by Wilbur Smith
beyond the horizon.
Nick could feel the fresh movement of Warlock's hull as she rode this
swell, and suddenly a puff of wind hit Nick in the face like the flit of
a bat's wing, and the metallic sheen of the sea was scoured by a
cat's-paw of wind that scratched at the surface as it passed.
He pulled the draw-suing of the hood of his anorak up more tightly under
his chin and stepped out on to the open boarding-ladder, like a
steeplejack, walking upright and balancing lightly seventy feet above
Warlock's slowly rolling fore-dec.
He jumped down on to Golden Adventurer's steeply canted, ice-glazed deck
and saluted Warlock's bridge far below in a gesture of dismissal.
I tried to warn you, dearie, said Angel gently, as she entered the
steamy galley, for with a single glance he was aware of Samantha's
crestfallen air. He tore you up, didn't he? What are you talking
about? She lifted her chin, and the smile was too bright and too quick.
What do you want me to do? You can separate that bowl of eggs, Angel
told her, and stooped again over twenty pounds of red beef, with his
sleeves rolled to the elbows about his thick and hairy arms, clutching a
butcher's knife in a fist like that of Rocky Marciano.
They worked in silence for five minutes, before Samantha spoke again.
I only tried to thank him -, And again there was a grey mist in her
eyes.
He's a lower-deck pig, Angel agreed.
He is not/ Samantha came in hotly. He's not a pig., Well, then, he's a
selfish, heartless bastard - with jumped-up ideas. How can you say that
Samantha's eyes flashed now.
He is not selfish - he went into the water to get me! Then she saw the
smile on Angel's lips and the mocking quizzical expression in his eyes,
and she stopped in confusion and concentrated on cracking the egg shells
and slopping the contents into the mixing basin.
He's old enough to be your father, Angel needled her, and now she was
really angry; a ruddy flush under the smooth gloss of her skin made the
freckles shine like gold dust.
You talk the most awful crap, Angel., God, dearie, where did you learn
that language? Well, you're making me mad. She broke an egg with such
force that it exploded down the front of her pants.
Oh, shit! she said, and stared at him defiantly. Angel tossed her a
dish-cloth, she wiped herself violently and they went on working again.
How old is he? she demanded at last. A hundred and fifty?
He's thirty-eight/ Angel thought for a moment, or thirty-nine. Well,
smart arse/ she said tartly, the ideal age is half the man's age, plus
seven., You aren't twenty-six, dearie! Angel said gently.
I will be in two years time! she told him.
You really want him badly, hey? A fever of lust and desire? 'That's
nonsense, Angel, and you know it. I just happen to owe him a rather
large debt - he saved my life, - but as for wanting him, ha! She
dismissed the idea with a snort of disdain and a toss of her head.
I'm glad/ Angel nodded. He's not a very nice person, you can see by
those ferrety eyes of his - He has beautiful eyes - she flared at him,
and then stopped abruptly, saw the cunning in his grin, faltered and
then collapsed weakly on the bench beside him, with a cracked egg in one
hand.
Oh, Angel, you are a horrible man and I hate you. How can you make fun
of me now? He saw how close she was to tears, and became brisk and
businesslike.
First of all, you better know something about him and he began to tell
her, giving her a waspish biography of Nicholas Berg, embellished by a
vivid imagination and a wicked sense of humour, together with a
quasi-feminine love of gossip, to which Samantha listened avidly, making
an occasional exclamation of surprise.
His wife ran away with another man, she could be out of her mind, don't
you think? Dearie, a change is like two weeks at the seaside. Or asking
a question. He owns this ship, actually owns it? Not just Master? I
He owns this ship, and its sister, and the company. They used to call
him the Golden Prince. He's a high flyer, dearie, didn't you recognize
it? I didn't Of course you did. You're too much woman not to.
There is no more powerful aphrodisiac than success and power, nothing
like the clink of gold to get a girl's hormones revving up, is there?
That's unfair, Angel. I didn't know a thing about him. I didn't know
he was rich and famous. I don't give a damn for money Ho!
Ho? Angel shook his curls and the diamond studs flashed in his ears.
But he saw her anger flare again. All right, dearie, I'm teasing. But
what really attracts you is his strength and air of purpose. The way
other men obey, and follow and fear him. The air of command, of power
and with it, success. I didn't knOw, be honest with yourself, love. It
was not the fact he saved your life, it wasn't his beautiful eyes nor
the lump in his jeans You're crude, Angel.
You're bright and beautiful, and you just can't help yourself. You're
like a nubile little gazelle, all skittish and ready, and you have just
spotted the herd bull. You can't help yourself, dearie, you're just a
woman., What am I going to do, Angel? We'll make a plan, love, but one
thing is certain, you're not going to trail around behind him, dressed
like an escapee from a junk shop, breathing adoration and heroworship.
He's doing a job. He doesn't need to trip over you every time he turns.
Play hard to get. Samantha thought about it for a moment. Angel, I
don't want to play it that hard that I never get around to being got -
if you follow me. Beauty Baker had the work in hand, well organized and
going ahead as fast as even Nick, in his overwhelming impatience, could
expect.
The alternator had been manhandled through the double doors into the
superstructure on B deck, and it had been secured against a steel
bulkhead and lashed down.
As soon as I have power, we'll drill the deck and bolt her down/he
explained to Nick.
Have you got the lines in? I'll by-pass the main junction box on C
deck, and I will select from the temporary box But you've identified the
fore-dec winch circuit, and the pumps? Jesus, sport, why don't you go
sail your little boat and leave me to do my work? on the upper deck one
of Baker's gangs was already at work with the gas welding equipment.
They were opening access to the ventilation shaft of the main engine
room.
The gas cutter hissed viciously and red sparks showered from the steel
plate of the tall dummy smoke stack. The stack was merely to give the
Golden Adventurer the traditional rakish lines, and now the welder cut
the last few inches of steel plating. It fell away into the deep, dark
cavern, leaving a roughly square opening six feet by six feet which gave
direct access into the half-flooded engine room fifty feet below.
Despite Baker's advice, Nick took command here, directing the rigging of
the winch blocks and steel wire cable that would enable a cable to be
taken down into the flooded engine room and out again through that long,
viciously fanged gash in the ship's side. When he looked at his Rolex
Oyster again, almost an hour had passed. The sun had gone and a
luminous green sky filled with the marvelous pyrotechnics of the Aurora
Australis turned the night eerie and mysterious.
All right, bosun, that's all we can do now. Bring your team up to the
bows. As they hurried forward along the open fore-dec, the wind caught
them, a single shrieking gust that had them reeling and. staggering and
grabbing for support, then it was past and the wind settled down to nag
and whine and pry at their clothing as Nick directed the work at the two
huge anchor winches; but he heard the rising sea starting to push and
stir the pack-ice, making it growl and whisper menacingly.
They catted the twin sea-anchors and with two men working over
Adventurer's side they secured collars of heavy chain to the crown of
each anchor. Warlock would now be able to drag those anchors out,
letting them bump along the - bottom, but in the opposite direction to
that in which they had been designed to drag, so that the pointed flukes
would not be able to dig in and hold.
Then, when the anchors were out to the full reach of their own chains,
Warlock would drop them, the flukes would dig in and hold. This was the
ground-tackle which might resist the efforts of even a force twelve wind
to throw Golden Adventurer further ashore.
When Baker had power on the ship, the anchor winches would be used to
kedge Golden Adventurer off the bank.
Nick placed much reliance on these enormously powerful winches to assist
Warlock's own engines, for even as they worked, he could feel through
the soles of his feet how heavily grounded the liner was.
It was a tense and heavy labour, for they were working with enormous
weights of dead-weight steel chain and shackles. The securing shackle,
which held the chain collar on the anchor crown, alone weighed three
hundred pounds and had to be manhandled by six men using complicated
tackle.
By the time they had the work finished, the wind was rising force six,
and wailing in the superstructure. The men were chilled and tired, and
tempers were flashing.
Nick led them back to the shelter of the main superstructure. His boots
seemed to be made of lead, and his lungs pumped for the solace of
cheroot smoke, and he realized irrelevantly that he had not slept now
for over fifty hours since he had fished that disturbing little girl
from the water. Quickly he pushed the thought of her aside, for it
distracted him from his purpose, and, as he stepped over the door-sill
into the liner's cold but wind-protected accommodation, he reached for
his cheroot-case.
Then he arrested the movement and blinked with surprise as suddenly
garish light blazed throughout the ship deck lights and internal lights,
so that instantly a festival air enveloped her and from the loudspeakers
on the deck above Nicholas, head wafted soft music as the broadcasting
equipment switched itself in. It was the voice of Donna Summer, as
limpid and ringing clear as fine-leaded crystal.
The sound was utterly incongruous in this place and in these
circumstances.
Power is on! Nick let out a whoop and ran through to B deck. Beauty
Baker was standing beside his roaring alternator and hugging himself
with glee.
Howzat, sport? he demanded. Nick punched his shoulder.
Right on, Beauty. He wasted a few moments and a cheroot by placing one
of the precious black tubes between Baker's lips and flashing his
lighter. The two of them smoked for twenty seconds in close and
companionable silence.
Okay! Nick ended it. Pumps and winches. The two emergency portables
are ready to start, and I'm on my way to check the ship's main pumps.
The only thing left is to get the collision mat into place. That is
your trick/ Baker told him flatly. You're not getting me into the water
again, ever. I've even given up bathing. Yeah, did you notice I'm
standing upwind? Nick told him. But somebody has got to go down again
to pass the line.
Why don't you send Angel? Baker grinned evilly.
Excuse me, cobber - I've got work to do. He inspected the cheroot.
After we've pulled this dog off the ground, I hope you will be able to
afford decent gaspers. And he was gone into the depths of the liner,
leaving Nick with the one task he had been avoiding even thinking about.
Somebody had to go down into that engine room. He could call for
volunteers, of course, but then it was another of his own rules to never
ask another man to do what you are afraid to do yourself.
I can leave David to lay out the ground-tackle, but I can't let anybody
else put the collision mat in. He faced it now. He would have to go
down again, into the cold and darkness and mortal danger of the flooded
engine room.
The ground-tackle that David Allen had laid was holding Golden
Adventurer handsomely, even in the aggravated swell which was by now
pouring into the open mouth of the bay, driven on by the rising wind
that was inciting it to wilder abandon.
David had justified Nick's confidence in the seamanlike manner in which
he had taken the Golden Adventurer's twin anchors out and dropped them a
cable's length offshore, at a finely judged angle to give the best
purchase and hold.
Beauty Baker had installed and test-run the two big centrifugals and he
had even resuscitated two of the liner's own forward pump assemblies
which had been protected by the watertight bulkhead from the sea
break-in. He was ready now to throw the switch on this considerable
arsenal of pumps, and he had calculated that if Nick could close that
gaping rent in the hull, he would be able to pump the liner's hull dry
and clean in just under four hours.
Nick was in full immersion kit again, but this time he had opted for a
single bottle Drager diving-set; he was off oxygen sets for life, he
decided wryly.
Before going down, he paused on the open deck with the diving helmet
under his -arm. The wind must be rising seven now, he decided, for it
was kicking off the tops of the waves in bursts of spray and a low
scudding sky of dirty grey cloud had blotted out the rising sun and the
peaks of Cape Alarm. It was a cold dark dawn, with the promise of a
wilder day to follow.
Nick took one glance across at Warlock. David Allen was holding her
nicely in position, and his own team was ready, grouped around that ugly
black freshly burned opening in Adventurer's stack. He lifted the
helmet on to his head, and while his helpers closed the fastenings and
screwed down the hose connections, he checked the radio.
Warlock, do you read me? Allen's voice came back immediately,
acknowledging and confirming his readiness, then he went on, The glass
just went through the floor, Skipper, she's 996 and going down. Wind's
force six rising seven and backing. It looks like we are fair in the
dangerous quadrant of whatever is coming. Thank you, David! Nick
replied. You warm my heart. He st
epped forward, and they helped him
into the canvas bosun's chair. Nick checked the tackle and rigging,
that once-more-for-luck check, and then he nodded.
The interior of the engine room was no longer dark, for Baker had rigged
floodlights high above in the ventilation shaft, but the water was black
with engine oil, and as Nick was lowered slowly down, with legs dangling
from the bosun's chair, it surged furiously back and across like some
panic-stricken monster trying to break out of its steel cage.
That wind-driven swell was crashing into Golden Adventurer's side and
boiling in through the opening, setting up its own wave action, forming
its own currents and eddies which broke and leaped angrily against the
steel bulkheads.
Slower, Nick spoke into the microphone. Stop! His downward progress
was halted ten feet above the starboard main engine block, but the
confined surge of water broke over the engine as though it were a coral
reef, covering it entirely at one instant, and then sucking back and
exposing it again at the next.
The rush of water could throw a man against that machinery with force
enough to break every bone in his body, and Nick hung above it and
studied the purchases for his blocks.
Send down the main block/ he ordered, and the huge steel block came down
out of the shadows and dangled in the floodlights.
Stop. Nick began directing the block into position.
Down two feet. Stop! Now waist-deep in the oily, churning water, he
struggled to drive the shackle pin and secure the block to one of the
main frames of the hull. Every few minutes a stronger surge would hurl
the water over his head, forcing him to cling helplessly, until it
relinquished its grip, and his visor cleared sufficiently to allow him
to continue his task.
He had to pull out and rest after forty minutes of it.
He sat as close as he could to the heat-exchangers of the running diesel
engine of the alternator, taking warmth from them and drinking Angel's
strong sweet Thermos coffee. He felt like a fighter between rounds, his
body aching, every muscle strained and chilled by the efforts of
fighting that filthy churned emulsion of sea water and oil, his flanks
and ribs bruised from harsh contact with the submerged machinery. But
after twenty minutes, he stood up again.
Let's go/ he said and resettled the helmet. The hiatus had given him a