dog watch, and it was all he could do to stay awake. Inside the Cyclops' wheelhouse, Lieutenant John Church stared vacantly through one of the large circular ports. The main surge of the sea seemed to be moving beneath the smooth surface, while massive forces were building in the depths below. A few, unable to drift off under the oppressive heat of the trade winds, stood around on the upper deck, leaning over the railing and watching the ship's bow hiss and lift over the high rolling swells. At three-thirty in the morning, most of the off-duty crewmen and passengers were asleep. There was a slight breeze from the southeast that barely curled the American flag on her stern. Even the seagulls that had haunted her wake for the past week darted and soared in languid indifference, their keen instincts dulled by the mild weather. In forty-eight minutes she would become a mass tomb for her 309 passengers and crew- a tragedy unforeseen and unheralded by ominous premonitions, mocked by an empty sea and a diamond-clear sky. The Cyclops had less than one hour to live.
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