Arctic Enemy

by Linda Harrel

  The man touched his hand to the peak of his cap and then drove off, tossing a last, perplexed glance over his shoulder. Stylish young foreigners were not his usual passengers to this part of town.

  One thing that had not changed on Freeland ships, Sarah observed, was discipline. Around her buzzed intense preparations for departure. A drove of uniformed men scurried about and shouted orders. But it was a controlled chaos, cheerful and expectant, that contrasted sharply with the confused and ill-tempered activity across the pier where another outward bound tanker was preparing to sail.

  'Miss Grey?' A smartly uniformed officer with a crewman in tow had appeared out of nowhere. 'I was told to keep a very sharp eye out for you. Your flight was pleasant, I hope?'

  'Yes—very, thank you, although a bit rushed.'

  The young man grinned shyly. 'You'll have lots of time to unwind once we're under way. That's the beauty of ships.' He motioned to the cadet, who moved briskly to heft her luggage. 'If you'll come with me, please, I have instructions to take you directly to Mr Freeland's suite.'

  Sarah took one last look skyward at the Enterprise before leaving the ground she would not touch again for many days.

  'A bit daunting the first time, isn't it?' the officer acknowledged, noting her hesitation at the gangplank.

  'A little,' she conceded. 'I memorised all the statistics—the length and tonnage and so on. But it didn't prepare me for the impact of its size at all! I suppose you've become very blasé about it by now.'

  'No,' he replied bluntly. 'I don't think we ever get used to these monsters.' The smile touched his lips but not his eyes.

  Suddenly Sarah recalled an expression from a book she had read, that ships sometimes use when they see another headed for trouble. 'You are standing into danger,' they flash. What a thing to have pop into her mind! she thought. She shrugged it off, raised her tiny chin, and began the long climb into the bowels of the Arctic Enterprise.

  Great, seemingly endless lengths of gleaming corridor shot off into the distance. Down one of them, her luggage had vanished. She would never orientate herself, she fretted. The windowless maze gave no hint of level or direction. What she needed, she concluded, was one of those 'You Are Here' signs they post in huge buildings. Or perhaps a trail of breadcrumbs.

  Around one corner was the surprise of a sleek rosewood and smoked glass, elevator that shot them silently into the giddy height of the stern living tower. She had been half skipping to keep pace with the energetic gait of the officer, and now she braked herself to keep from crashing into him. He had stopped at a door that was the stunning exception to the row upon row of anonymous beige metal ones they had passed.

  This was a broad, double door, carved from polished teak and rich with heavy brass fittings. The officer rapped smartly.

  'Come!'

  He entered, stood back respectfully, and presented her with a remarkable scene. In contrast to the artificial glow of the halls, this room was awash with the dazzling pink light of the sunrise, admitted by a wall of broad windows. Before the windows was a grouping of opulent modern sofas and chairs of tobacco brown leather. Under foot was thick cream broadloom. The panelled walls were hung with ornately framed oils of sailing ships. At the far side of the room, a doorway revealed a glimpse of hallway and bedrooms opening off of it. In this arch stood the man who had brought her here, Anthony Freeland.

  His smile was immediate and disarming. 'You've made it, Miss Grey! How delightful to see you again after—what is it—almost two years now? Welcome aboard the Arctic Enterprise!'

  He came towards her, a slim, well-manicured hand outstretched.

  'Thank you, Mr Freeland. I'm very pleased, and grateful, to be here.'

  'It's Tony—please,' he said. 'We're going to be travelling companions for some time. And may I call you Sarah?'

  She smiled her assent and took the seat he indicated on the sofa nearest the windows. As he dismissed her escort, she took him in with a sweep of her professional eye. He was the first man she'd seen in civilian dress, a superbly tailored dark suit that fitted the tall, thin body to perfection. His finely chiselled features were framed by longish black hair swept back from greying temples.

  Nothing out of place, she noted. A man to whom control was very important. The patrician accent, the refinement, gave him an aura of tremendous power and success. Physically, at least, Tony Freeland seemed equal to the legend that had sprung up about him recently.

  The greying hair, the purposefulness and confidence of his manner were usually marks of the older man. But up close, Sarah could see that he was probably no more than thirty-five or six. That much was a shock.

  He settled beside her, one leg crossed casually over the other, and locked his eyes on her. She realised with a start that he was genuinely pleased to see her. Oddly, that knowledge unsettled rather than reassured her. She was so accustomed to the objects of her interviews treating her with suspicion, or at least a touch of nervousness. Tony Freeland was very sure of himself.

  They exchanged polite small talk and accepted coffee from a white-jacketed steward who served them and vanished as silently as he had appeared. It was a seductively relaxed and luxurious atmosphere that invited lingering. But Sarah was growing increasingly restive. Outside that hushed suite, she knew the ship was vibrating with the preparations for departure, and she wanted to be a witness to all of it.

  Setting her gold-rimmed cup down beside the sterling coffee service, she tactfully shifted the tone of their conversation.

  'This is delightful, Tony, but I'm afraid this is a working day for me—D'Arcy indicated that my capacity here is to be that of an independent reporter, covering the voyage as I see fit. Would it be fair to say that this is your understanding as well?'

  'Absolutely,' he agreed. 'You are responsible only to your newspaper. With one caution.'

  Sarah shifted uneasily. Here we go, she thought—strings. 'And that is?' she asked pleasantly.

  'I've arranged for you to have liberal access to all areas of the Enterprise. But you'll be subject to the rules that bind all of us on board. The operation of this ship is a very complicated business. There may be times when your presence might be… well, distracting, shall we say. So in matters of the ship's operations, you'll have to follow the instructions of the officers to the letter.'

  His words were discreet, but the gaze that slid the length of her conveyed his meaning precisely. Sarah was faintly irritated, but relieved as well that the controls over her would be of a practical, not editorial, nature.

  'I assure you, Tony, that I have no intention of becoming a liability on this voyage.'

  'I don't doubt that at all,' he replied easily. 'And while there'll be the usual lifeboat drills and such as the law demands, I'm sure they'll be nothing more than a formality.'

  Sarah saw her opening and took it. 'Then you dismiss the critics who claim the Enterprise could cause an astronomical disaster?' She slipped her hand into her leather portfolio and produced a pen and notepad. She looked at him and saw him nod almost imperceptibly. Wordlessly, they had made the transition from casual conversation to professional interview.

  'Doomsayers, the lot,' he replied crisply. He offered her a cigarette, was refused, and lit his own with a slim, gold lighter. The gesture exposed a fine, tanned wrist covered with thick black hair, striking against the starched white shirt cuff.

  'And I'll say more,' he continued, leaning back lazily. 'They're a bunch of ill-informed spoilers who, if they had their way, would send the entire world straight back to the Dark Ages. I mean that quite literally! You can't put a stranglehold on technology. Unless we keep after these new sources of energy, we're going to run out—and soon! That won't mean a romantic return to nature. It will mean hunger and suffering on a scale never known before.'

  'But there are dangers,' she pressed. 'And no one has ever attempted what you're going to do on this voyage. You must be facing many unknowns.'

  If the persistence bothered him, he was hiding it ver
y well, she thought. But despite the unhesitating smile, she was sure there was something disturbingly tight and unyielding about his jaw-line.

  'Of course,' he conceded, but an impatient gesture of his hand showed what he thought of them. 'There've been unknowns and risks in every worthwhile venture ever undertaken by man. What it comes down to is that there's a time, Sarah, when the balance shifts in favour of taking those risks. The world is at that point now!'

  'You have quite a personal stake in this,' Sarah noted, observing the intensity that unexpectedly sparked his voice.

  'I do,' he confirmed with a sudden laugh. 'Overseeing the construction of the Enterprise, against considerable odds, has been the consuming interest of my life for the last few years.'

  Sarah brushed back a strand of auburn hair that had fallen across her brow as she bent over her pad. She looked at him appraisingly. 'The obstacles,' she said quickly, picking up the lead he had wittingly, or unwittingly offered to her. 'Besides the fierce competition you had from other shipping lines, was there any opposition within Freeland itself? Your uncle, for example. How did he feel about this rather dramatic departure from Freeland tradition?'

  A faint veil of irritation might have fallen over his pale eyes, but Sarah could not be sure. Certainly the measured, cultured speech did not alter.

  'My uncle, as you may know, has not been as well as we would like during the last few years. While he didn't take an active part in the development of the Enterprise, he didn't oppose it. He was, in fact, an invaluable adviser. Uncle Julian stands for all that's best in maritime tradition. I like to think that in the Enterprise, we've successfully merged his standards from the past with the most brilliant technology available today.'

  'What you're really saying, then, is that this ship is essentially your doing.'

  He looked down, grinding out the cigarette. Modesty? Evasiveness? 'No one man can claim full credit for a project as vast as this,' he said at last. 'But your assumption is basically correct. Given Freeland's reputation and record, I felt it was virtually our moral responsibility to assume this contract.'

  'Despite that fact that you've been overshadowed recently by larger shipping concerns?' Yes, she thought, there it was again, that slight clouding of the eyes, a thinning of the lips. The question had definitely nettled. She continued to hold his gaze, silently demanding a response. It was not, she had learned from painful experience, her job to win popularity contests.

  'You may be confusing quality with a rather reckless display of naval showmanship, Sarah. Freeland Shipping has never been bettered. These newcomers with their dubious credentials and anonymous financial backers have no business in a matter which bears directly on world peace and stability. Your own government understood that very well when it chose us.'

  Once again the confident smile. Diplomatically, Sarah returned it. But in truth she was less than satisfied with the smooth reply that neatly sidestepped the real thrust of her question by focussing instead on the alleged weaknesses of his competition. Could he really be that sure of himself, so immune to the barrage of criticism that had been levelled at him?

  Quickly Sarah weighed her options and decided on silence. She would not challenge him further. At least, not yet. Nor would she expose just how thoroughly she had researched the L.N.G. project. That would risk making him pull up his guard with her, perhaps killing from the outset her chance of getting a story from him with some real meat to it.

  'Now,' he said, rising and offering his hand to her, 'why don't I take you up to the bridge to meet our master and senior officers? We'll be getting under way shortly, and I'm sure you'll want to record that—it's a very exciting experience. Afterwards we'll give you the grand tour.' He glanced at her tiny feet, neated shod in fine dress pumps. 'You may want to change into more casual clothes once we're out to sea. It does get rough sometimes, and your balance may be a little shaky in those, charming as they are.'

  'Yes, I intend to,' she replied, 'just as soon as I'm reunited with my luggage.'

  'It's not far from here, actually. I've put you in one of the unused senior officers' cabins on the deck just below this. Oh… I should add you'll be taking meals in the officers' wardroom. We do dress for that. Not formally, precisely, but the men wear full uniform for the evening 'pour out', as we call it. And the women usually change from pants into dresses. Just another Freeland custom we like to keep alive.'

  'Sounds lovely,' said Sarah, favouring him with a smile.

  'It is, rather. And if you happen to have any questions about personal matters, you could ask either Mrs Price or Mrs McQuade. I expect you'll be meeting them shortly.'

  Remarkable! she thought, as she followed after him. Bound for the Arctic on a floating gas tank; and we dress for the cocktail hour! Perhaps this wasn't destined to be a dry tale of numbers and scientific jargon after all. Once again she marvelled at the luck that had brought her here. Any lingering misgiving that she might have harboured evaporated.

  Formal dinners, liveried stewards, and a host who was gracious, undeniably handsome, and cheerfully handing her the story of a lifetime on a silver platter. Her colleagues back in the newsroom had teased her with visions of a frostbitten nose and notes painfully scribbled by mittened hands on a cold, creaking barge of a boat. If they only knew!

  It was an odd mixture—a little like the ships' bridges shown in old war movies, a little like a space-age laboratory. The ship's wheel of an earlier era had vanished, replaced by a small, discreet lever. A massive stainless steel bank of equipment stretched the entire width of the bridge, pulsing with a bewildering array of blinking lights and glowing dials. An officer sat before a computer console, punching data into it as responses flashed instantly across its screen. Sarah picked out the long and short range radar, the Loran navigation equipment, the collision avoidance system, the gyro-compass. The rest she couldn't begin to fathom.

  The Captain's chair was much as she had imagined it would be, large and imposing, raised above the rest of the room on a small platform. It faced a wall of outward slanting windows which overlooked the main deck far below.

  The man in it sat erect, his immaculate Navy uniform heavily ornamented with gold braid. In a quiet yet commanding voice, he conducted the activities of a dozen lesser officers and cadets.

  A very young man wearing, astonishingly, the mark of a senior officer, stood alertly at the Master's elbow, clipboard and pencil raised. The sharp blue eyes under a shock of carroty hair caught the arrival of the two civilians instantly. Inclining slightly towards his superior he said, 'Captain Price, sir. Mr Freeland is here… with his guest.'

  There was an instant silence on the bridge as every eye turned their way. Slowly, the Master swivelled in the great, padded chair, causing a quick return to industriousness by his crew.

  He was a small, precise man, with military carriage and intense, intelligent eyes. Sarah speculated that his calm, quiet manner was backed by an anger that could be fearful when aroused.

  'Captain Price,' said Tony, 'may I present Sarah Grey, the reporter from the Ottawa paper. Sarah, this is our Master, Captain John Price, the finest commander on the seas today.'

  The Master cast a somewhat jaundiced eye at Tony, but smiled. And while he accepted Sarah's hand graciously, he did not rise.

  'You have explained to Miss Grey about the rules governing passengers, Mr Freeland?' he asked.

  'In general,' Tony confirmed, and Sarah quickly added, 'I'll be as inconspicuous as possible. Captain Price. I would hate to have my presence inconvenience anyone.'

  'Nonsense,' interjected Tony. 'I'm sure Captain Price shares our pleasure at having the Enterprise given all the attention she deserves.' Tony's chin lifted as he spoke, his pride and enthusiasm evident.

  Like many people who shoulder great responsibility, John Price was a man of few words. 'She's a fine ship,' he said simply. Then, 'The tide is with us now, Mr Freeland. I expect the Rotterdam harbour pilot at any moment. If you'll excuse me…'

  He turned h
is back to them, the meeting abruptly terminated, and was once again totally immersed in the workings of the bridge. Tony and Sarah retreated to a corner as the pace quickened.

  That brief journey in or out of port is the time of greatest danger for a ship. No captain could possibly know all the hidden shoals and treacherous currents of every harbour into which he sails. The prickly job of steering a course through the maze of harbour traffic falls to the pilot.

  Captain Price stood to one side, having yielded his chair, with elaborate courtesy, to the Enterprise's temporary commander. Tony leaned against a table, his arms crossed carelessly across his chest, but Sarah caught the rhythmic pulsing of the muscle in his jaw and knew he was anything but relaxed. The young First Officer, Patrick McQuade, watched the ship's clock as if the next sweep of the second hand would detonate a bomb. Tension flowed in waves from all of them. Sarah felt herself infected by it. The anticipation was excruciating, yet somehow delicious as well.

  'O-eight-double-o!' Patrick shouted, startling her. He made a note in a large book. 'Log begun, sir,' he said.

  The pilot's voice rang out. 'Wheel fifteen degrees to port.' His command was followed by a double echo from the First Officer and the helmsman.

  'Let go the lines!'

  The order was relayed by crackling radio, and six floors below and a quarter of a mile ahead, the ant-like figures of the crew could be seen scrabbling across the bows, handling the fat lines with a frenzy that contrasted dramatically with the ritual calm of the bridge. Muffled shouts rose up from the stern.

  'Slow ahead,' intoned the pilot.

  'Slow ahead,' his chorus responded.

  Five sea-going tugs nuzzled the Enterprise like tiny animals against a mother. Reluctantly, the great bulk swung out in a wide arc, stern first, from the pier.

  'Half ahead.'

  Slowly, slowly, the Enterprise moved forward.

  Their job accomplished, the tugs fell back. In unison, they sounded a raucous salute. Hearing the Enterprise's resonant reply, they foamed the water beneath them and churned back to shore.