by Wilbur Smith
‘ She's been sending in company code since midnight. Her traffic was so heavy that I was watching her. ’
The green glow of the sets gave the little man a bilious cast, and made his teeth black, so that he looked like an actor from a horror movie.
‘ You recorded? ’ Nick demanded, and the Trog switched on the automatic playback of his tape monitors, recapitulating every message the distressed ship had sent or received since the previous midnight. The jumbled blocks of code poured into the room, and the paper strip printed out with the clatter of its keys.
Had Duncan Alexander changed the Christy Marine code? Nick wondered. It would be the natural procedure, completely logical to any operations man. You lose a man who has the code, you change immediately. It was that simple. Duncan had lost Nick Berg, he should change. But Duncan was not an operations man. He was a figures and paper man, he thought in numbers, not in steel and salt water.
If Duncan had changed, they would never break it. Not even with the Decca. Nick had devised the basis of the code. It was a projection that expressed the alphabet as a mathematical function based on a random six-figure master, changing the value of each letter on a progression that was impossible to monitor.
Nick hurried out of the stinking gloom of the radio room with the print-out in his hands.
The navigation bridge of Warlock was gleaming chrome and glass, as bright and functional as a modern surgical theatre, or a futuristic kitchen layout.
The primary control console stretched the full width of the bridge, beneath the huge armoured windows. The old - fashioned wheel was replaced by a single steel lever, and the remote control could be carried out on to the wings of the bridge on its long extension cable, like the remote on a television set, so that the helmsman could con the ship from any position he chose.
Illuminated digital displays informed the master instantly of every condition of his ship: speed across the bottom at bows and stern, speed through the water at bows and stern, wind direction and strength, together with all the other technical information of function and mul ti function. Nick had built the ship with Christy money, and stinted not at all.
The rear of the bridge was the navigational area, and the chart-table divided it neatly with its overhead racks containing the 106 big blue volumes of the Global Pilot and as many other volumes of maritime publications. Below the table were the multiple drawers, wide and flat to contain the spread Admiralty charts that covered every corner of navigable water on the globe.
Against the rear bulkhead stood the battery of electronic navigational aids, like a row of fruit machines in a Vegas gambling hall.
Nick switched the big Decca Satellite Navaid into its computer mode and the display lights flashed and faded and relit in scarlet.
He fed it the six-figure control, numbers governed by the moon phase and date of dispatch. The computer digested this instantaneously, and Nick gave it the last arithmetical proportion known to him. The Decca was ready to decode and Nick gave it the block of garbled transmission - and waited for it to throw back gibberish at him. Duncan must have altered the code. He stared at the printout.
Chri sty Ma ri n e from Master of Adventurer. 2216 GMT.72° 16 ’ S. 32° 05 ’ W. Underwater ice damage sustained m idships starboard. Precautionary shutdown mains. Auxiliary generators activated during damage survey. Stand by.
So Duncan had let the code stand then. Nick groped for the croc-skin case of cheroots, and his hand was steady and firm as he held the flame to the top of the thin black tube. He felt the intense desire to shout aloud, but instead, he drew the fragrant smoke into his lungs.
‘ Plotted ,’ said David Allen from behind him. Already on the spread chart of the Antarctic he had marked in the reported position. The transformation was complete, the First Officer had become a grimly competent professional. There remained no trace of the high-coloured undergraduate.
Nick glanced at the plot, saw the dotted ice line far above the Adventurer's position, saw the outline of the forbidding continent of Antarctica groping for the ship with merciless fingers of ice and rock.
The Decca printed out the reply:
Master of Adventurer from Christy Marine. 22.22 GMT. Standing by.
The next message from the recording tape was flagged nearly two hours later, but was printed out almost continuously from the Trog's recording.
Christy Marine from Master of Adventurer. 0005 GMT. 72° 18 ’ S . 32° 05 ’ W. Water contained. Restarted mains. New course CAPE TOWN direct. Speed 8 knots. Stand by.
Dave Allen worked swiftly with parallel rulers and protractor.
‘ While she was without power she drifted thirty-four nautical miles, south-southeast - there is a hell of a wind or big current setting down there ,’ he said, and the other deck officers were silent and strained. Although none of them would dare crowd the Master at the Decca, yet in order of seniority they had taken up vantage points around the bridge best suited to follow the drama of a great ship in distress.
The next message ran straight out from the computer, despite the fact that it had been dispatched many hours later.
Christy Marine from Master of Adventurer. 0546 GMT. 72° 16 ’ S. 32° 12 ’ W. Explosion in flooded area. Emergency shutdown all. Water gaining. Request your clearance to issue ‘ all ships signify. ’ Standing by.
Master of Adventurer from Christy Marine. 0547 GMT. You are cleared to issue ‘ signify . ’ Break. Break. Break. You are expressly forbidden to contract tow or salvage without reference Christy Marine. Acknowledge.
Duncan was not even putting in the old chestnut, except in the event of danger to human life.
The reason was too apparent. Christy Marine underwrote most of its own bottoms through another of its subsidiaries. The London and European Insurance and Finance Company, The self-insurance scheme had been the brain-child of Alexander Duncan himself when first he arrived at Christy Marine. Nick Berg had opposed the scheme bitterly, and now he might live to see his reasoning being justified.
‘ Are we going to signify? ’ David Allen asked quietly.
‘ Radio silence ,’ snapped Nick irritably, and began to pace the bridge, the crack of his heels muted by the cork coating on the deck.
‘ Is this my wave? ’ Nick demanded of himself, applying the old rule he had set for himself long ago, the rule of deliberate thought first, action after.
The Golden Adventurer was drifting in the ice-fields two thousand and more miles south of Cape Town, five days and nights of hard running for the Warlock. If he made the go decision, by the time he reached her, she might have effected repairs and restarted, she might be under her own command again. Again, even if she was still helpless, Warlock might reach her to find another salvage tug had beaten her to the scene. So now it was time to call the roll.
He stopped his pacing at the door to the radio room and spoke quietly to the Trog.
‘ Open the telex line and send to Bach Wackie in Bermuda quote call the roll unquote. ’
As he turned away, Nick was satisfied with his own forethought in installing the satellite telex system which enabled him to communicate with his agent in Bermuda, or with any other selected telex station, without his message being broadcast over the open frequencies and monitored by a competitor or any other interested party. His signals were bounced through the high stratosphere where they could not be intercepted.
While he waited, Nicholas worried. The decision to go would mean abandoning the Esso oil-rig tow. The tow fee had been a vital consideration in his cash flow situation. Two hundred and twenty thousand sterling, without which he could not meet the quarterly interest payment due in sixty days ’ time - unless, unless ... He juggled figures in his head, but the magnitude of the risk involved was growing momentarily more apparent - and the figures did not add up. He needed the Esso tow. God, how badly he needed it!
‘ Bach Wackie are replying ,’ called the Trog above the chatter of the telex receiver, and Nick spun on his heel.
He had appointed
Bach Wackie as the agents for Ocean Salvage because of their proven record of quick and aggressive efficiency. He glanced at his Rolex Oyster and calculated that it was about two o'clock in the morning local time in Bermuda, and yet his request for information on the disposition of all his major competitors was now being answered within minutes of receipt.
For Master Warlock from Bach Wackie latest reported positions. J ohn Ross dry dock Durban. Woltema Wolteraad Esso tow Torres Straits to Alaska Shelf .
That took care of the two giant Safmarine tugs; half of the top opposition was out of the race.
Wittezee Shell exploration tow Galveston to North Sea. Grootezee lying Brest –
That was the two Dutchmen out of it. The names and positions of the other big salvage tugs, each of them a direct and dire threat to Warlock, ran swiftly from the telex and Nicholas chewed his cheroot ragged as he watched, his eyes slitted against the spiralling blue smoke, feeling the relief rise in him as each report put another of his competitors in some distant waters, far beyond range of the stricken ship.
‘ La Mouette ,’ Nick's hands balled into fists as the name sprang on to the white paper sheet, ‘ La Mouette discharged Brazgas tow Golfo San Jorge on I4th reported enroute Buenos Aires. ’
Nick grunted like a boxer taking a low blow, and turned away from the machine. He walked out on to the open wing of the bridge and the wind tore at his hair and clothing.
La Mouette, the sea-gull, a fanciful name for that black squat hull, the old-fashioned high box of superstructure, the traditional single stack; Nick could see it clearly when he closed his eyes.
There was no doubt in his mind at all. Jules Levoisin was already running hard for the south, running like a hunting dog with the scent hot in its nostrils.
Jules had discharged in the southern Atlantic three days ago. He would certainly have hunkered at Co m odoro. Nick knew how Jules mind worked, he was never happy unless his bunkers were bulging.
Nick flicked the stub of his cigar away, and it was whisked far out into the harbour by the wind.
He knew that La Mouette had refitted and installed new engines eighteen months before. With a nostalgic twinge, he had read a snippet in Lloyd's List. But even nine thousand horsepower couldn't push that tubby hull at better than eighteen knots, Nick was certain of that. Yet even with Warlock's superior speed, La Mouette was better placed by a thousand miles. There was no room for complacency. And what if La Mouette had set out to double Cape Horn instead of driving north up the Atlantic? If that had happened, and with Jules Levoisin's luck it might just have happened, then La Mouette was a long way inside him already.
Anybody else but Jules Levoisin, he thought, why did it have to be him? And oh God, why now? Why now when I am so vulnerable - emotionally, physically and financially vulnerable. Oh God, why did it come now?
He felt the false sense of cheer and well-being, with which he had buoyed himself that morning, fall away from him like a cloak, leaving him naked and sick and tired again.
I am not ready yet, he thought; and then realized that it was probably the first time in his adult life he had ever said that to himself. He had always been ready, good and ready, for anything. But not now, not this time.
Suddenly Nicholas Berg was afraid, as he had never been before. He was empty, he realized, there was nothing in him, no strength, no confidence, no resolve. The depth of his defeat by Duncan Alexander, the despair of his rejection by the woman he loved, had broken him. He felt his fear turn to terror, knowing that his wave had come, and would sweep by him now, for he did not have the strength to ride it.
Some deep instinct warned him that it would be the last wave, there would be nothing after it. The choice was go now, or never go again. And he knew he could not go, he could not go against Jules Levoisin, he could not challenge the old master. He could not go - he could not reject the certainty of the Esso tow, he did not have the nerve now to risk all that he had left on a single throw. He had just lost a big one, he couldn't go at risk again.
The risk was too great, he was not ready for it, he did not have the strength for it.
He wanted to go to his cabin and throw himself on his bunk and sleep - and sleep. He felt his knees buckling with the great weight of his despair, and he hungered for the oblivion of sleep.
He turned back into the bridge, out of the wind. He was broken, defeated, he had given up. As he went towards the sanctuary of his day cabin, he passed the long command console and stopped involuntarily.
His officers watched him in a tense, electric silence.
His right hand went out and touched the engine telegraph, sliding the pointer from off to stand by .
‘ Engine Room ,’ he heard a voice speak in calm and level tones, so it could not be his own. ‘ Start main engines, ’ said the voice.
Seemingly from a great distance he watched the faces of his deck officers bloom with unholy joy, like old-time pirates savouring the prospect of a prize.
The strange voice went on, echoing oddly in his ears, ‘ Number One, ask the Harbour Master for permission to clear harbour immediately - and, Pilot, course to steer for the last reported position of Golden Adventurer, please. ’
From the corner of his eye, he saw David Allen punch the Third Officer lightly but gleefully on the shoulder before he hurried to the radio telephone.
Nicholas Berg felt suddenly the urge to vomit. So he stood very still and erect at the navigation console and fought back the waves of nausea that swept over him, while his officers bustled to their sea-going stations.
‘ Bridge. This is the Chief Engineer ,’ said a disembodied voice from the speaker above Nick's head. ‘ Main engines running. ’ A pause and then that word of special Aussie approbation. ‘ Beauty! –‘ but the Chief pronounced it in three distinct syllables, ‘Be-yew-dy!’
Warlock's wide-flared bows were designed to cleave and push the waters open ahead of her and in those waters below latitude 40° , she ran like an old bull otter, slick and wet and fast for the south.
Uninterrupted by any land-mass, the cycle of great atmospheric depressions swept endlessly across those cold open seas, and the wave patterns built up into a succession of marching mountain ranges.
Warlock was taking them on her starboard shoulder, bursting through each crest in a white explosion that leapt from her bows like a torpedo strike, the water coming aboard gre en and clear over her high fore dec k , and sweeping her from stern to stern as she twisted and broke out, dropping sheer into the valley that opened ahead of her. Her twin ferro-bronze propellers broke clear of the surface, the slamming vibration instantly controlled by the sophisticated variable-pitch gear, until she swooped forward and the propellers bit deeply again, the thrust of the twin Mirrlees diesels hurtling her towards the slope of the next swell.
Each time it seemed that she could not rise in time to meet the cliff of water that bore down on her. The water was black under the grey sunless sky. Nick had lived through typhoon and Caribbean hurricane, but had never seen water as menacing and cruel as this. It glittered like the molten slag that pours down the dump of an iron foundry and cools to the same iridescent blackness.
In the deep valleys between the crests, the wind was blanketed so they fell into an unnatural stillness, an eerie silence that only enhanced the menace of that towering slope of water.
In the trough, Warlock heeled and threw her head up, climbing the slope in a gut-swooping lift, that buckled the knees of the watch. As she went up, so the angle of her bridge tilted back, and that sombre cheerless sky filled the forward bridge windows with a vista of low scudding cloud.
The wind tore at the crest of the wave ahead of her, ripping it away like white cotton from the burst seams of a black mattress, splattering custard-thick spume against the armoured glass. Then Warlock put her sharp steel nose deeply into it. Gouging a fat wedge of racing green over her head twisting violently at the jarring impact, dropping sideways over the crest, and breaking out to fall free and repeat the cycle again.
‘ If she is running ,’ Nick thought, and knew that there was no doubt. La Mouette was running as frantically as was Warlock - and as silently. Jules Levoisin had taught Nick the trick of silence. He would not use his radio until he had the liner on his radar scan. Then he would come through in clear, ‘ I will be in a position to put a line aboard you in two hours. Do you accept "Lloyd's Open Form"? ’
The Master of the distressed vessel, having believed himself abandoned without succour, would over react to the promise of salvation, and when La Mouette came bustling up over the horizon, flying all her bunting and with every light blazing in as theatrical a display as Jules could put up, the relieved Master would probably leap at the offer of 'Lloyd' s Open’ a decision that would surely be regretted by the ship's owners in the cold and unemotional precincts of an Arbitration court.
When Nick had supervised the design of Warlock, he had insisted that she look good as well as being able to perform. The master of a disabled ship was usually a man in a highly emotional state. Mere physical appearance might sway him in the choice between two salvage tugs coming up on him. Warlock looked magnificent; even in this cold and cheerless ocean, she looked like a warship. The trick would be to show her to the master of Golden Adventurer before he struck a bargain with La Mouette.
Nick could no longer sit inactive in his canvas seat. He judged the next towering swell and, with half a dozen quick strides, crossed the bridge deck in those fleeting moments as Warlock steadied in the trough. He grabbed the chrome handrail above the Decca computer.