by Wilbur Smith
‘Just one thing I didn't tell you,’ he said. ‘My son is on Golden Dawn.’
The immense revolving storm that was code-named Lorna was nearing full development. Her crest was reared high above the freezing levels so she wore a splendid mane of frosted white ice particles that streamed out three hundred miles ahead of her on the jet stream of the upper troposphere.
From one side to the other, she now measured one hundred and fifty miles across, and the power unleashed within her was of unmeasurable savagery.
The winds that blew around her centre tore the surface off the sea and bore it aloft at speeds in excess of one hundred and fifty miles an hour, generating precipitation that was as far beyond rain as death is beyond life. Water filled the dense cloud-banks so that there was no clear line between sea and air.
It seemed now that madness fed upon madness, and like a blinded and berserk monster, she blundered across the confined waters of the Caribbean, ripping the trees and buildings, even the very earth from the tiny islands which stood in her path.
But there were still forces controlling what seemed uncontrollable, dictating what seemed to be random, for, as she spun upon a spinning globe, the storm showed the primary trait of gyroscopic inertia, a rigidity in space that was constant as long as no outside force was applied, Obeying this natural law, the entire system moved steadily eastwards at constant speed and altitude above the surface of the earth, until her northern edge touched the land-mass of the long ridge of land that forms the greater Antilles.
Immediately another gyroscopic law came into force, the law of precession. When a deflecting force is applied to the rim of a spinning gyro, the gyro moves not away from, but directly towards that force.
Hurricane Lorna felt the land, and, like a maddened bull at the flirt of the matador's cape, she turned and charged towards it, crossing the narrow high strips of Haiti in an orgy of destruction and terror until she burst out of the narrow channel of the Windward Passage into the open beyond.
Yet still she kept on spinning and moving. Now, barely three hundred miles ahead of her, across those shallow reefs and banks prophetically named Hurricane Flats after the thousands of other such storms that had followed the same route during the memory of man, lay the deeper waters of the Florida Straits and the mainland of the continental United States of America.
At twenty miles an hour, the whole incredible heaven-high mass of crazed wind and churning clouds trundled north-westwards.
Duncan Alexander stood under the bogus Degas ballet dancers in the owner's stateroom. He balanced easily on the balls of his feet and his hands were clasped lightly behind his back, but his brow was heavily furrowed with worry and his eyes darkly underscored with plum-coloured swollen bags of sleeplessness.
Seated on the long couch and on the imitation Louis Quatorze chairs flanking the fireplace, were the senior officers of Golden Dawn - her Captain, Mate and Chief Engineer, and in the leather -studded wing-backed chair across the wide cabin sat Charles Gras, the engineer from Atlantique. It seemed as though he had chosen his seat to keep himself aloof from the owner and officers of the crippled ultra-tanker.
He spoke now in heavily accented English, falling back on the occasional French word which Duncan translated quickly, The four men listened to him with complete attention, never taking their eyes from the sharp pale Parisian features and the foxy bright eyes.
‘My men will have completed the re-assembly of the main bearing by noon today. To the best of my ability, I have examined and tested the main shaft. I can find no evidence of structural damage, but I must emphasize that this does not mean that no damage exists. At the very best, the repairs must be considered to be temporary.’ He paused and they waited, while he turned deliberately to Captain Randle. ‘I must urge you to seek proper repair in the nearest port open to you, and to proceed there at the lowest speed which will enable you efficiently to work the ship.’
Randle twisted uncomfortably in his seat, and glanced across at Duncan. The Frenchman saw the exchange and a little steel came into his voice.
‘If there is structural distortion in the main shaft, operation at speeds higher than this may result in permanent and irreversible damage and complete breakdown. I must make this point most forcibly.’
Duncan intervened smoothly. ‘We are fully burdened and drawing twenty fathoms of water. There are no safe harbours on the eastern seaboard of America, that is even supposing that we could get permission to enter territorial waters with engine trouble. The Americans aren't likely to welcome us. Our nearest safe anchorage is Galveston roads, on the Texas coast of the Gulf of Mexico - and then only after the tugs have taken off our pod tanks outside the 100 fathom line.’
The tanker's First Officer was a young man, probably not over thirty years of age, but he had so far conducted himself impeccably in the emergencies the ship had encountered. He had a firm jaw and a clear level eye, and he had been the first into the smoke-filled shaft tunnel.
‘With respect, sir,’ and they all turned their heads towards him, 'Miami has broadcast a revised hurricane alert that includes the Straits and southern Florida. We would be on a reciprocal course to the hurricane track, a directly converging course.’
‘Even at fifteen knots, we would be through the Straits and into the Gulf with twenty-four hours to spare,’ Duncan stated, and looked to Randle for confirmation.
‘At the present speed of the storm's advance - yes,’ Randle qualified carefully. ‘But conditions may change-‘
The Mate persisted. ‘Again, with respect, sir. Our nearest safe anchorage is the lee of Bermuda Island-‘
‘Do you have any idea of the value of this cargo?’ Duncan rasped. ‘No, you do not. Well, I will inform you. It is $85,000,000. The interest on that amount is in the region of $25,000 a day.’ His voice rose a note, again that wild note to it. 'Bermuda does not have the facilities to effect major repairs-‘
The door from the private accommodation opened silently and Chantelle Alexander stepped into the stateroom. She wore no jewellery, a plain pearl silk blouse and a simple dark woollen skirt, but her skin had been gilded by the sun and she had lightly touched her dark eyes with a make-up that emphasized their size and shape. Her beauty silenced them all and she was fully aware of it as she crossed to stand beside Duncan.
‘It is necessary that this ship and her cargo proceed directly to Galveston,’ she said softly.
‘Chantelle -' Duncan began, and she silenced him with a brusque gesture of one hand.
‘There is no question about the destination and the route that is to be taken.’
Charles Gras looked to Captain Randle, waiting for him to assert the authority vested in him by law. But when the young Captain remained silent, the Frenchman smiled sardonically and shrugged a world-weary dismissal of further interest. ‘Then I must ask that arrangements be made for my two assistants and myself to leave this ship immediately we have completed the temporary repairs.’ Again Gras emphasized the word temporary'.
Duncan nodded. ‘If we resume our sailing when you anticipate, and even taking into consideration the low fuel condition of the helicopter, we will be within easy range of the east coast of Florida by dawn tomorrow.’ Chantelle had not taken her eyes from the Golden Dawn's officers during this exchange, and now she went on in the same quiet voice.
‘I am quite prepared to accept the resignation of any of the officers of this ship who wish to join that flight.’
Duncan opened his mouth to make some protest at her assumption of his authority, but she turned to him with a small lift of the chin, and something in her expression and the set of her head upon her shoulders reminded him forcibly of old Arthur Christy. There was the same toughness and resilience there, the same granite determination; strange that he had not noticed it before.
‘Perhaps I have never looked before,’ he thought. Chantelle recognized the moment of his capitulation, and calmly she turned back to face Golden Dawn's officers.
One by one, they drop
ped their eyes from hers; Randle was the first to stand up.
‘If you will excuse me, Mrs. Alexander, ‘I must make preparations to get under way again.’ Charles Gras paused and looked back at her, and he smiled again, as only a Frenchman smiles at a pretty woman.
‘Magnifique!’ he murmured, and lifted one hand in a graceful salute of admiration before he stepped out of the stateroom.
When Chantelle and Duncan were alone together, she turned to him slowly, and she let the contempt show in her expression.
‘Any time you feel you have not got the guts for it, let me know, will you?’
‘Chantelle –‘
‘You have got us into this, me and Christy Marine. Now you'll get us out of it, even if it kills you.’ Her lips compressed into a thinner line and her eyes slitted vindictively. ‘And it would be nice if it did,’ she said softly.
The pilot of the Beechcraft Baron, pulled back the throttles to 22o of boost on both engines, and slid the propellers into fully fine pitch, simultaneously beginning a gentle descending turn towards the extraordinary-looking vessel that came up swiftly out of the low early morning haze that spilled over from the islands.
The same haze had blotted the low silhouette of the Florida coast from the western horizon, and even the pale green water and shaded reefs of little Bahamas Bank were washed pale by the haze, and partially obscured by the intermittent layer of stratocumulus cloud at four thousand feet.
The Baron pilot selected 20o of flap to give the aircraft a nose down attitude which would afford a better forward vision, and continued his descent down through the cloud. It burst in a brief grey puff across the windshield before they were out into sunlight again.
‘What do you make of her?’ he asked his co-pilot.
‘She's a big baby!’ the co-pilot tried to steady his binoculars. 'Can't read her name.’
The enormously wide low bows were pushing up a fat sparkling pillow of churning water, and the green decks seemed to reach back almost to the limits of visibility before rising sheer into the stern quarters.
‘Son of a gun,’ the pilot shook his head. ‘She looks like the vehicle-assembly building on Cape Kennedy.’
‘She does too,’ agreed his co-pilot. The same square unlovely bulk of that enormous structure was repeated in smaller scale by the navigation bridge of the big ship. ‘I'll give her a call on 16.’ The co-pilot lowered his binoculars and thumbed the microphone as he lifted it to his lips.
‘South-bound bulk carrier, this is Coast Guard November Charlie One Five Niner overhead. Do you read me?’
There was the expected delay; even in confined and heavily trafficked waters, these big bastards kept a sloppy watch and the spotter fumed silently.
‘Coast Guard One Five Niner, this is Golden Dawn. Reading you five by five - Going up to 22.’
Two hundred miles away the Trog knocked over the shell-casing, spilling damp and stinking cigar butts over the deck, in his haste to change frequency to channel 22 as the operator on board Golden Dawn had stipulated, at the same time switching in both the tape recorder and the radio direction-finder equipment.
High up in Warlock's fire-control tower, the big metal ring of the direction-finding aerial turned slowly, lining up on the transmissions that boomed so clearly across the ether, repeating the relative bearing on the dial of the instrument on the Trog's cluttered bench.
‘Good morning to you, Golden Dawn,’ the lilting Southern twang of the coastguard navigator came back. ‘I would be mightily obliged for your port of registry and your cargo manifest.’
‘This ship is registered Venezuela.’ The Trog dexterously made the fine tuning, scribbled the 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 en route 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 0130 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 lengt
h 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 wind-chopped 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.