It's 1139 p.m. on April the 14th, 1912.

The Atlantic Ocean, 400 miles off the coast of Newfoundland, Canada.

RMS Titanic, all 47,000 tons of her, is ploughing westwards at a speed of 22 knots.

Up in the crow's nest, 90 feet above deck,

lookouts Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee are scanning the horizon.

They're approaching the end of their two-hour watch,

and they can't wait to get back inside.

The night is still and clear, but the temperature is only a few degrees above zero.

The sea ahead looks like black glass. The stars shine brilliantly overhead, but all around is nothing but darkness.

The lookouts have no binoculars, only the naked eye, although in these conditions

artificial magnification might not make much difference.

It seems clear enough, but looks can be deceiving.

In fact, the peculiar atmospheric conditions on this particular night are creating a cold water mirage,

scattering the light in unusual ways. The horizon isn't quite where it's supposed to be, and as a result,

anything just below it is camouflaged behind an indistinct haze, including anything directly in the path of the ship.

The two lookouts are still casting their eyes ahead of them, searching for anything

out of the ordinary, but all they can see is darkness, stretching into infinity.

And then, almost imperceptibly, something begins emerging dead ahead.

It's hard to make out at first, just a blank patch that looks somehow different from the

space around it.

The men squint, trying to make sense of what they're seeing.

With every passing second, the strange object grows larger.

...