by Wilbur Smith
flung his head forward; it was the classic butt aimed for Nick's face
and, had it landed squarely, it would have crushed in his nose and
broken his teeth off level to the gums - but Nick anticipated, and
dropped his own chin, tucking it down hard so that their foreheads met
with a crack like a breaking oak branch.
The impact broke Nick's grip, and both of them reeled apart across the
heaving deck, Vin Baker howling like a moon-sick dog and clutching his
own head.
Fight fair, you Pommy bastard! he howled in outrage, and he came up
short against the steel cabinets that lined the far side of the control
room. The astonished electrician dived for cover under the control
console, scattering tools across the deck.
Vin Baker lay for a moment gathering his lanky frame, and then, as
Warlock swung hard over, rolling viciously in the cross sea, he used her
momentum to hurl himself down the steeply tilting deck, dropping his
head again like a battering ram to crush in Nick's ribs as he charged.
Nick turned like a cattle man working an unruly steer.
He whipped one arm round Vin Baker's neck and ran with him, holding his
head down and building up speed across the full length of the control
room. They reached the armoured glass wall at the far end, and the top
of Vin Baker's head was the point of impact with the weight of both
their bodies behind it.
The Chief Engineer came round at the prick of the needle that Angel
forced through the thick flap of open flesh on top of his head. He came
round fighting drunkenly, but the cook held him down with one huge hairy
arm.
Easy, love. Angel pulled the needle through the torn red weeping scalp
and tied the stitch.
Where is he, where is the bastard? slurred the Chief.
It's all over, Chiefe, Angel told him gently. And you are lucky he
bashed you on the head - otherwise he might have hurt you.
The Chief winced as Angel pulled the thread up tight and knotted another
stitch.
He tried to mess with my engines. I taught the bastard a lesson.
"You've terrified him/ Angel agreed sweetly. Now you take a swig of
this and lie still. I want you in this bunk for twelve hours - and I
might come and tuck you in. I'm going back to my engines, announced the
Chief, and drained the medicine glass of brown spirit, then whistled at
the bite of the fumes.
Angel left him and crossed to the telephone. He spoke quickly into it,
and as the Chief lumbered off the bunk, Nick Berg stepped into the
cabin, and nodded to the cook.
Thank you, Angel. Angel ducked out of the cabin and left them facing
each other. The Chief opened his mouth to snarl at Nick.
Jules Levoisin in La Mouette has probably made five hundred miles on us
while you have been playing prima donna/ said Nick quietly, and Vin
Baker's mouth stayed open, although no sound came out of it.
I built this ship to run fast and hard in just this kind of contest, and
now you are trying to do all of us out of prize money! Nick turned on
his heel and went back up the companionway to his navigation deck. He
settled into his canvas chair and fingered the big purple swelling on
his forehead tenderly. His head felt as though a rope had been knotted
around it and twisted up tight. He wanted to go to his cabin and take
something for the pain, but he did not want to miss the call when it
came.
He lit another cheroot, and it tasted like burned tarred rope. He
dropped it into the sandbox and the telephone at his shoulder rang once.
Bridge, this is the Engine Room. Go ahead, Chief! We are going to
eighty percent now. Nick did not reply, but he felt the change in the
engine vibration and the more powerful rush of the hull beneath him.
Nobody told me La Mouette was running against us. No way that
frog-eating bastard's going to get a line on her first/ announced Vin
Baker grimly, and there was a silence between them. Something more had
to be said.
I bet you a pound to a pinch of kangaroo dung/ challenged the Chief,
that you don't know what a galah is, and that you've never tasted a
Bundaberg rum in your life. Nick found himself smiling, even through
the blinding pain in his head.
Be-yew-dy! Nick said, making three syllables of it and keeping the
laughter out of his voice, as he hung up the receiver.
Dave Allen's voice was apologetic. Sorry to wake you, sir, but the
Golden Adventurer is reporting. I'm coming/mumbled Nick, and swung his
legs off the bunk. He had been in that black death-sleep of exhaustion,
but it took him only seconds to pull back the dark curtains from his
mind. It was his old training as a watch-keeping officer.
He rubbed away the last traces of sleep, feeling the rasping black
stubble of his beard under his fingers as he crossed quickly to his
bathroom. He spent forty seconds in bathing his face and combing his
tousled hair, and regretfully decided there was no time to shave.
Another rule of his was to look good in a world which so often judged a
man by his appearance.
When he went out on to the navigation bridge, he knew at once that the
wind had increased its velocity. He guessed It was rising force six
now, and Warlock's motion was more violent and abandoned. Beyond the
warm, dimly lit capsule of the bridge, all those elements of cold water
and vicious racing winds turned the black night to a howling tumult.
The Trog was crouched over his machines, grey and wizened and sleepless.
He hardly turned his head to hand Nick the message flimsy.
Master of Golden Adventurer to Christy Marine/ the Decca decoded
swiftly, and Nick grunted as he saw the new position report. Something
had altered drastically in the liner's circumstances. Main engines
still unserviceable. Current setting easterly and increasing to eight
knots.
Wind rising force six from north-west. Critical ice danger to the ship.
What assistance can I expect? There was a panicky note to that last
line, and Nick saw why when he compared the liner's new position on the
spread chart.
She's going down sharply on the lee shore/ David muttered as he worked
quickly over the chart. The current and wind are working together -
they are driving her down on to the land. He touched the ugly broken
points of Coatsland's shoreline with the tip of one finger.
Is he eighty miles offshore now. At the rate she is drifting, it will
take her only another ten hours before she goes aground. if she doesn't
hit an iceberg first/ said Nick. From the Master's last message, it
sounds as though they are into big ice. That's a cheerful thought/
agreed David, and straightened up from the chart.
What's our time to reach her? Another forty hours, sir/ David hesitated
and pushed the thick white-gold lock of hair off his forehead, if we can
make good this speed - but we may have to reduce when we reach the ice.
Nick turned away to his canvas chair. He felt the need to pace back and
forward, to release the pent-up forces within him. However, any
movement in this heavy
pounding sea was not only difficult but downright
dangerous, so he groped his way to the chair and wedged himself in,
staring ahead into the clamorous black night.
He thought about the terrible predicament of the liner's Captain. His
ship was at deadly risk, and the lives of his crew and passengers with
it.
How many lives? Nick cast his mind back and came up with the figures.
The Golden Adventurer's full complement of officers and crew was 235,
and there was accommodation for 375 passengers, a possible total of over
six hundred souls. If the ship was lost, Warlock would be hard put to
take aboard that huge press of human life.
Well, sir, they signed on for adventure/ David Allen spoke into his
thoughts as though he had heard them, and they are getting their money's
worth. Nick glanced at him, and nodded. Most of them will be elderly.
A berth on that cruise costs a fortune, and it's usually only the
oldsters who have that sort of gold. If she goes aground, we are going
to lose life!
With respect, Captain/ David hesitated, and blushed again for the first
time since leaving port, if her Captain knows that assistance is on the
way, it may prevent him doing something crazy! Nick was silent. The
Mate was right, of course. It was cruel to leave them in the despair of
believing they were alone down there in those terrible ice fields. The
Adventurer's Captain could make a panic decision, one that could be
averted if he knew how close succour was.
The air temperature out there is minus five degrees, and if the wind is
at thirty miles an hour, that will make it a lethal chill factor. If
they take to the boats in that -'David was interrupted by the Trog
calling from the radio room.
The owners are replying. it was a long message that Christy Marine were
sending to their Captain. It was filled with those same hollow
assurances that a surgeon gives to a cancer patient, but one paragraph
had relevance for Nick: all efforts being made to contact salvage tugs
reported operating South Atlantic. David Allen looked at him
expectantly. It was the right humane thing to do. To tell them he was
only eight hundred miles away, and closing swiftly.
Nervous energy fizzed in Nick's blood, making him restless and angry. On
an impulse he left his chair and carefully crossed the heaving deck to
the starboard wing of the bridge.
He slid open the door and stepped out into the gale. The shock of that
icy air took his breath away and he gasped like a drowning man.
He felt tears streaming from his eyes across his cheeks and the frozen
spray struck into his face like steel darts.
Carefully he filled his lungs, and his nostrils flared as he smelt the
ice. It was that unrnistakeable dank smell, he remembered so well from
the northern Arctic seas. It was like the body smell of some gigantic
reptilian sea monster and it struck the mariner's chill into his soul.
He could endure only a few seconds more of the gale, but when he stepped
back into the cosy green-lit warmth of the bridge, his mind was clear,
and he was thinking crisply.
Mr. Allen, there is ice ahead. I have a watch on the radar, sir. Very
good/ Nick nodded, but we'll reduce to fifty percent of power. He
hesitated, and then went on, and maintain radio silence. The decision
was hard made, and Nick saw the accusation in David Allen's eyes before
he turned away to give the orders for the reduction in power. Nick felt
a sudden and uncharacteristic urge to explain the decision to him.
He did not know why - perhaps he needed the Mate's understanding and
sympathy.
Instantly Nick saw that as a symptom of his weakness and vulnerability.
He had never needed sympathy before, and he steeled himself against it
now.
His decision to maintain radio silence was correct. He was dealing with
two hard men. He knew he could not afford to give an inch of sea room
to Jules Levoisin. He would force him to open radio contact first. He
needed that advantage.
The other man with whom he had to deal was Duncan Alexander, and he was
a hating man, dangerous and vindictive. He had tried once to destroy
Nick - and perhaps he had already succeeded. Nick had to guard himself
now, he must pick with care his moment to open negotiations with Christy
Marine and the man who had displaced him at its head. Nick must be in a
position of utmost strength when he did so.
Jules Levoisin must be forced to declare himself first, Nick decided.
The Captain of the Golden Adventurer would have to be left in the
agonies of doubt a little longer, and Nick consoled himself with the
thought that any further drastic change in the liner's circumstances or
a decision by the Master to abandon his ship and commit his company to
the lifeboats would be announced on the open radio channels and would
give him a chance to intervene.
Nick was about to caution the Trog to keep a particular watch on Channel
16 for La Mouette's first transmission, then he checked himself. That
was another thing he never did - issue unnecessary orders. The Trog's
grey wrinkled head was wreathed in clouds of reeking cigar smoke but was
bowed to his mass of electronic equipment, and he adjusted a dial with
careful lover's fingers; his little eyes were bright and sleepless as
those of an ancient sea turtle.
Nick went to his chair and settled down to wait out the few remaining
hours of the short Antarctic summer night.
The radar screen had shown strange and alien capes and headlands above
the sea clutter of the storm, strange islands, anomalies which did not
relate to the Admiralty charts. Between these alien masses shone myriad
other smaller contacts, bright as fireflies, any one of which could have
been the echo of a stricken ocean liner - but which was not.
As Warlock nosed cautiously down into this enchanted sea, the dawn that
had never been far from the horizon flushed out, timorous as a bride,
decked in colours of gold and pink that struck splendorous splinters of
light off the icebergs.
The horizon ahead of them was cluttered with ice, some of the fragments
were but the size of a billiard table and they bumped and scraped down
the Warlock's side, then swung and bobbed in her wake as she passed.
There were others the size of a city block, weird and fanciful
structures of honeycombed white ice, that stood as tall as Warlock's
upperworks as she passed.
White ice is soft ice/ Nick murmured to David Allen beside him, and then
caught himself. it was an unnecessary speech, inviting familiarity, and
before the Mate could answer, Nick turned quickly away to the
radar-repeater and lowered his face to the eye-piece in the coned hood.
For a minute he studied the images of the surrounding ice in the
darkened body of the instrument, then went back to his seat and stared
ahead impatiently.
Warlock was running too fast, Nick knew it; he was relying on the
vigilance of his deck officers to carry her through the ice. Yet still
this speed was too slow for his seeth
ing impatience.
Above their horizon rose another shoreline, a great unbroken sweep of
towering cliff which caught the low sun, and glowed in emerald and
amethyst, a drifting tableland of solid hard ice, forty miles across and
two hundred feet high.
As they closed with that massive translucent island, so the colours that
glowed through it became more hauntingly beautiful. The cliffs were
rent by deep bays, and split by crevasses whose shadowy depths were dark
sapphire, blue and mysterious, paling out to a thousand shades of green.
My God, it's beautiful, said David Allen with the reverence of a men
kneeling in a cathedral.
The crests of the ice cliffs blazed in clearest ruby; to windward, the
big sea piled in and crashed against those cliffs, surging up them in
explosive bursts of white spray.
Yet the iceberg did not dip nor swing or work, even in that murderous
sea.
Look at the lee she is making/Dave Allen pointed. You could ride out a
force twelve behind her. On the leeward side, the waters were protected
from the wind by that mountain of sheer ice. Green and docile, they
lapped those mysterious blue cliffs, and Warlock went into the lee,
passing in a ship's length from the plunging rearing action of a wild
horse into the tranquillity of a mountain lake, calm, windless and
unnatural.
in the calm, Angel brought trays piled with crisp brown baked Cornish
pasties and steaming mugs of thick creamy cocoa, and they ate breakfast
at three in the morning, marvelling at the fine pale sunlight and the
towers of incredible beauty, the younger officers shouting and laughing
when a school of five black killer whales passed so close that they
could see their white cheek patterns and wide grinning mouths through
the icy clear waters.
The great mammals circled the ship, then ducked beneath her hull,
surging up on the far side with their huge black triangular fins
shearing the surface as they blew through the vents in the top of their
heads. The fishy stink of their breath pervaded the bridge, and then
they were gone, and Warlock motored calmly along in the lee of the ice,
like a holiday launch of day-trippers.
Nicholas Berg did not join the spontaneous gaiety. He munched one of
Angel's delicious pies full of meat and thick gravy, but he could not
finish it. His stomach was too tense. He found himself resenting the