by the propeller, and the Dicky shrugged off her lethargy and lifted her
bows to the short steep swell of the Gulf Stream.
A moment longer Hank stood frozen, and then he dived back into the
wheelhouse and spun the spokes of the wheel through his fingers,
sheering off sharply, but still staring out through the side glass.
The Golden Dawn's bows filled his whole vision now, but the smaller
vessel was scooting frantically out to one side, and the tanker's bows
were swinging malestically in the opposite direction.
A few seconds more and they would be clear, but the bow wave caught them
and Hank was flung across the wheelhouse. He felt something break in
his chest, and heard the snap of bone as he hit, then immediately
afterwards there was the crackling rending tearing impact as the two
hulls came together and he was thrown back the other way, sprawling
wildly across the deck.
He tried to claw himself upright, but the little fishing boat was
pitching and cavorting with such abandon that he was thrown flat again.
There was another tearing impact as the vessel was dragged down the
tanker's side, and then flung free to roll her tails under and bob like
a cork in the mill race of the huge ship's wake.
Now, at last, he was able to pull himself to his feet, and doubled over,
clutching his injured ribs, he peered dazedly through the wheelhouse
glass.
Half a mile away, the tanker was lazily turning up into the wind, and
there was no propeller wash from under her counter. Hank staggered to
the doorway, and looked out, The deck was still awash, but the water
they had taken on was pouring out through the scuppers. The railing was
smashed, most of it dangling overboard and the planking was splintered
and torn, the ripped timber as white as bone in the sunlight.
Behind him, Samantha came crawling up the ladder from the engine room.
There was a purple swelling in the centre of her forehead, she was
soaking wet and her hands were filthy with black grease. He saw a livid
red burn across the back of one hand as she lifted it to brush tumbled
blonde hair out of her face.
Are you all right, Sam? Water's pouring in/ she said. I don't know how
long the pump can hold it. Did you fix the motor? he asked.
Samantha nodded. I held the throttle open/ she said, and then with
feeling, but I'll be damned to hell if I'll do it again. Somebody else
can go down there, I've had my turn. Show me how/ Hank said, and you
can take the wheel.
The sooner we get back to Key Biscayne, the happier I'll be. Samantha
peered across at the receding bulk of Golden Dawn.
My God! she shook her head with wonder. My God!
We were lucky!
. . .
Mackerel skies and mares'tails, Make tall ships carry short sails.
Nicholas Berg recited the old sailor's doggerel to himself, shading his
eyes with one hand as he looked upwards.
The cloud was beautiful as fine lacework; very high against the tall
blue of the heavens it spread swiftly in those long filmy scrolls.
Nicholas could see the patterns developing and expanding as he watched,
and that was a measure of the speed with which the high winds were
blowing. That cloud was at least thirty thousand feet high, and below
it the air was clear and crisp - only out on the western horizon the
billowing silver and the blue thunderheads were rising, generated by the
land-mass of Florida whose low silhouette was still below their horizon.
They had been in the main current of the Gulf Stream for six hours now.
It was easy to recognize this characteristic scend of the sea, the short
steep swells marching close together, the particular brilliance of these
waters that had been first warmed in the shallow tropical basin of the
Caribbean, the increased bulk flooding through into the Gulf of Mexico
and there heated further, swelling in volume until they formed a hillock
of water which at last rushed out through this narrow drainhole of the
Florida Straits, swinging north and east in a wide benevolent wash,
tempering the climate of all countries whose shores it touched and
warming the fishing grounds of the North Atlantic.
In the middle of this stream, somewhere directly ahead of Warlock's
thrusting bows, the Golden Dawn was struggling southwards, directly
opposed to the current which would clip eighty miles a day off her
speed, and driving directly into the face of one of the most evil and
dangerous storms that nature could summon.
Nicholas found himself brooding again on the mentality of anybody who
would do that; again he glanced upwards at the harbingers of the storm,
those delicate wisps of lacey cloud.
Nicholas had sailed through a hurricane once, twenty years ago, as a
junior officer on one of Christy Marine's small grain carriers, and he
shuddered now at the memory of it.
Duncan Alexander was a desperate man even to contemplate that risk, a
man gambling everything on one fall of the dice. Nicholas could
understand the forces that drove him, for he had been driven himself -
but he hated him now for the chances he was taking, Duncan Alexander was
risking Nicholas son, and he was risking the life of an ocean and of the
millions of people whose existence was tied to that ocean. Duncan
Alexander was gambling with stakes that were not his to place at hazard.
Nicholas wanted one thing only now, and that was to get alongside Golden
Dawn and take off his son. He would do that, even if it meant boarding
her like a buccaneer, In the Master's suite, there was a locked and
sealed arms cupboard with two riot guns, automatic 12 gauge shotguns and
six Walther PK-38 Pistols. Warlock had been equipped for every possible
emergency in any ocean of the world, and those emergencies could include
piracy or mutiny aboard a vessel under salvage. Now Nicholas was fully
prepared to take an armed party on board Golden Dawn, and to take his
chances in any court of law afterwards.
Warlock was racing into the chop of the Gulf Stre and scattering the
spray like startled white doves, but she was running too slowly for
Nicholas and he turned away impatiently and strode into the navigation
bridge.
David Allen looked up at him, a small frown of preoccupation marring the
smooth boyish features.
Wind is moderating and veering westerly/ he said, and Nicholas
remembered another line of doggerel: When the wind moves against the sun
Trust her not for back she'll run. He did not recite it, however, he
merely nodded and said: We are running into the extreme influence of
Lorna.
The wind will back again as we move closer to the centre. Nicholas went
on to the radio room and the Trog looked up at him. It was not
necessary for Nicholas to ask, the Trog shook his head. Since that long
exchange with the coastguard patrol early that morning, Golden Dawn had
kept her silence.
Nicholas crossed to the radarscope and studied the circular field for a
few minutes; this usually busy seaway was peculiarly empty. There were
some small craft cross
ing the main channel, probably fishing boats or
pleasure craft scuttling for protection from the coming storm. All
across the islands and on the mainland of Florida the elaborate
precautions against the hurricane assault would be coming into force.
Since the highway had been laid down on the spur of little islands that
formed the Florida Keys, more than three hundred thousand people had
crowded in there, in the process transforming those wild lovely islands
into the Tai Mahal of ticky-tacky. If the hurricane struck there, the
loss of life and property would be enormous, it was probably the most
vulnerable spot on a long exposed coastline. For a few minutes,
Nicholas tried to imagine the chaos that would result if a million tons
of toxic crude oil was driven ashore on a littoral already ravaged by
hurricane winds. It baulked his imagination, and he left the radar and
moved to the front of the bridge. He stood staring down the narrow
throat of water at a horizon that concealed all the terrors and
desperate alarms that his imagination could conjure up.
The door to the radio shack was open and the bridge was quiet, so that
they all heard it clearly; they could even catch the hiss of breath as
the speaker paused between each sentence, and the urgency of his tone
was not covered by the slight distortion of the VHF carrier beam.
Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is the bulk oil carrier Golden Dawn. Our
position is 79 50'WeSt 2 5 43'North. Before Nicholas reached the
chart-table, he knew she was still a hundred miles ahead of them, and,
as he pored over the table, he saw his estimate confirmed, 'We have lost
our propeller with main shaft failure and we are drifting out of
control. Nicholas head flinched as though he had been hit in the face.
He could imagine no more dangerous condition and position for a ship of
that size - and Peter was on board.
,This is Golden Dawn calling the United States Coast Guard service or
any ship in a position to afford assistance - Nicholas reached the radio
shack with three long strides, and the Trog handed him the microphone
and nodded.
Golden Dawn this is the salvage tug Warlock. I will be in a position to
render assistance within four hours Damn the rule of silence, Peter was
on board her.
,- Tell Alexander I am offering Lloyd's Open Form and I want immediate
acceptance. He dropped the microphone and stormed back on to the
bridge, his voice clipped and harsh as he caught David Allen's arm.
Interception course and push her through the gate/ he ordered grimly.
Tell Beauty Baker to open all the taps. He dropped David's arm and spun
back to the radio room.
Telex Levoisin on Sea Witch. I want him to give me a time to reach
Golden Dawn at his best possible speed/ and he wondered briefly if even
the two tugs would be able to control the crippled and powerless Golden
Dawn in the winds of a hurricane.
Jules replied almost immediately. He had hunkered at Charleston, and
cleared harbour six hours previously. He was running hard now and he
gave a time to Golden Dawn's position for noon the next day, which was
also the forecast time of passage of the Straits for hurricane Lorna,
according to the meteorological up-date they had got from Miami two
hours before, Nicholas thought as he read the telex and turned to David
Allen.
David, there is no precedent for this that I know of but with my son on
board Golden Dawn I just have to assume command of this ship, on a
temporary basis, of course. I'd be honoured to act as your First
Officer again, sir/ David told him quietly, and Nicholas could see he
meant it.
If there is a good salvage, the Master's share will still be yours,
Nicholas promised him, and thanked him with a touch on the arm. Would
you check out the preparations to put a line aboard the tanker? David
turned to leave the bridge, but Nicholas stopped him. 'By the time we
get there, we will have the kind of wind you have only dreamed about in
your worst nightmares - just keep that in mind. 'Telex, screeched the
Trog. Golden Dawn is replying to our offer. Nicholas strode across to
the radio room, and read the first few lines of message as it printed
out.
OFFER CONTRACT OF DAILY HIRE FOR TOWAGE THIS VESSEL FROM PRESENT
POSITION TO GALVESTON ROADS The bastard/ Nicholas snarled. He's playing
his fancy games with me, in the teeth of a hurricane and with my boy
aboard. Furiously he punched his fist into the palm of his other hand.
Right! he snapped. We'll play just as rough! Get me the Director of
the U.S. Coast Guard at the Fort Lauderdale Headquarters - get him on
the emergency coastguard frequency and I will talk to him in clear. The
Trog's face lit with malicious glee and he made the contact, Colonel
Ramsden/ Nicholas said. This is the Master of Warlock. I'm the only
salvage vessel that can reach Golden Dawn before passage of Lorna, and
I'm probably the only tug on the eastern seaboard of America with 22,000
horsepower. Unless the Golden Dawn's Master accepts Lloyd's Open Form
within the next sixty minutes, I shall be obliged to see to the safety
of my vessel and crew by running for the nearest anchorage - and you're
going to have a million tons of highly toxic crude oil drifting out of
control into your territorial waters, in hurricane conditions. The
Coast Guard Director had a deep measured voice, and the calm tones of a
Stand by, Warlock, I am going to contact Golden Dawn direct on Channel
16. Nicholas signalled the Trog to turn up the volume on Channel 16 and
they listened to Rarnsden speaking directly to Duncan Alexander.
In the event your vessel enters United States territorial waters without
control or without an attendant tug capable of exerting that control, I
shall be obliged under the powers vested in me to seize your vessel and
take such steps to prevent pollution of our waters as I see fit. I have
to warn you that those steps may include destruction of your cargo. Ten
minutes later the Trog copied a telex from Duncan Alexander personal to
Nicholas Berg accepting Lloyd's Open Form and requesting him to exercise
all dispatch in taking Golden Dawn in tow.
I estimate we will be drifting over the 100-fathom line and entering
U.S. territorial waters within two hours, the message ended.
While Nicholas read it, standing out on the protected wing of Warlock's
bridge, the wind suddenly fluttered the paper in his hand and flattened
his cotton shirt against his chest. He looked up quickly and saw the
wind was backing violently into the east, and beginning to claw the tops
of the Gulf Stream swells. The setting sun was bleeding copiously
across the high veils of cirrus cloud which now covered the sky from
horizon to horizon.
There was nothing more that Nicholas could do now.
Warlock was running as hard as she could, and all her crew were quietly
going about their preparations to pass a wire and take on tow. All he
could do was wait, but that was always the hardest pa
rt.
Darkness came swiftly but with the last of the light, Nicholas could
just make out a dark and mountainous shape beginning to hump up above
the southern horizon like an impatient monster. He stared at it with
awful fascination, until mercifully the night hid Lorna's dreadful face.
The wind chopped the Gulf Stream up into quick confused seas, and it did
not blow steadily, but flogged them with squally gusts and rain that
crackled against the bridge windows with startling suddenness.
The night was utterly black, there were no stars, no source of light
whatsoever, and Warlock lurched and heeled to the pattemless seas.
Barometer's rising sharply/ David Allen called suddenly. It's jumped
three millibars - back to 100 S. The trough/said Nicholas grimly. It
was a classic hurricane formation, that narrow girdle of higher pressure
that demarcated the outer fringe of the great revolving spiral of
tormented air. We are going into it now. And as he spoke the darkness
lifted, the heavens began to burn like a bed of hot coals, and the sea
shone with a sullen ruddy luminosity as though the doors of a furnace
had been thrown wide.
Nobody spoke on Warlock's bridge, they lifted their faces with the same
awed expressions as worshippers in a lofty cathedral and they looked up
at the skies.
Low cloud raced above them, cloud that glowed and shone with that
terrible ominous flare, Slowly the light faded and changed, turning a
paler sickly greenish hue, like the shine on putrid meat. Nicholas
spoke first.
The Devil's Beacon/he said, and he wanted to rationalize it to break the
superstitious mood that gripped them all. It was merely the rays of the
sun below the western horizon catching the cloud peaks of the storm and
reflected downwards through the weak cloud cover of the trough but
somehow he could not find the right words to denigrate that phenomenon
that was part of the mariner's lore, the malignant beacon that leads a
doomed ship on to its fate.
The weird light faded slowly away leaving the night even darker and more
foreboding than it had been before David/ Nicholas thought quickly of
something to distract his officers, have we got a radar contact yet? and
the new Mate roused himself with a visible effort and crossed to the
radarscope.
The range is very confused/ he said, his voice still subdued, and