by Wilbur Smith
bearing on his pad, ripped off the page and darted into Warlock's
navigation bridge.
Golden Dawn is sending in clear/ he squeaked with an expression of
malicious glee.
Call the Captain/ snapped the deck officer, and then as an afterthought,
and ask Mr. Berg to come to the bridge. The conversation between
coastguard and ultra-tanker was still going on when Nicholas burst into
the radio room, belting his dressing-gown.
Thank you for your courtesy, sir/ the coastguard navigator was using
extravagant Southern gallantry, fully aware that Golden Dawn was outside
United States territorial waters, and officially beyond his government's
jurisdiction. I would appreciate your port of final destination. We
are enroute Galveston for full discharge of cargo. 'Thank you again,
sir. And are you apprised of the hurricane alert in force at this time?
Affirmative. From Warlock's bridge, David Allen appeared in the
door-way, his face set and flushed.
She must be under way again/ he said, his disappointment so plain that
it angered Nicholas yet again. She is into the channel already. 'I'd be
obliged if you would immediately put this ship on a course to enter the
Straits and close with her as soon as is possible, Nicholas snapped, and
David Allen blinked at him once then disappeared on to his bridge,
calling for the change in course and increase in speed as he went.
Over the loudspeaker, the coastguard was being politely persistent.
Are you further apprised, sir, of the up-date on that hurricane alert
predicting storm passage of the main navigable channel at 1200 hours
local time tomorrow? Affirmative. Golden Dawn's replies had become
curt.
May I further trouble you, sir, in view of your sensitive cargo and the
special weather conditions, for your expected time of arrival abeam of
the Dry Tortugas Bank marine beacon and when you anticipate clearing the
channel and shaping a northerly course away from the predicted hurricane
track? Stand-by. There was a brief hum of static while the operator
consulted the deck officer and then the Golden Dawn came back, Our ETA
Dry Tortugas Bank beacon is 0 1 3 0 tomorrow. There was a long pause now
as the coastguard consulted his headquarters ashore on one of the closed
frequencies, and then: I am requested respectfully, but officially, to
bring to your attention that very heavy weather is expected ahead of the
storm centre and that your present ETA Dry Tortugas Bank leaves you very
fine margins of safety, sir. Thank you, coastguard One five Niner. Your
transmission will be entered in the ship's log. This is Golden Dawn
over and out. The coastguard's frustration was evident, clearly he
would have loved to order the tanker to reverse her course.
We will be following your progress with interest, Golden Dawn. Bon
voyage, this is coastguard One five Niner over and out. Charles Gras
held his blue beret on with one hand, while with the other he lugged his
suitcase. He ran doubled up, instinctively avoiding the ear-numbing
clatter of the helicopter's rotor.
He threw his suitcase through the open fuselage door and then hesitated,
turned and scampered back to where the ship's Chief Engineer stood at
the edge of the white painted helipad target on Golden Dawn's tank deck.
Charles grabbed the Engineer's upper arm and leaned close to shout in
his ear.
Remember, my friend, treat her like a baby, like a tender virgin - if
you have to increase speed, do so gently - very gently. The Engineer
nodded., his sparse sandy hair fluttering in the down-draught.
Good luck/ shouted the Frenchman. Bonne chance! He slapped the man's
shoulder. I hope you don't need it! He darted back and scrambled up
into the fuselage of the Sikorsky, and his face appeared in one of the
portholes. He waved once, and then the big ungainly machine rose slowly
into the air, hovered for a moment and then banked low over the water,
setting off in its characteristic away nose-down attitude for the
mainland, still hidden by haze and distance.
Dr. Samantha Silver, dressed in thigh-high rubber waders and with her
sleeves rolled up above the elbows, staggered under the weight of two
ten-gallon plastic buckets of clams as she climbed the back steps of the
laboratory building.
Sam! down the length of the long passageway, Sally-Anne screamed at
her. We were going to leave without you! What is it? Sam dumped the
buckets with relief, slopping salt water down the steps.
Johnny called - the anti-pollution patrol bespoke Golden Dawn an hour
ago.
She's in the Straits, she was abeam Matanilla reef when they spotted her
and she will be abeam of Biscayne Key before we can get out there, if we
don't leave now. I'm coming. Sam hefted her heavy buckets, and broke
into a rubber-kneed trot. I'll meet you down on the wharf did you call
the TV studio? There's a camera team on the way/ Sally-Anne yelled back
as she ran for the front doors. Hurry, Sam - fast as you like! Samantha
dumped the clams into one of her tanks, switched on the oxygen and as
soon as it began to bubble to the surface, she turned and raced from the
laboratory and out of the front doors.
Golden Dawn's deck officer stopped beside the radarscope, glanced down
at it idly, then stooped with more attention and took a bearing on the
little glowing pinpoint of green light that showed up clearly inside the
ten-mile circle of the sweep.
He grunted, straightened, and walked quickly to the front of the bridge.
Slowly, he scanned the green windchopped sea ahead of the tanker's
ponderous bows.
Fishing boat/ he said to the helmsman. But they are under way. He had
seen the tiny flash of a bow wave. And they are right in the main
navigational channel - they must have seen us by now, they are making a
turn to pass us to starboard. He dropped the binoculars and let them
dangle against his chest. Oh thank you. He took the cup of cocoa from
the steward, and sipped it with relish as he turned away to the
chart-table.
One of the tanker's junior officers came out of the radio room at the
back of the bridge.
Still no score" he said, and only injury time left now/ and they fell
into a concerned discussion of the World Cup soccer match being played
under floodhghts at Wembley Stadium on the other side of the Atlantic.
If it's a draw then it means that France is in the There was an excited
shout from the radio room, and the junior officer ran to the door and
then turned back with an excited grin. England has scored! The deck
officer chuckled happily. That will wrap it up. Then with a start of
guilt he turned back to his duties, and had another start, this time of
surprise, when he glanced into the radarscope.
What the hell are they playing atV he exclaimed irritably, and hurried
forward to scan the sea ahead.
The fishing boat had continued its turn and was now bows on.
Damn them. We'll give them a buzz. He reached up for the handle of the
foghorn and blew three long blasts, that echoed out mournful
ly across
the shallow greenish water of the Straits. There was a general movement
among the officers to get a better view ahead through the forward bridge
windows.
They must be half asleep out there. The deck officer thought quickly
about calling the Captain to the bridge, If it came to manoeuvering the
ship in these confined waters, he flinched from the responsibility. Even
at this reduced speed, it would take Golden Dawn half an hour and seven
nautical miles to come to a stop; a turn in either direction would swing
through a wide arc of many miles before the ship was able to make a go
change, of course - God, then there was the effect of the wind against
the enormously exposed area of the towering stern quarters, and the full
bore of the Gulf Stream driving out of the narrows of the Straits. The
problems of manoeuvering the vessel struck a chill of panic into the
officer - and the fishing boat was on collision course, the range
closing swiftly under the combined speeds of both vessels. He reached
for the call button of the intercom that connected the bridge directly
to the Captain's quarters on the deck below, but at that moment Captain
Randle came bounding up the private staircase from his day cabin.
What is it? he demanded. What was that blast on the horn? 'Small
vessel holding on to collision course, sir. The officer's relief was
evident, and Randle seized the handle of the foghorn and hung on to it.
God, what's wrong with them? The deck is crowded/ exclaimed one of the
officers without lowering his binoculars. Looks as though they have a
movie camera team on the top deck. Randle judged the closing range
anxiously; already the small fishing vessel was too close for the Golden
Dawnto stop in time.
Thank God/ somebody exclaimed. They are turning away. They are
streaming some sort of banner. Can anybody read that? They are
heaving-to/ the deck officer yelled suddenly.
They are heaving-to right under our bows., Samantha Silver had not
expected the tanker to be so big.
From directly ahead, her bows seemed to fill the horizon from one side
to the other, and the bow wave she threw up ahead of her creamed and
curved like the set of the long wave at Cape St Francis when the surf
was up.
Beyond the bows, the massive tower of her navigation bridge stood so
tall it looked like the skyline of The Miami Beach, one of those massive
hotel buildings seen from close inshore.
It made her feel distinctly uneasy to be directly under that on-rushing
steel avalanche.
Do you think they have seen us? Sally-Anne asked beside her, and when
Samantha heard her own unease echoed by the pretty girl beside her, it
steeled her.
Of course they have/ she announced stoutly so that everyone in the small
wheelhouse could hear her. That's why they blew their siren. We'll
turn aside at the last minute. They aren't slowing down, Hank Petersen,
the helmsman, pointed out huskily, and Samantha wished that Tom Parker
had been on board with them. However, Tom was up in Washington again,
and they had taken the Dicky to sea with a scratch crew, and without Tom
Parker's written authorization. What do you want to do, Sam? And they
all looked at her.
I know a thing that size can't stop, but at least we're going to make
them slow down.
Are the TV boys getting some stuff? Samantha asked, to delay the moment
of decision. Go up, Sally-Anne, and check them. Then to the others,
You-all get the banner ready, we'll let them get a good look at that.
Listen, Sam. Hank Petersen's tanned intelligent face was strained. He
was a tunny expert, and was not accustomed to handling the vessel except
in calm and uncluttered waters. I don't like this, we're getting much
too close. That thing could churn us right under, and not even notice
the bump. I want to turn away now. His voice was almost drowned by the
sudden sky-crashing blast of the tanker's fog-horns.
Son of a gun, Sam, I don't like playing chicken-chicken with somebody
that size. Don't worry, we'll get out of their way at the last moment.
All rightV Samantha decided. Turn go to port, Hank. Let's show them the
signs, I'm going to help them on deck. The wind tore at the thin white
canvas banner as they tried to run it out along the side of the
deckhouse, and the little vessel was rolling uncomfortably while the TV
producer was shouting confused stage directions at them from the top of
the wheelhouse.
Bitterly Samantha wished there was somebody to take commands somebody
like Nicholas Berg - and the banner tried to wrap itself around her
head.
The Dicky was coming around fast now, and Samantha shot a glance at the
oncoming tanker and felt the shock of it strike in the pit of her
stomach like the blow of a fist. It was huge, and very close - much too
close, even she realized that.
At last she managed to get a turn of the thin line that secured the
banner around the stern rail - but the light canvas had twisted so that
only one word of the slogan was readable. POISONER', it accused in
scarlet, crudely painted letters followed by a grinning skull and
crossed bones.
Samantha dived across the deck and struggled with the flapping canvas;
above her head the producer was shout excitedly; two of the others were
trying to help her; Sally-Anne was screaming 'Go back! Go back! and
waving both arms at the great tanker. You poison our oceans! Everything
was becoming confused and out of control, the Dicky swung ahead into the
wind and pitched steeply, the person next to her lost his footing and
knocked painfully into Samantha, and at that moment she felt the change
of the engine beat.
Tricky Dicky's diesel had been bellowing furiously as Hank opened the
throttle to its stop, using full power to bring the little vessel around
from under the menace of those steel bows.
The smoking splutter of the exhaust pipe that rose vertically up the
side of the deckhouse, had made all speech difficult - but now it died
away, and suddenly there was only the sound of the wind.
Even their own raised voices were silenced, and they froze, staring out
at Golden Dawn as she bore down on them without the slightest check in
her majestic approach.
Samantha was the first one to recover, She ran across the plunging deck
to the wheelhouse.
Hank Petersen was down on his knees beside the bulkhead, struggling
ineffectually with the conduit that housed the controls to the engine
room on the deck below.
Why have you stopped? Samantha yelled at him, and he looked up at her
as though he were mortally wounded.
It's the throttle linkage/ he said. It's snapped again., Can't you fix
it? and the question was a mockery. A mile away, Golden Dawn came down
on them - silent, menacing, unstoppable.
For ten seconds Randle stood rigid, both hands gripping the foul weather
rail below the sill of the bridge windows His face was set, pale and
finely drawn , as he watched the stern of the wallowing fishing boat for
the renewed churning of its prop.
He knew that he could not turn nor stop his ship in time to avoid
collision, unless the small vessel got under way immediately, and took
evasive action by going out to starboard under full power.
Damn them to hell/ he thought bitterly, they were in gross default. He
had all the law and the custom of the sea behind him; a collision would
cause very little damage to Golden Dawn, perhaps she would lose a little
paint, at most a slightly buckled plate in the reinforced bows - and
they had asked for it He had no doubts about the object of this crazy,
irresponsible seamanship. There had been controversy before the Golden
Dawn sailed. He had read the objections and seen the nut-case
environmentalists on television. The scarletpainted banner with the
ridiculously melodramatic jolly Roger made it clear that this was a
boatload of nutters attempting to prevent Golden Dawn entering American
waters.
He felt his anger boiling up fiercely, These people always made him
furious - if they had their way, there would be no tanker trade, and now
they were deliberately threatening him, placing him in a position which
might prejudice his own career. He already had the task of taking his
ship through the Straits ahead of the hurricane. Every moment was vital
- and now there was this.
He would be happy to maintain course and speed, and to run them down.
They were flaunting themselves, challenging him to do it - and, by God,
they deserved it, However, he was a seaman, with a seaman's deep concern
for human life at sea. It would go against all his instincts not to
make an effort to avoid collision, no matter how futile that effort
would be. Then beside him one of his officers triggered him.
There are women on board her - look at that! Those are women! That was
enough. Without waiting for confirmation, Randle snapped at the
helmsman beside him.
Full port rudder! And with two swift paces he had reached the engine
room telegraph. It rang shrilly as he pulled back the chromed handle to
Full Astern'.
Almost immediately, the changed beat came up through the soles of his
feet, as the great engine seven decks below the bridge thundered
suddenly under all emergency power, and the direction of the spinning
main propeller shaft was abruptly reversed.
Randle spun back to face ahead. For almost five minutes, the bows held