen thee Sun King,” and smashed the bottle against the ship’s bow. At least that’s what she guessed it must be. She couldn’t be sure: it was indistinguishable from any other part of the circular ship.
The crowd gave a brief cheer and dispersed en masse. Within minutes the two-thousand-odd workers were grazing noisily among the trestle tables.
Leaving them to it, Hara’s President Okada conducted the christening party aboard for its first official inspection.
The Sun King, he told them in excellent English, was 1,352 meters across and 370 acres in area and was assembled from sections bolted, of course–not welded– together. Having completed its dock trials successfully, it would begin its five-day shakedown cruise that very afternoon.
Jennifer Red Cloud stood on the bare deck and sought
some clue as to the function of the ship. The deck itself seemed to be tesselated in patterns approximately one meter square. Around each meter-square area was a narrow steel and neoprene ledge, apparently a watertight joint, logical for a seagoing vessel with such a low seaboard.
Suddenly, in front of them a periscope rose from a recess in the deck and swiveled to focus on them. A moment later one of the panels near the lifeline slid back, revealing a steel ladder leading down into the ship.
Mr. Okada descended first and raised a hand to assist Jennifer Red Cloud down the ladder. She ignored it and went down by herself, holding tight to the steel handrails. When all were assembled in a compartment with curving passageways leading off to the left and right, their guide addressed them in Japanese. It was short but sounded portentous.
“Haiku,” explained Okada. “‘Amusement verse’ in Japanese. I’m sure you are all familiar with our seventeen-syllable epigrammatic three-line stanza. This one I composed to commemorate the epochal engineering achievement represented by the Sun King. I am honored to dedicate it to our distinguished and lovely guest of honor, Mrs. Jennifer Red Cloud.”
He bowed deeply.
Mrs. Red Cloud had only half heard. She was trying to guess what possible relation this ugly iron monster had to do with icebergs. She felt Forte’s elbow in her ribs, and bowed back.
“I now translate,” said Okada.
“The sun’s rays pierce darkness,
Like golden spears, To impale pain and sorrow,” he intoned, adding apologetically, “Of course, it loses something in the translation.”
Nobody thought to ask him precisely what was lost, though he was fully prepared to explain, so he smiled philosophically and led the way down a dark-green passageway. They had gone a dozen paces when he stepped
over the combing of an inboard hatch, and they found themselves in a spacious compartment. Flow diagrams, levers, knobs, dials, meters, and other engineering exotica occupied one bulkhead. Facing it were six monitors with high-backed leather chairs for the technicians with responsibilities for the various departments. Other work stations with computer consoles, radio gear, and a big glass table with bottom illumination were manned by other ship’s officers.
“We are now in the main control center, the bridge, if you wish. It is one of three, a necessary redundancy in the event of instrument failure, collision, explosion, or other major mishap. The captain commands from that elevated platform facing the main instrument panel. At a glance, he can ascertain the Sun King’s direction, speed calibrated to the hundredth of a knot, state of the sea– meaning, of course, wave amplitude–direction and frequency, air and sea temperature and gradients down to six hundred meters, water salinity, ambient current, location of piston malfunction, piston power output, cable tension, solar power output, and numerous other functions. He can order any adjustments that might need to be made by the maintenance crews, elevate or lower or rotate the panels, and so on by mere voice command. The computer recognizes only his voice pattern and has on file some twelve-thousand command sequences.”