Danny and Floyd sat together on Danny's sofa, looking at the wall-mounted television on which a football match was playing. They both had an opened bottle of beer in their hands, with another unopened bottle within easy reach beside them. Behind them, rain was hammering against the large bay window. Danny turned up the volume so they could hear the commentary above the crashes of thunder coming from outside.

"We paid a fortune for this voyage," said Floyd miserably. "We might as well have stayed in Manchester."

"We didn't pay for it," Danny reminded him. "Piano paid for it."

"Same principle," said his partner. "The voyage cost a packet, that's what I'm saying. And right now we might as well still be in my own place on Planter Street."

"We've had two weeks of sun, champagne and room service," Danny reminded him, "with two days still to go, and you're moaning about a little bit of rain? Besides, we're not here for the cruise. We're here to do a job. It's just a little cloud going over. Then we can go back outside again."

On the television screen, the players weren't doing much but kicking the ball around in the middle of the pitch. "At least we haven't missed any goals," said Floyd, looking at the score in the corner of the screen. "Who's playing, anyway?"

"West Ham and Fulham," the other assassin replied. The play was drifting closer to one end of the pitch, and both men leaned forward eagerly as one of the players made a run for the goal. A defender kicked it away, though, and the play settled back in the centre of the pitch.

"Always had a soft spot for West Ham," said Floyd. "If I wasn't a United fan, I'd probably support West Ham. They always make me think of Alf Garnet."

"Who?" Danny took a long swig from his bottle.

You know. 'Til death do us part. The sit-com. You never heard of it?"

"Rings a bell. Can't bring it to mind, though."

"Not surprised. They wouldn't show it these days. The politically correct mob would never allow it. They could get away with all kinds of things back then that you couldn't show now. Like that other show. It 'ain't half hot, mum. About the British soldiers in India."

Danny laughed. I seen that one," he said. "Dolly's brother's got the box set. He lent it to me a couple of years back." He sat up straight on the sofa and pushed his chest out. "Get on with that punkah-ing you bloody, curry-eating berk!"

"That's the one," said Floyd. "They banned it 'cos they said it was racist. Bloody Indians just don't have a sense of humour, I reckon." Then the action on the television screen grabbed their attention and they leaned forward as a striker made a shot for the goal. The keeper jumped up and tipped it over the bar with his upstretched fingertips.

"Oooooh!" said Floyd. "That was close. Come on, West Ham! Better luck next time."

"That was Fulham that nearly scored," said Danny with a grin.

"Are you sure?"

"They're wearing red, you muppet. West Ham wear blue."

"I thought West Ham wore red."

"They've never worn red, unless it's their away colours. How can you not know that if you like 'em so much, you silly moo."

Floyd laughed and slapped the sofa with the flat of his hand. "I knew you seen it!"

"It came back to me. My grandad used to watch it when we went over for dinner Thursday evenings. He absolutely loved it! Had him rolling on the floor laughing whenever Alf did something patriotic." He suddenly grew serious. "I reckon that's when it began to go downhill for this country. Our country, I mean. Britain. People being patriotic became something to laugh at. People taking pride in their country became something to ridicule, rather than applaud."

"Some bloke on the telly said that being able to laugh at yourself is a sign of self-confidence," said Floyd. "He were talking about the London Olympics. You know? The bit with the Queen going in by parachute?"

Danny laughed. "That we're great," he said. "And it were all her idea, they said."

"But can you imagine any other country doing it? Can you imagine Trump, well, I mean, not him obviously, but any of the more normal presidents. Can you imagine Obama or Reagan or any of them letting themselves be the subject of a joke? That's us, you see. That's Britain. We can make fun of ourselves because we know we're the best."

"You could have a point there," Danny conceded.

"You see, I reckon it all began to go downhill for the country, not when we began laughing at ourselves, but when we stopped. You couldn't make a show like Alf Garnet these days because they'd say it was racist. They miss the point these days that it was all about how stupid racist people look. Like Blazing Saddles."

"What about Blazing Saddles?"

"Well, that were the same, weren't it? They call it a racist movie, but it's all about how stupid racist people look, except Alf Garnet did it first. And yet, you still see Blazing Saddles on the telly, but not Alf Garnet. Where's the sense of that?"

"Probably the great British public's too stupid to get the message," said Danny soberly. "All they see is the racism and they think that's what the show's about."

"Reckon you might be right about that, mate."

"What about that other show? The soldiers in India. Was that people missing the point as well?"

Floyd laughed. "Hell no. That one was definitely racist. If I was Indian, that one would make me mad as hell."

On the television, the play had kicked off again, with West Ham driving forward towards the Fulham goal. Floyd watched avidly as the ball was passed from player to player, each time edging leftwards across the pitch. "Come on you blues!" he said eagerly as a striker took possession of the ball. He dodged nimbly past a defender, then passed it to a colleague who had a wide, open space in front of him. A defender run in to cut him off, but he was too far away. Now there was nothing ahead of the West Ham striker but the goalkeeper, tensing himself up for his best attempt to stop the ball. The striker ran forward, controlling the ball with a single tap of his foot. He lined up the shot, then gave the ball a mighty kick.

Abruptly, the picture vanished, to be replaced by a sea of static. "What the..." cried Floyd in outrage. "What the hell happened?"

"It's a satellite signal," said Danny, also looking annoyed. "The rain's probably blocking the signal."

He looked at the wide, bay windows, then stared in surprise. "The rain's stopped," he said. He went over to the window, opened it and peered out. "The storm's gone," he said. "There's no sign of it. Nothing but clear, blue sky in every direction."

"Never mind that," said Floyd, who had picked up the remote control and was flicking from channel to channel, finding nothing but static. The only picture he could find was the ship's own channel, which was currently showing an advert for the ship's manicure service. "Where's the bloody footy?"

"Never mind the bloody footy. Where's the bloody storm?"

"On the other side of the boat, you muppet. You just can't see it from here."

"Right," said Danny, still staring out over the sea. He didn't sound convinced, though. He looked this way and that along the length of the ship, then looked up at the cloudless sky again. "Right," he said again. "Yeah, that must be it." He closed the window again and returned to where he'd left his beer.

Floyd was still flicking between channels, looking for the football. "I want to know if they scored," he complained.

"You can look up the score later, when the signal's back," Danny told him. "I'm going back on deck. You coming?"

"I suppose," the other assassin agreed. He pressed the standby button on the remote control and the screen went dark. Then he picked up his bottle and followed Danny out of the room.

☆☆☆

"I've lost GPS," said Olav Solberg, staring at the display screens in front of him. "All the satellites just cut off, all at the same time." He fiddled with the controls, as if something in his workstation might be to blame.

"Confirmed," said Hoffman at the other workstation. "Can't get a fix on our location."

"Probably the antenna," said Fielding, coming forward to look over Olav's shoulder. He turned and picked up the phone handset mounted on the rear bulkhead. "Probably struck by lightning or something." He pressed a button to call one of the pre-dialled numbers. "Dave? We've lost GPS. Go check out the hardware, will you?"

"On it," a voice replied, and Fielding hung up.

"Radar's acting up too," said Hoffman. "There was a bunch o' ships all around us. Now they're all gone. Every last one."

"We not getting a return?" asked Solberg.

"We're still getting clutter from the ocean waves," the rating replied. "If we weren't getting a return, the screen would just be blank. Instead, the screen looks just like you'd expect if the radar were working perfectly and there just weren't any ships out there."

"How can that be?" asked Solberg. "They're just over the horizon."

"Then the ship's teleported eighty miles in an instant."

"Some kind of malfunction," said Fielding, his New England accent making him sound calm and relaxed. "How far away is the radar from the GPS antenna? Could they both have been affected by the same lightning strike?"

"Doubtful. The ship's designed for lightning strikes. A strike shouldn't have taken out one system, let alone two. And even if it did, it wouldn't explain that." He had moved to stand behind the rating and was staring at the radar screen over his shoulder.

"Which ship was closest?" asked Fielding.

"The Sequioa," the rating replied. "A container ship. Twenty miles away."

"Call them," said Solberg. "Just to say hi. See if he's still out there."

"How can he not be out there?" Hoffman asked. "He was just twenty miles away a moment ago."

"Call him anyway," the Chief Mate told him. The rating nodded and turned on the radio.

"This is damned peculiar," said Fielding. "I'm going to call the Captain." He took a phone from his pocket and selected a number from the contacts.

"The computer's not reporting any problems," said Solberg, scanning his eyes across the lights and dials that crowded the desktop in front of him. "If half our systems have been taken out by a lightning strike, the board should be lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Could you come up to the control room?" Fielding was saying into the phone. "We seem to have a bit of a situation here." There was a pause as he listened to the Captain's reply. Then he spoke again. "We've lost contact with everything outside the ship. Wait a minute. Gordon, are you getting a reply from the Sequoia?"

"There doesn't seem to be anyone transmitting on VHF anywhere," the rating replied. "No ships, no shore stations. It's as if we're alone in the world."

"Did you get that?" Fielding said into the phone. Again, he listened to the reply. "He says he's on the way," he then said, staring at his phone as if the answer might somehow be hiding among the rows of icons that filled its screen.

"Can you reach anyone else by phone?" asked Solberg. "Anyone ashore?"

Fielding tried calling another number. He listened for a moment, then looked at the screen. "The number you have called cannot be reached," he read. He tried another number. "Nothing," he said. He tried the number of the ship's Chief Security Officer. This time it was answered. "Joe? We're having a problem with communications. See if any of the passengers are able to contact anyone off the ship. If they can't, tell your men to reassure them and tell them the problem's being dealt with." Again, he listened to a reply that only he could hear. "Probably just a glitch," he then said. "We'll get back to you." He hung up. "The phones work on the ship," he said. Our on-board wi-fi's working just fine."

"Maybe it's sunspots or something," said Hoffman uncertainly. "I saw on the telly once that sunspots could disrupt communications. A coronal mass ejection, I think they called it."

"That would have affected the ship as well," said Solberg. "What about longwave, I wonder."

"Do we have longwave?" asked Fielding in surprise.

"There's an antenna up on the top deck. One of the previous Captains was a bit of a hobbyist. I'm not even sure if the owners know it's there. The control board to operate it is up on the proper bridge. You know, the tourist bridge."

"Do you want to go and see if you can pick anything up?" asked the Second Officer.

"Right," the Chief Mate replied. "You fill the Captain in when he gets here."

Fielding nodded, and Solberg hurried out of the room.