Stormtide

by Bill Knox

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  Rother eyed him cynically. ‘Want me to turn out my pockets or something?’ His expression changed. ‘Anyway, why ask about Aunt Maggie and Sheila? What’s happened?’

  The boat took a sudden lurch as a wave larger than the rest pounded her hull. Loose tools clattered, they grabbed for support, and the lights flickered. As the shark-catcher settled again, Carrick came nearer.

  ‘When did you lose your aerial, Dave?’

  ‘Around midnight. The whole outfit nearly went under,’ Rother answered impatiently. ‘Now look …’

  He stopped as the engine-room hatch slid open again. One of the boarding party looked down, saw Carrick, and gave a slow, significant headshake. Then the hatch slid shut again.

  ‘I said I want to know what’s going on,’ said Rother bleakly. ‘And now, Webb.’

  ‘You’d better,’ agreed Carrick gloomily.

  Deliberately, keeping to essentials, he told what he knew. Expression quickly changing as he listened, Rother swore pungently at the finish.

  ‘So on that kind of evidence you came chasing me?’ He gave a gesture of contempt. ‘Well, it’s my turn now – and you’d better listen. You know why we’re stuck here? We lost the ruddy propeller. Clang – gone, like that, right in the middle of this damned storm. The poor old tub nearly upended before we got that sea-anchor out.’

  ‘That’s when you lost the aerial?’

  ‘And a lot more.’ Rother glared at him. ‘We were helpless – and it was no accident. Somebody had it in for us. Fixed us so good it was almost permanent.’

  Carrick balanced with another roll then frowned uncertainly. ‘Dave, that prop-shaft was running rough before.’

  ‘Rough, yes. But take a look – a good look.’ Rother thumbed viciously at the underside of the engine block. ‘There’s my proof. And you’re going to find it interesting.’

  Working his way over, still frowning, Carrick squatted down while Rother shone a hand-lamp into the dark space beside them. A length of electrical cable ran from one of the engine’s mounting brackets, vanishing beneath the block. But what made him peer closer, tensing, was the way the cable had been attached to the bracket. Someone had used a flat lashing of carefully hand-braided copper wire – the same braiding he’d seen twice before.

  ‘You know where the other end of that damned cable goes?’ demanded Rother. He didn’t wait. ‘Straight to the alternator control box. That means any time our engine was running the full output of the alternator was being pushed along the prop-shaft – pouring current like it was a battery terminal. Now do you understand?’

  Silently, Carrick nodded.

  The same thing had brought disaster to plenty of wooden-hulled craft. But usually by a combination of accident and neglect. The principle was simple enough – any electrical leakage aboard which found an outlet below the waterline could use salt water as if it was battery acid. The result turned any two pieces of dissimilar metal within reach into a miniature electroplating plant, stealing substance from one to the other.

  Propeller glands, rudder pintles, even hull fastenings could disintegrate in the unseen, unsuspected process. Once-solid bolts could end up crumbling like so much grit. There were ways to hold back the process, but not against the kind of massive current which must have been attacking the shark-catcher.

  ‘No sparks, no overheating?’ he asked, squatting back on his heels.

  ‘It didn’t even change our ammeter readings,’ said Rother bitterly. ‘What about that lashing?’

  ‘It’s the same kind I asked you about.’ Carrick pulled himself to his feet. ‘Could your crew ride out the rest of this, Dave?’

  Rother gauged the hull’s pitch and roll for a moment then nodded. ‘No problem in it now. As soon as the radio’s fixed we’ll jury-rig an aerial and get one of the other boats out from base to tow us home.’

  ‘Could Yogi take over?’

  ‘Easy enough.’ Rother paused suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re going over to Marlin.’ Carrick stopped his protest. ‘No arguments, Dave – not if you want to help find Sheila and Maggie.’

  ‘Plus the character who fixed us?’

  Carrick nodded. He hoped so, at any rate. But it might come down to whether they got there in time.

  Back in the dry and warmth of Marlin’s chartroom they faced Captain Shannon with Fraser and Graham beside him like a pair of sceptical, sour-faced crows.

  ‘I’ve listened, mister,’ rasped Shannon, glancing briefly and icily in Rother’s direction then returning to Carrick. ‘You say Rother is in the clear, that we really want Fergie Lucas …’

  ‘And that he’ll be at Moorach Island,’ agreed Carrick calmly.

  ‘Where’s your evidence?’ grunted Fraser, unimpressed.

  Carrick had kept that back deliberately till now. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out the whistle lanyard he’d found in Lucas’ cottage and laid it quietly on the chartroom table.

  Graham stiffened at the sight. Coming closer, he reached out and touched the cord. Then he looked up, his face suddenly ashen.

  ‘Where did you get this, man?’

  ‘In Lucas’ cottage,’ said Carrick, almost sympathetically. ‘Graham, you were trying to trace a ring. I went after the rest of what you had, that necklet. Don’t ask me where he learned it, but he uses that braiding like a trade-mark.’

  ‘You said Lucas’ cottage …’ began Fraser suspiciously.

  ‘To hell with how he got it.’ The words came from Graham like a whisper while his fingers tightened round the lanyard till they formed a white-knuckled fist. ‘Carrick, how long have you known?’

  ‘Not long. Mainly since I heard he wasn’t at sea when he left Portcoig. He was down in Glasgow – where Helen was.’ Deliberately, Carrick switched back to Shannon who was waiting impatiently. ‘Dave found the same braiding used to sabotage his prop-shaft.’

  Shannon grunted. ‘All right, mister. But don’t try to tell me Lucas was thinking of tonight – nobody could calculate when that propeller was going to come loose.’

  ‘He was just being bloody-minded,’ muttered Rother, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Maybe that’s what was really going on the night those sharks were cut loose – and why young Benson was shot.’

  ‘When Lucas had Alec MacBean as his alibi,’ murmured Carrick. He paused. ‘Graham, whose idea was it to move the coaster out into the bay so early on – yours or Alec MacBean’s?’

  ‘MacBean’s. It …’ – Graham chewed his lip – ‘it seemed sense at the time.’

  ‘Like it seemed sense for him to go out on the Heather Bee the moment his brother’s grave had been filled in?’ asked Carrick remorselessly.

  Graham didn’t answer. No one spoke for a moment while Marlin’s diesels throbbed lazily underfoot and she rode with the swell. But the sound and motion, by their sheer lack of urgency, made each of them conscious that time was passing, time they could ill afford.

  ‘So when do we do something?’ demanded Rother acidly. ‘Do we wait till someone sends us an invitation to visit Moorach Island?’

  Shannon somehow swallowed the insult. ‘There was only that salvage boat lying there when we passed – no other radar contact.’

  A jeering noise came from Rother’s lips. ‘Hasn’t anybody thought they’ve maybe sunk the coaster just off shore? They know things have gone wrong – but they don’t know how wrong. That way, they’ve more chance – and they’ve a hope of getting at the liquor once things quieten.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t – MacBean knows better,’ protested Graham, still white-faced but following each word. ‘Damn it, salt-water impregnation would ruin the whisky in those casks …’

  ‘But not the bulk stuff in the tanks,’ said Rother wearily. ‘Would the tanks float on their own if they were set free?’

  Graham grimaced and nodded. ‘They’re designed that way.’

  ‘Then what the hell more do we want?’ Rother scowled round, and then bli
nked.

  The chartroom door was swinging open. Shannon had gone. A moment later they heard Marlin’s telegraph ringing and her diesels began to increase their pace.

  ‘He makes up his own mind,’ murmured Carrick, smiling slightly. ‘We’re on our way, Dave. Now suppose you stop howling and we try working out what happens when we get there?’

  With little more than an hour remaining till dawn Marlin’s radar showed Moorach Island bulking in clear detail on the five-mile scan. The screen had the Heather Bee lying at her salvage anchorage and showed no other vessel afloat in the area. And the storm had died, leaving the Fishery cruiser travelling through a sea which had settled to a moderate swell.

  In the scuba storeroom aft Captain Shannon looked around him and appeared singularly doubtful at what he saw.

  ‘Damn it, I need my head examined,’ he finally exploded.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ murmured Dave Rother. The sharkman wore a borrowed black rubber scuba suit and was buckling on the big twin-cylinder breathing tanks which went with it. ‘But right now you can use me, Captain.’

  ‘You think that helps?’ asked Shannon bleakly.

  ‘He’ll behave,’ promised Carrick grimly, buckling on his own equipment. It included an extra watertight pouch with a short-range radio. ‘Just remember you’re not freelancing on this one, Dave.’

  Rother nodded, sobering.

  Shannon sighed. With Carrick and Clapper Bell the only experienced frogmen aboard, Rother’s offer to help – and naval training in scuba gear – had left him with little choice.

  They went out on deck. Similarly clad, his air tanks slung over one shoulder, Clapper Bell was supervizing a group of ratings who were lowering a rubber raft over the side. Gripped by the Fishery cruiser’s wash, it swung hard against the hull as it met the water and was held there by the lines securing it fore and aft.

  ‘We’ll go through it again, mister,’ said Shannon heavily. ‘I don’t want any foul-ups – either way.’

  Carrick spat on his face-mask glass, rubbed the saliva with a fingertip, then rinsed the result in a waiting bucket of water, the result was the best demisting process known.

  ‘You drop us close to Moorach and keep going,’ he recited. ‘Then we’ve got till dawn. After that, unless you’ve heard otherwise, you’re coming straight in.’

  ‘Right.’ Shannon pursed his lips. ‘They’ll have us on their radar now and they’re going to see us sailing straight on past.’ He paused. ‘The next hour is yours, mister. For the rest of it, I’m banking on that boat being close enough inshore to have a radar blind spot to the north-east. I’ll bring Marlin in again from there, but it will take fully that hour.’

  ‘Anything else, sir?’ asked Carrick quietly.

  ‘Just remember they’ve killed more than once already. We’re hoping Maggie and the Francis girl are alive – and maybe the rest of the coaster crew. But if they’ve got them they won’t hesitate to use them.’

  ‘Unless we get in first,’ mused Dave Rother. ‘Don’t we get the “no unnecessary violence” bit, Captain?’

  ‘I won’t be there,’ said Shannon. He turned on his heel and made for the bridge.

  Normal lights burning, Marlin passed Moorach Island on her port side at less than half-mile range. To any observer she was coming back from some routine task, her radio was still silent.

  But on the sheltered starboard deck aft the three scuba-suited figures dropped one by one down to the rubber raft alongside then rolled from there into the sea. They surfaced in line, came together while the stern wash of the rapidly disappearing Fishery cruiser clawed around them, then dived down and started swimming.

  Leading the rough V-formation, demand valve clicking regularly while he settled his legs into a steady crawl beat, Carrick felt the first chill of the water pass as they travelled on. Now and again he checked his wrist-compass then glanced round to check the air-bubble plumes on either side.

  They surfaced briefly after ten minutes, saw the Heather Bee now only a short distance ahead, then went down again. Occasional shadow-like forms flitted from their path in the dark water, fish giving surprised way to their passage. But Carrick’s attention was on the wrist-compass, his mind locked on calculating their progress.

  Suddenly Clapper Bell overtook him, nudged urgently, and pointed to their right. A darker patch of water showed above. Beckoning Rother to follow, they finned over, almost collided with the thin line of a mooring hawser, then surfaced quietly close under the seine-netter’s bow.

  Easing closer, hand-holding against the hull, they waited and heard voices. Another moment and a door banged open, the voices became louder, and a cigarette end curved its fiery tip into the sea. Footsteps sounded above, a man laughed, then a dinghy was dragged alongside by its painter line. A man clambered down into it, seemed to look straight in their direction, then calmly unshipped the oars.

  Pushing off, he called a farewell.

  ‘Just keep clear of the girl – she bites,’ came the answer from above. It was Fergie Lucas’ voice.

  The men on deck laughed, then as the dinghy rowed away there were more footsteps and the door slammed shut again.

  Edging beside Carrick, Rother let his breathing tube dangle and thumbed in the direction of the dinghy.

  ‘Best bet?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Carrick nodded, signalled to Clapper Bell, and they began swimming again, heads just visible above the surface, making no attempt to overtake the oarsman.

  Heading for the rocks where the wrecked Harvest Lass was a stark silhouette against the gradually lightening sky, the dinghy threaded past one jagged outcrop. Briefly lost from sight, there was a crunch as its bow grated against shingle, then a splash and more grating as the man aboard jumped ashore and dragged it higher out of the water.

  Another moment and they saw him again as a match flared while he stopped to light a cigarette. Then he went on along the shore, heading in the opposite direction from the Harvest Lass.

  Carrick waved his companions on. They waded ashore on the other side of the rock outcrop, quickly dumped their air tanks, then set off after their quarry – three wet, black-suited, almost invisible figures who moved in rubber-clad silence.

  Three hundred yards along they reached another shoulder of rock, started round it, then drew back quickly. A glow of light was coming from a cleft just ahead and two figures stood at its edge. One, tall and thin, wore a grotesque home-made hood over his head. The man they’d followed was beside him, pulling on another.

  ‘Jackpot time,’ breathed Dave Rother. ‘Let’s take them.’

  ‘Our way,’ murmured Carrick. The tall, thin figure held a shotgun in the crook of his arm. ‘Wait here, give Clapper and me ten minutes to work round, then draw them out.’

  Rother sighed, but nodded. Touching Bell on the arm, Carrick took him back a few yards, then pointed upwards.

  The climb was steep but the worn rock gave plenty of foothold. They reached a grassy slope, crawled along it, then found themselves looking directly down at the cave-mouth where the two men were still standing.

  Clapper Bell grinned and they crawled on again. The way down, over another steep rock face, gave them one heart-stopping moment when a seabird exploded skywards almost under Carrick’s feet. They froze where they were while the bird circled, screaming angrily. The voices at the cave stopped. Then, after a moment, one of the men laughed and the murmur of conversation picked up.

  Carrick and Bell finished the descent to shore level, grinned at each other in sheer relief, then crept closer. When they stopped they were behind a great, broken slab of rock only yards from the hooded figures.

  Carrick checked his watch. As the final seconds ticked past he nudged Bell and they tensed. Exactly on the ten-minute mark Dave Rother stepped out of hiding and began crunching his way openly over the shingle, whistling casually as he came.

  Both guards swung round. Startled, momentarily undecided, they peered at him through the gloom. Then suddenly the man with the
shotgun cursed and started to bring up the long-barrelled weapon.

  Halfway there already, Carrick catapulted the rest of the distance and took him hard from the rear, one arm locking round the hooded throat. They went down heavily, the shotgun clattering on the shingle. Clapper Bell had the other guard down and Dave Rother was sprinting towards them.

  But all Carrick’s attention was focussed on his struggling opponent. Breaking free, cursing, the man kicked out wildly and a heavy seaboot smashed a numbing pain through Carrick’s side. Before he could recover, the hooded figure rolled frantically over the shingle and reached the shotgun.

  Scooped up, the shotgun’s cannon-like muzzle came round towards Carrick – but at the same instant there was an odd, soft thud. The gun dropped again, the hooded man tried to claw at his throat, then gave a strange, gobbling moan which ended as he fell.

  The hilt of Clapper Bell’s diving knife protruded from the rough canvas of the hood. The blade had sliced through before sinking into his throat.

  Skidding to a halt, Dave Rother stared down.

  ‘My God,’ he said softly.

  Shakily, Carrick got up and looked around. The second man was sprawled face down, lying still. Sitting beside him, Clapper Bell gave an odd grin but didn’t try to rise.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Carrick dry-lipped.

  Stooping, he eased back a corner of the dead man’s hood, saw a face he didn’t know, then gradually realized that Bell still wasn’t moving and that the bo’sun’s right leg was twisted awkwardly.

  ‘I’ve broken my flamin’ leg,’ said Bell with a touch of disbelief. He thumbed without rancour at the cause beside him. ‘This stupid devil toppled us the wrong way.’

  Going over, Carrick removed the second hood. This time the face revealed was one he’d seen around Portcoig. The man was still breathing.

  ‘I only thumped his skull.’ Bell shifted slightly and grimaced quickly. ‘Hell – look, sir, toss me that shotgun. I’ll just keep an eye on things from here.’

  Dave Rother was heading into the cave. Carrick brought the gun over then followed the sharkman. For a few feet back the cave entrance was a narrow slit, then it widened abruptly and ended in a bowl-shaped area slightly higher than a man. A small kerosene lamp was burning on a ledge, its light shining on startled, almost unbelieving faces. He saw Sheila and Maggie, two men who were strangers in seagoing clothes, a third man lying still, then a babble of voices broke around him.