Southtrap

by Geoffrey Jenkins

  MacFie shone his flashlight on his watch. 'I must be getting back. Wait till I get my hands on Reilly. I'll trim his arse-feathers all right!'

  'Quiet!' I snapped. 'Out with that light! There's someone coming!'

  There was a pad-pad of bare feet from the direction of the deep-fuel tank which separated the hold from the engine-room. MacFie and I shrank back against the nearest case, clear of the gangway which had been left open between the cargo.

  He was coming at a trot, breathing hard. I took a tight hold of the chunk of spanner. As he came opposite our hiding place, MacFie threw the beam and I launched myself.

  I had raised the spanner to half-brain him.

  I stopped in mid-stroke It was Wegger.

  He had the Luger in his left hand.

  He had the gun by the barrel, with the butt extended, like a club. You can't fire a Luger like that.

  He dodged aside as quick as a boxer side-stepping a blow, and swung to meet me. He raised the butt with a quick, deadly motion.

  Then he, too, stopped.

  'Sir! Are you all right? I heard there'd been a mutiny…'

  He was panting hard, like a man who has run up half a dozen ship's ladders. He was dressed in a peculiar rig, washed-out jeans and a karate-type blouse.

  'Put that bloody gun away!' I snapped to hide my own tautness. 'It might go off and hurt someone.'

  Wegger seemed to become suddenly conscious that he was swinging a lethal weapon.

  'It isn't loaded — I prefer to use it this way — I mean, there wasn't time to load it…'

  There was a cold excitement about the man which vibrated through the hold. His chest rose and fell with his quick breathing.

  'Listen,' I went on. 'There's no need for panic, or to flash a gun all round the ship.'

  'Did you find anyone?' he demanded.

  'You should have been in your cabin asleep,' I retorted.

  'How the hell did you hear about this mutiny business?'

  He ignored my question. 'Did you find anyone?' he repeated.

  MacFie interrupted. 'We've searched the bluidy ship and wasted the skipper's time and mine just because some sonofabitch Irishman…'

  'Chief,' I said, 'now that I've got an armed escort you can get back and kick Reilly up the backside. Mr Wegger and I will finish off the search just as a formality.'

  'There's nothing I would like better,' replied Wegger, with a strange note in his voice.

  'We'll take a quick look-round here and then finish with the'tween decks aft where the drifter buoy and the instruments are,' I went on. 'If anyone's been acting suspiciously the met. men and the scientists are bound to have spotted it.'

  MacFie turned to go. I returned the big spanner to him and said. 'That's too big a weapon to use on one small Irishman, Chief.'

  He snorted with disgust and went.

  Number 4 'tween decks, the scientists' preserve, was over the stern. I opened the door ahead of Wegger and went in. It was a big, bare space, well lighted.

  A remarkable sight met our eyes.

  Holdgate, the volcanologist who was sharing with the three met. men, was lying on a wooden board the shape of a coffin lid. Next to him was the shroud-like shape of the plasticized nylon drogue. This was to be attached to the bottom of the buoy to stabilize its drift. Holdgate's arms and legs were fastened to the board with straps and buckles.

  'Now!' called Smit, the senior weatherman. He gave his knuckles a crack as a preliminary. Then the three grabbed the board by Holdgate's head.

  Transmit!'

  Holdgate sucked his teeth in an ineffectual kind of whistle. The three up-ended the board so that Holdgate stood almost upright.

  'Buoy away!'

  Holdgate gave another whistle.

  Smit said, 'Okay, boys. That's it. Just like a real burial at sea. All we need is the captain…'

  'He's here.'

  I couldn't warm to the harmless horseplay — you can't once you've done the real thing. The three lowered the plank to the deck and began to loosen the straps in a self-conscious way.

  'We were having a run-down for the launch on Monday,' Smit apologized. The carpenter fixed us this plank.'

  I stood silent and eyed them. Accompanied by Wegger, tough and bare-chested, we must have looked as if we meant business.

  Smit laughed uncomfortably and cracked his knuckles.

  'Why not practise with the buoy itself instead of a man?' I asked.

  Bokkie was lashed to a couple of eyebolts on the floor nearby.

  Smith crossed to the orange-headed drifter and ran his hand affectionately down its centre tubing.

  'We can't risk this PVC tubing — it's the weak point about Bokkie. I'd rather have had fibre-glass but it couldn't be moulded in time.'

  Holdgate had regained his feet and his dignity. 'I offered to deputize for Bokkie,' he said.

  'Are you telling me there are weak points in a buoy which is going to hit some of the wildest weather in the world in the West Wind Drift?' I said to Smit.

  Smit rushed to his own and Bokkie's defence with a spate of technical talk.

  'She's not weak for that. It's okay when she's floating. But she isn't meant to be stood up and extra weight put on the long body. We're re-testing every component again now. We scrapped the French barometers because they drifted too much. The British type are fine, except that they eat current, don't they Pete?'

  Pete, a bull-necked young man with a growing-time of only two days on his beard since he embarked, said in a deep voice, 'Bokkie's now got one of the new Yank-model barometers. They cost less, use less power.'

  Smit stroked Bokkie's lower limb, inside which was the power pack. 'These batteries have got to last a year. A whole year!'

  T-shirt Jannie broke in. 'I remade the antenna myself before we started off. The old one was up to maggots…'

  'Wait,' I interrupted. 'There's something I want to ask you about the buoy. But first of all, did any of you see anyone suspicious around here this morning?'

  'There was an old bag with a cigarette-holder,' answered Jannie. 'She was suspicious of everything. Mostly of us. Wanted us to promise we wouldn't photograph the penguins or something.'

  'Or something,' echoed Smit.

  'Good,' I replied. That's that, then. Now, about the buoy.'

  Smit was like a skua hen defending a chick. 'What about the buoy?'

  The radio's gone sour on us. I reckon we're running into a full-scale radio black-out. Ionospheric storm.'

  'So what?'

  Holdgate wandered away uninterestedly to his own instruments.

  'Well, won't that affect Bokkie?' I asked. 'What about the automatic signals to the satellite?'

  'It makes no difference,' replied Smit. 'It's a line-of-sight transmission.'

  'I don't follow.'

  He regarded me a if I'd been a spastic case. 'The Tiros N satellite was fired into polar orbit specially for the Global Atmospheric Research Programme. Tiros will make four passes a day over the area where Bokkie and the balloon operate after we've set 'em going on Monday. Clear?'

  I nodded and he went on. 'Tiros is equipped with what we call a Random Access Monitoring System — RAMS for short. It picks up the signals from the buoy and the balloon.'

  'All the buoys and balloons,' Jannie corrected him. 'It's a global-scale experiment. Bokkie's only a part of it. But a very important part. The Southern Ocean's a tough proposition, as you know. That's why it's so important that nothing should stop us launching the buoy on Monday morning…'

  Ten sharp, GMT,' Smit added.

  'On the dot,' echoed bull-neck Pete.

  'You still haven't answered my question,' I persisted. 'As I see it, the whole project could misfire if the ionospheric storm goes on. In my experience they usually last four or five days. That means Monday may be blacked out. Also, I don't understand how the satellite can distinguish whether it's Bokkie or our balloon signalling when there are others scattered about the oceans of the world.'

  Wegger shifte
d his feet. Duty forced him to stay and listen.

  'Each buoy or balloon transmits signals with a specific frequency at short intervals,' Smit explained. The series of signals in each transmission is the method of identifying the buoy or balloon as well as giving the various readings of pressure, temperature and so on. The transmission consists first of a ten-bit data word used for barometric pressure, word two is an optional parameter, and word three must be eight bits showing surface water temperature…'

  I cut in. 'Skip it. I simply don't know what you're talking about, man. Just tell me in one-syllable words why the radio black-out won't affect signals from the buoy to the satellite.'

  He thought for a moment, wrestling with the problem of getting down to my kindergarten level.

  Finally he said, 'This is how it goes. The buoy is floating in the ocean — right? The satellite appears over the curve of the horizon — four times a day it does that. Right? as soon as it does, it picks up the buoy's signals because the buoy and the satellite are now seeing each other — line of sight, it's called. Right? The process is not like ordinary short-wave radio signals which bounce off the high layer of the upper atmosphere. It's more like pointing a gun — while the buoy and the satellite are in sight of one another, the signals get through. It's like your ship's radio-telephone — you could speak on the R/T to another ship during a full-scale black-out providing you were close enough.'

  'Are you telling me that, in spite of the radio blackout, I could have a ship-to-ship conversation on the R/T? It's a new one on me. I'd like to have tried it, but it so happens that there's never been another ship around on such occasions.'

  'Of course it would depend on the distance between the ships.'

  'How far would that be?'

  'It's not easy to estimate — an outside limit of four hundred to five hundred kilometres, I'd say. Of course the quality of voice would deteriorate considerably, but it might still be bearable. Other factors come into it to, like the strength of the signals.'

  T-shirt Jannie added, 'As the satellite orbits the earth, it picks up masses of information from all the other buoys and balloons. This is recorded on magnetic tape, and then — it's really very smart — the satellite "dumps" all the information to the receiving station at the National Center for Atmospheric Research at Boulder, in the United States. Boy, you should see their computer! It digests all the information, and works out every buoy's exact position…'

  'It sounds like black magic,' I interrupted. 'I wish it were as easy for me to calculate my ship's position. How does it work?'

  'When the satellite approaches Bokkie or leaves her behind, the frequency of the signals varies all the time,' he explained. 'From these varying frequencies the exact position can be computed. And it really is exact — down to less than half a kilometre in a very wide ocean.'

  I said, 'I'm beginning to get the measure of Bokkie's importance in the chain.'

  Smit said, 'We've checked and re-checked the electronics package. We'll re-check finally tomorrow, just to make sure. But it's all systems go for Monday morning.'

  I could sense that Wegger was growing more restive, but I persisted with my questions. 'I can see that the whole project is a miracle of planning but what if something goes wrong? What happens, say, if Bokkie's transmitter packs up when she's been only a few days on her own?'

  Smit frowned. 'It can't — it mustn't. If the data parameters show something wrong…'

  'One-syllable words please!'

  He grinned. 'If Bokkie suddenly starts giving information on sea temperature or barometric pressure which is haywire, an alert goes out. Likewise, if her rate of drift went wild…'

  'How could anyone know? Anything can happen in these seas.'

  'No, it can't, Captain. The buoys which were set adrift last year as a pilot experiment showed that the fastest drift speed we can expect from a buoy is about one knot. The biggest distance she will cover is slightly under fifty nautical miles a day. An alert would go out if it was suddenly much different from that. We can pinpoint Bokkie's position precisely four times a day, like I said.'

  'Who alerts who?'

  'Boulder would contact the Regional Telecommunication Hub involved — that's South Africa. Then the wires would hum!'

  The same thing applies to the balloon,' added T-shirt Jannie. 'We know the balloon will travel like smoke in the Westerlies. But if she suddenly started slowing before she reached her ceiling of twenty-five kilometres above the earth, we'd want to know why. Boulder would sound the alert. Come over here.'

  He led me to the balloon. The envelope was spread but on the deck for checking like a huge parachute. At its base was a tiny aluminium box.

  This was Jannie's scene. 'Bokkie's a marvel, but this instrument package is… is…' He indicated the box. 'Feel it.'

  I weighed it in my hand. It was the size of a miniaturized transistor radio. 'It's incredible,' I said.

  'Weighs about half a kilogram,' he told me. 'It's the sort of thing the Yanks use in their space probes. This isn't one of those zero pressure balloons the French and us are using for research in the stratosphere. They're huge and carry a scientific payload of about thirty kilograms. Their data is telemetred to earth in the fifteen MHz frequency and picked up in Reunion and Pretoria by special tracking stations. This is a little beauty which can be launched from a ship without special apparatus.'

  Smit joined us. This Global Experiment is the biggest thing that's ever been undertaken weatherwise — there'll be detailed observation made for the first time of the entire atmosphere of the world and the surface of the Seven Seas.'

  'Including the Southern Ocean,' I added.

  They singled out the Southern Ocean specially,' said Smit.

  Holdgate said from his comer, The way you lot go on, you'd think that meteorology was the only science in the world. Why, if we knew more about Prince Edward geologically we'd open up a new chapter in the history of the earth. It's one of the most important places for understanding the composition of the earth's upper mantle and the theory of continental drift and ocean floor spreading. The island's practically unexplored. The only work done was for a few days about ten years ago…'

  I broke in. 'You may never get ashore, Doctor Hold-gate — let me warn you before you start raising your hopes. The Quest could lie off Cave Bay for a month without the opportunity.'

  He brushed my cautions aside. 'Do you know the big cave?'

  I sensed Wegger tighten up. His boredom during the discussion of the Bokkie project had vanished. He was staring keenly at Holdgate.

  'No,' I replied. 'Or rather, I've only seen it through binoculars from about half a mile out to sea. The anchorage is very tricky and I couldn't get close. There's also a barrier of kelp between the anchorage and the cave. It didn't look much from the sea — just a huge hole in the cliffs about four metres in diameter, big rocks, no beach and some wiry-looking tussock grass here and there.'

  'My theory is that the cave is a lava tunnel which goes right under the island,' said Holdgate in his lecturing manner. 'If it is, it's the only one so far as we know which belongs to the older period of volcanic activity on the island. When the volcano erupted originally it must have been like a blast furnace under the island and the gas pressure must have been colossal to blow out… anyway, I intend to explore the cave and find out.'

  Wegger's voice sounded thick. 'You're wasting your time. There's nothing there. The cave stops after a short distance.'

  Holdgate looked mulish. 'You're wrong. My information is that the cave goes deep, very deep. That's what the geologists reckoned who managed a few days on the island in the sixties. Anyway, how do you know anything about it?'

  Wegger's damaged right talon-plucked at his karate-type blouse. 'I've been there,' he replied harshly. 'Years ago. Before your scientific pals. There's nothing except a few old dates Scratched on the walls by survivors of ships who sheltererd in the cave.'

  The two of them seemed to be generating enough heat to re-kindle the f
ires of Prince Edward's dozen extinct volcanoes.

  'Now get this clear,' I snapped at both of them. 'I don't give a damn whether Prince Edward's cave is or isn't the most fascinating place on the face of the earth, or whether it does or doesn't go under the island. But I'm not going to risk my ship for anyone's scientific hobby-horse — understood? I'm the person who's going to make the decision whether parties go ashore or not — whether it's to explore volcanoes, or look at the birds or any other bloody natural wonder. It'll depend entirely on the weather and on how I and I alone interpret the danger factor.'

  The echoes of my broadside were still snarling in the 'tween decks beams that night when I was called to the scientists' sanctuary. The top-like head of the buoy glowed in the beam of my flashlight. Next to it was the shroud-like drogue, and the balloon with its aluminium instrument package.

  Holdgate was there, too, lying strapped to the burial board.

  This time he wasn't play-acting.

  He had a knife in his throat.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The scrimshawed ivory handle stood out like an obscene white fang below the left point of his chin. His half-open jaw rested on one of its notches. The blade itself was lost in the ginger growth of his beard.

  I knelt to examine him. The torch reflected a glimmer of unfocused eyes. Before I put my hand against his heart I knew he was dead. His skin was cool and clammy. He had been dead some time.

  I directed the beam into his eyes, then at the knife again. There was surprisingly little blood. On the side away from me the knife handle was engraved. I scanned it more closely. The outline was unmistakable. It was a killer whale. The killer whale is the Southern Ocean's most feared and relentless killer.

  'Petersen!'

  It was Petersen who had burst into my cabin a few.minutes before — it already seemed like hours — and had stood swaying in the doorway. His face had been blanched and his eyes wide with horror. He had been violently, cruelly sick. I had grabbed hold of him and forced the rest of my nightcap brandy down his throat while he had hung, incoherent and half-fainting, in my grip. He had finally coughed out Holdgate's name and pointed aft. I had left him hanging over a chair and sprinted for the stern, telling him to follow. As I had cleared the superstructure, the cold wind had made me gasp.