The Iceberg - [Richard Mariner 05]

by Peter Tonkin

  ~ * ~

  Peter Walcott was on the bridge, staring moodily out into the sunset - though, to be fair, the sun was in fact going down well aft of his ship. Richard’s brief reconnaissance had been enough to tell him the lie of the land, so to speak, and the ships were now swinging round with Manhattan onto the due easterly setting which would bring them into Maui waters within the week, and into Mawanga harbour soon after that, if all went well. And at least Psyche had a sunset. Kraken on the far side of the ice mountain was well into evening shade already, for the shadow cast by Manhattan must stretch most of the way to the coast of Liberia now. But Richard had to admit once again that his gloomy colleague had good reason to worry. Looking out from the blood-red bridge, the light seemed to shimmer on the air as it reflected and multiplied between the scarlet sky and the blood-streaming flank of the iceberg against which they were moored. And the water all around, of course, thought Richard gloomily. It was as though they were sailing slowly through the handiwork of a giant Jack the Ripper. It would have been bad enough even had their ship not been loaded with dead bodies for a couple of weeks; even had their mess mates not been stricken by a mysterious, nameless, disfiguring disease.

  Unconsciously, he began to scratch the back of his neck as though there might be some kind of rash there, spreading down and across his shoulder blades. Still rubbing, he crossed to stand beside Peter Walcott. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your officers again,’ he said quietly. ‘You have a good mess aboard. And an excellent galley, I think.’

  Peter nodded curtly, just on the edge of being rudely dismissive. He was still caught up in directing the passage of his command as the whole mass of Manhattan, and all the ships propelling her, swung onto the new heading. Richard was silent, content to consider how lucky he was to spend most of his time on the bridge of Titan where his concentration could come and go depending on the dictates of his greater responsibilities. Titan was a forgiving ship and Sally Bell a rock-solid back-up to anything he wanted to achieve. And, of course, his situation in point position also gave him some latitude. How different was the grinding precision required here where one minute of inaccurate heading - one second, let alone one full degree - would ram the all too fragile bows against the unforgiving ice. And, as everyone else had no doubt calculated long ago, damage to the bow would lead to the whole vessel being pushed under by the unhesitating progress of the iceberg towering above them.

  It was no wonder that Peter insisted that line watches should be mounted round the clock, no matter what the weather, no matter what the complaints he received as a result. Richard found that the atmosphere on the bridge was making him edgy so he walked out onto the port bridge wing. He chose this one on purpose, knowing it was closest to die ice, wanting to feel the full effect of the forces threatening to pull this particular command apart.

  Even before he opened the door, he could hear the constant thundering of the water down onto the inner edge of the bridge-house. As soon as he walked outside, he found himself in a filthy, clinging mist made of a combination of spray and sand. He remembered at once the efforts to which Sally Bell had gone, restoring Titan’s cleanliness and dignity after the ravages of the sand-laden harmattan, and he paused, unconscious of the state he was getting into, while he thought about the effect this filthiness must be having on Peter Walcott’s command.

  But what to do? He felt the steady, powerful throb of the diesel motor beneath his feet as it drove that one great screw though the eastward-flowing water. The power it was providing was too precious and too well paced; neither Psyche nor Kraken could be relieved of this duty, no matter how unpleasant it became. But was there any way of making it less unpleasant? Still completely disregarding the freezing, filthy spray, he strode forward to the rail and looked along the drizzle-soiled deck, then up at the cliff of the ice. Ahead, the overhang remained about the same: no relief there. What about behind? He strode back, moving out into the aft of the bridge wing. Yes. The cliff fell back here. If they pulled in the lines until they were as short as possible, all except die forecastle would be pulled free of the waterfall.

  And, thinking about that waterfall. . .

  Lost in thought, he walked back onto the bridge. Completely unconscious of the figure he presented, of the mess he was making or of the looks he was eliciting, he said, ‘Could I use your walkie-talkie, please, Captain Walcott?’

  ‘Well, yes of course, but—’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll just take it out here.’ He paused in the doorway and grinned. ‘Lucky they’re waterproof, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hai!’

  ‘Captain Odate, it’s Richard Mariner here. I’m speaking from Psyche. Can you hear me all right?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘I’m out on the bridge wing looking aft of the ship. The cliff immediately abaft Psyche seems to be free of overhang. It’s where the engineers placed the main body of their charges, I think. Have you got a similar clear area immediately aft of you?’

  ‘Please wait a moment, Captain. I am just going out onto the starboard bridge wing.’ The static on the line built up and Richard realised that the sound resembled a waterfall at the far end because that was exactly what it was.

  Gendo Odate came back on line, calm and unruffled although he too was obviously standing under a filthy waterfall, like Richard. But Richard was not captain here and had nothing to lose - unlike Captain Odate in every respect. It was the old samurai spirit shining through. ‘Yes, Captain Mariner. I see what you mean. There is a section of cliff which does not overhang. It is aft of Kraken, immediately above the anchorage points.’

  ‘Good. Do you think you could pull Kraken back into position there if you tightened the lines sufficiently?’

  ‘Assuredly, Captain Mariner. But there would be a problem with that course of action. My crew are extremely nervous. There has been an atmosphere aboard, especially as some of our men have contracted the . . . the disease . . .’

  ‘I understand, Captain. But the object of this exercise would be to allay your crew’s fears and to dissipate the atmosphere in both commands.’

  ‘But we lengthened the lines in order to give us some freedom from the ice.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that. But it hasn’t really worked, has it? Both ships have simply swung into the side of the berg, under the overhang. If we shorten the lines again, it will pull both Psyche and Kraken out from under the overhang so that the vast majority of the deck will be free of the water. That will help the atmosphere on both vessels, I think.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the good done by the new position will be undone by the short lines. You must understand, Captain, that there is a very real fear aboard these ships. The iceberg is rising more quickly than ever because of the loss of the weight of the sand combined with the water washing off. I know we have the charts you worked out with Ross, which cover the rate of melt and rise and give us to within a centimetre how much line to pay out, but I think you must understand how great is the fear on both ships that Manhattan will simply roll over on top of us one night. The lines are utterly unbreakable, remember.’

  ‘I do appreciate that, Captain Odate, I assure you. And I believe I have the answer. The lines might be unbreakable, but they are not impossible to cut. How would your men feel if, while we were readjusting the lines, we put in place the cutters so that at the slightest sign of trouble you could cut loose and run free?’

  There was a silence, emphasised by the slushy hissing of the waterfall under which the intrepid Japanese was standing. Then, ‘Yes,’ said Gendo Odate. ‘Yes, I believe that might work well.’

  ~ * ~

  The next couple of hours were extremely busy for Richard, and for every other able-bodied man aboard Psyche and Kraken. With Richard in overall charge, they slowly tightened the lines fore and aft, both ships in concert, with careful reference to both John Higgins and Bob Stark who were able to advise on placing and propulsion respectively. But, most important of all as far as the crew of Psyche was concerned,
after the lines had been tightened and their ship heaved out of the enervating slush-fall from the overhang on high, the huge yellow cutting discs were brought out fore and aft. They sat on tall adjustable legs and were designed to clamp round the black thickness of the space rope. Handles on their sides released laser beams from the circumferences of the big yellow discs to cut inwards, the beams crossing like spokes at the axle of a bicycle wheel. Thin as light, sharp as acetylene flame, the beams were designed to slide in between the parallel molecules of the strands, to part the lines at once.

  And, because the crews of Kraken and Psyche were proud men, like their captains, Richard ordered the other ships under his command also to put the cutters in place. They all knew that he was being almost patronising in his care for their feelings, but they also knew that he was motivated only for their welfare and not at all by any sense of his superiority. He had what used to be called, in old and reactionary days, the common touch. They knew he was simply trying to help them and they loved him for it.

  Richard, of course, was blissfully ignorant of their feelings. Once the lines were shortened and the major problem solved, once the cutters were in place on all the ships, he was concerned only with making himself clean and respectable enough to take dinner with Captain Walcott and his crew. He went to the spare cabin beside the owner’s cabin on C deck - Asha Higgins was in the owner’s cabin - and prepared to take a shower. He was surprised to find on entering his quarters just how much had been provided for his comfort. There was a complete change of clothes - tropical whites which looked as though they would be a perfect fit. There was a range of toiletries, several disposable razors, a choice of aerosol shaving foam and an embarrassment of aftershave. All that was lacking was a bar of bath soap and a flannel.

  Until he entered the shower.

  In the shower he discovered a plethora of soap outmatched only by the selection of shampoo. He had never been forced to dress from the slop chest before, but if this was anything to go by, Gieves and Hawkes of St James’s, London, had better look to their laurels.

  With a wry smile he climbed into the cubicle and turned on the hot tap. Full on. As he angled his body, allowing the water to thunder off his left shoulder blade and run tepidly - but promisingly - down his spine, he began to unscrew the top of his preferred shampoo bottle. Soon the water was hot and he was contentedly lathering the thick green liquid into his scalp. After a rinse, a repeat and a rinse, he reached for some soap. He had always been an Imperial Leather man and he was fortunate in being able to find a bar among all those on offer. He raised his hands to spread the lather under his arms and beyond, and it was then that he saw that his own skin, like Wally’s, was peeling off and washing away.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  So Richard, too, became trapped aboard Psyche, and, for a time, part of the dark atmosphere which brooded over her. He was in a good position to gauge the effects of his decision to shorten the lines and place the cutters, for, as he soon discovered, the makeshift isolation ward which was home to Lamia and his acolytes was the source of much of the unrest. These men warily observed the shortening of the lines and the way in which the high ice was pulled even closer. They noted the manner in which the great yellow cutting discs were clamped into place. They watched from various ports and windows while the line watches were carefully briefed on the procedure for cutting the lines in an emergency.

  ‘We’re all dead,’ opined the Greek gloomily, as yet unaware that the man in overall command was now privy to his speculations. ‘They have tied us so close to this man-killing monster that even they are afraid! Why else do you think they have at last put the cutters in place?’

  The isolation ward was slowly expanding down the A deck corridor as Asha appropriated die rooms nearest to the ship’s sickbay. Lamia and his cronies from the main forecastle line watch were in the four-bed ward off the sickbay itself, for they had presented the symptoms first. To these had been added two men from Psyche’s second line watch, one a huge black Haitian called Duvalier who was rumoured to have planted the juju doll on the Russian woman’s corpse. These had been joined by four men from Kraken, also line watch men, a varied sprinkling of GP seamen from Ajax, and now from Titan. Only Achilles and Niobe seemed to be clear. Give it time, said the sick men who were, in fact, quite fit apart from the blisters, and idle and bored and restless, give it time.

  At its outer edge, the isolation area was little more than a line on the lino flooring which no crew member was allowed to cross. A line which was moving further down the corridor and closer to the crew’s day rooms with each new infected arrival. Richard, indeed, moved into the room which would have been the crew’s ping-pong room had any of them expressed any interest in the game. He got it because it was big enough to double as an office and he chose to share it with the terrified, isolated Wally Gough, but even so the video room was next and things were looking bleak.

  Because one end of the isolation area was so open and none of the windows out onto the weather deck could be locked, Lamia had had no trouble in setting up a lively smuggling route. He now had unrivalled access to medication - always a popular bargaining counter - and he missed his cigarettes and pornography. As the contraband was exchanged either way, so was the mutinous seaman’s cynical speculation. The situation was extremely damaging; indeed, it was beginning to turn dangerous.

  Richard did not discover all this at once, of course, but he was an extremely acute man and a widely experienced one; it was only a matter of a few days before he had worked out what was going on in the restricted world around him.

  Once he had discovered that the skin condition was unsightly and uncomfortable but by no means enervating, he reassumed command and arranged with a more than willing Peter Walcott for the ping-pong room to be turned into a fully functioning office. The walkie-talkie particularly freed him; linked as it was to the main communication of Psyche’s powerful radio room, it allowed him to communicate with anyone he wanted to talk to, anywhere.

  On his flight across here, when he had known about Wally’s condition but not his own, he had completed his discussion with Yves Maille about exactly what it was they could see in the sea and directed the final series of course changes which, when fully executed, swung the convoy round onto its eastern heading. During the next few days they would follow the southern edge of the busy Guinea current, safely away from the shallow shoreline, the outwash of the Niger and the gathering reefs of coral, heading over the deep water of die Guinea basin directly for the wide embrace of Mawanga’s tectonic harbour.

  Richard reported their progress to the Mau Club, and passed on Asha’s description of the symptoms which they were all suffering to be sent out to the United Nations’ tropical medicine experts, and to their experts in radiation sickness at UCLA hospital, though no one made specific mention of this fact. He agreed that when the new Bell helicopter arrived, Asha should send samples ashore to the nearest hospital with a research facility and UN affiliation. The nearest were either in Abidjan on the Ivory Coast or Accra in Ghana; the one two days’ sailing away, the other three days’.

  By the end of his first working day in the isolation unit, Richard was very much back in charge and had impressed everyone around him, except the group of malcontents he was currently trapped with. They soon realised who he was, however, and, with eyes ever on the main chance, they began to make overtures to Wally who was an obvious conduit of influence and information.

  As the evening of that first day in the isolation ward gathered around him, Richard stood looking out through the window across the poop deck towards the line watch and the great flank of the berg beyond them. The light was thickening and turning ruby again, though none of the recent sunsets had achieved the spectacular beauty of those behind the high sands of the harmattan. The men of the line watch were in animated conversation, gesturing at the line, the ice and the yellow line cutter. Richard felt he could almost hear what they were saying - but that was impossible in fact b
ecause to the constant grumble of generators and throb of engine beneath his feet was added the hum of the air conditioning. Even under the influence of the berg, the air was warm outside. The meltwater would have been running even more intensely down upon these men had they not moved the ship. The thought triggered another in Richard’s mind, a lateral leap of association into something which had been niggling him since they turned south in Biscay and the melt rate had begun to climb.

  The ships had been running in ballast, but they were tankers, after all, with massive carrying capacity as yet unused. It was time to do some complex calculations, he thought. And that thought brought to mind the best technical ship handler he knew. The one he was married to. It was time to call Robin. Still looking at the aft line watch, Richard brought the walkie-talkie to his lips and called through to the radio officer.

  Five minutes later, he heard the ringing sound and closed his eyes, shutting out the garnet cliff which dominated his view and instead imagining the warm intimacy of the sitting room at Ashenden. It was the phone by the sofa which was ringing, he imagined, and she was coming through from the kitchen to answer it. He always phoned at this time if he could and she would know it was probably him. She would be walking through, having left the twins with Janet to finish their supper, ready to curl up on the sofa and talk to him with the gentle, quiet intimacy they both treasured. He always phoned at this time because he knew she would be able to look out through the French windows towards France itself as they talked, and watch the sun set over the Channel.