Hungry as the Sea (49 page)

“
Golden Dawn
arrived last Thursday and, according to my agent at El Barras, she coupled up with her pod tanks and made her turn around within three hours.” Bernard slid the tip of the pointer southwards down the eastern coast of the African continent. “I have had no report of her since then, but if she makes good her twenty-two knots, then she’ll be somewhere off the coast of Mozambique, or Maputo as they call it now, and she should double the Cape within the next few days. I will have a report on her then, she’ll be taking on mail as she passes Cape Town.”

“And passengers,” said Nicholas grimly; he knew that Peter and Chantelle were in Cape Town already. He had telephoned the boy the night before and Peter had been wildly elated at the prospect of the voyage on the ultratanker.

“It’s going to be tremendous fun, Dad,” his voice cracking with the onset of both excitement and puberty. “We’ll be flying out to the ship in a helicopter.”

Bernard Wackie changed the subject, now picking up a sheaf of telex flimsies and thumbing swiftly through them. “I’ve confirmed the standby contract for Sea Witch.”

Nicholas nodded, the contract was for Jules Levoisin and the new tug to stand by three offshore working rigs, standard exploration rigs, that were drilling in the Florida Bay, that elbow of shallow water formed by the sweep of the Florida Keys and the low swampy morass of the everglades.

“It’s ridiculous to use a twenty-two-thousand-horsepower ocean-going tug as an oil rig standby.” Bernard lowered the file, and could no longer contain his irritation. “Jules is going to go bananas sitting around playing nursemaid. You are going to have a mutiny on your hands – and you’ll be losing money. The daily hire won’t cover your direct costs.”

“She will be sitting exactly where I want her,” said Nicholas, and switched his attention back to the tiny dot of an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean. “Now Warlock.”

“Right. Warlock.” Bernie picked up another file. “I have tendered for a deep-sea tow.”

“Cancel it,” said Nicholas. “Just as soon as Allen has repaired his generator, I want him running top of the green for Cape town.”

“For Cape Town - top of the green?” Bernard stared at him. “Christ, Nicholas. What for?”

“He won’t be able to catch
Golden Dawn
before she rounds the Cape, but I want him to follow her.”

Nicholas, you’re out of your mind! Do you know what that would cost?”

“If
Golden Dawn
gets into trouble he’ll be only a day or two behind her. Tell Allen he is to shadow her all the way into Galveston roads.”

“Nicholas, you’re letting this whole thing get out of all proportion. It’s become an obsession with you, for God’s sake!”

“With her superior speed,
Warlock
should be up with her before she enters the –”

“Listen to me, Nicholas. Let’s think this all out carefully. What are the chances of
Golden Dawn
suffering structural failure or crippling breakdown on her maiden voyage? A hundred to one against it?  It’s that high?”

“That’s about right,” Nicholas agreed. “A hundred to one.”

“What is it going to cost to hold one ocean-going salvage tug on standby, at a lousy fifteen hundred dollars a day and then to send another halfway around the world at top of the green?” Bernard clasped his brow theatrically. “It’s going to cost you a quarter of a million dollars, if you take into consideration the loss of earnings on both vessels that’s the very least it’s going to cost you. Don’t you have respect for money any longer?”

“Now you understand why I had, to stall the Sheikhs, I couldn’t shoot their money on –” Nicholas smiled calmly “a hundred-to-one chance – but it’s not their money yet. It’s mine. Sea Witch and
Warlock
aren’t their tugs, they are mine. Peter isn’t their son, he’s mine.”

“You’re serious,” said Bernard incredulously. “I do believe you are serious.”

“Right,” Nicholas agreed. “Damned right, I am. Now get a telex off to David Allen and ask him for his estimated time of arrival in Cape Town.”

Chapter 41

Samantha Silver had one towel wrapped around her head like a turban. Her hair was still wet from the luxurious shampooing it had just received. She wore the other towel tucked under her armpits, making a short sarong of it. She still glowed all over from the steaming tub and she smelled of soap and talcum powder. After a long field trip, it took two or three of these soakings and scrubbings to get the salt and the smell of the mangroves out of her pores, and the Everglades mud from under her nails.

She poured the batter into the pan, the oil spitting and crackling with the heat and she sang out, “How many waffles can you eat?”

He came through from the bathroom, a wet towel wrapped around his waist, and he stood in the doorway and grinned at her. “How many have you got?” he asked. She had still not accustomed her ear to the Australian twang.

He was burned and brown as she was, and his hair was bleached at the ends, hanging now, wet from the shower, into his face. They had worked well together, and she had learned much from him. The drift into intimacy had been gradual, but inevitable. In her hurt, she had turned to him for comfort, and also in deliberate spite of Nicholas. But now, if she turned her head away, she would not really be able to remember his features clearly. It took an effort to remember his name – Dennis, of course, Doctor Dennis O’Connor.

She was detached from it all, as though a sheet of armoured glass separated her from the real world. She went through the motions of working and playing, of eating and sleeping, of laughing and loving, but it was all a sham. Dennis was watching her from the doorway now, with that slightly puzzled expression, the helpless look of a person who watches another drowning and is powerless to give aid.

Samantha turned away quickly. “Ready in two minutes,” she said, and he turned back into the bedroom to finish dressing. She flipped the waffles on to a plate and poured a fresh batch of batter. Beside her, the telephone rang and she sucked her fingers clean and picked it up with her free hand. “Sam Silver,” she said.

“Thank God. I’ve been going out of my mind. What happened to you, darling?” Her knees went rubbery under her, and she had to sit down quickly on one of the stools. “Samantha, can you hear me?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Tell me what’s happening –” She could see his face before her, clearly, each detail of it so vividly remembered, the clear green eyes below the heavy brow, the line of cheek-bone and jaw, and the sound of his voice made her shiver. “Samantha.”

“How is your wife, Nicholas?” she asked softly – and he broke off. She held the receiver to her ear with both hands, and the silence lasted only a few beats of her heart, but it was long enough. Once or twice, in moments of weakness during the last two weeks, she had tried to convince herself that it was not true, That it had all been the viciousness of a lying woman. Now she knew beyond any question that her instinct had been correct. His silence was the admission, and she waited for the lie that she knew would come next.

“Would it help to tell you I love you?” he asked softly, and she could not answer. Even in her distress, she felt the rush of relief. He had not lied. At that moment it was the important thing in her life. He had not lied. She felt most it begin to tear painfully, deep in her chest. Her shoulders shook spasmodically.

“I’m coming to get you,” he said into the silence.

“I won’t be here,” she whispered, but she felt it welling up into her throat, uncontrollably. She had not wept before, she had kept it all safely bottled away – but now, the first sob burst from her, and with both hands she slammed the telephone back on to its cradle. She stood there still, shaking wildly, and the tears poured down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

Dennis came into the kitchen behind her, tucking his shirt into the top of his trousers, his hair shiny and wet with the straight lines of the comb through it. “Who was that?” he asked cheerfully, and then stopped aghast. “What is it, love?” He started forward again. “Come on now.”

“Don’t touch me, please,” she whispered huskily, and he stopped again uncertainly. “We are fresh out of milk,” she said without turning. “Will you take the van down to the shopping centre.”

By the time Dennis returned, she was dressed and she had rinsed her face and tied a scarf around her head like a gypsy. They chewed cold, un-appetising waffles in silence, until she spoke, “Dennis, we’ve got to talk.”

“No,” he smiled at her. “It’s all right, Sam, You don’t have to say it. I should have moved on days ago, anyway.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“It was Nicholas, wasn’t it?”

She regretted having told him now, but at the time it had been vitally necessary to speak to somebody. She nodded, and his voice had a sting to it as he went on. “I’d like to bust that bastard in the mouth.”

“We levelled the score, didn’t we?” she smiled, but it was an unconvincing smile, and she didn’t try to hold it.

“Sam, I want you to know that for me it was not just another quick shack job.”

“I know that.” Impulsively she reached out and squeezed his hand. “And thanks for understanding – but is it okay if we don’t talk about it any more?”

Chapter 42

Peter Berg had twisted round in his safety straps, so that he could press his face to the round perspex window in the fuselage of the big Sikorsky helicopter. The night was completely, utterly black.

Across the cabin, the Flight Engineer stood in the open doorway, the wind ripping at his bright orange overalls, fluttering them around his body, and he turned and grinned across at the boy, then he made a windmilling gesture with his hand and stabbed downwards with his thumb. It was impossible to speak in the clattering, rushing roar of wind and engine and rotor.

The helicopter banked gently and Peter gasped with excitement as the ship came into view. She was burning all her lights; tier upon tier, the brilliantly lit floors of her stern quarters rose above the altitude at which the Sikorsky was hovering, and, seeming to reach ahead to the black horizon, the tank deck was outlined with the rows of hooded lamps, like the street-lamps of a deserted city. She was so huge that she looked like a city, there seemed to be no end to her, stretched to the horizon and towering into the sky.

The helicopter sank in a controlled sweep towards the white circular target on the heliport, guided down by the engineer in the open doorway. Skilfully the pilot matched his descent to the forward motion of the ultra-tanker, twenty-two knots at top economical – Peter had swotted the figures avidly – and the deck moved with grudging majesty to the scend of the tall Cape rollers pushing in unchecked from across the length of the Atlantic Ocean.

The pilot hovered, judging his approach against the brisk north-westerly cross-wind, and from fifty feet Peter could see that the decks were almost level with the surface of the sea, pressed down deeply by the weight of her cargo.

Every few seconds, one of the rollers that raced down her length would flip aboard and spread like spilled milk, white and frothy in the deck lights, before cascading back over the side. Made arrogant and unyielding by her vast bulk, the
Golden Dawn
did not woo the ocean, as other ships do. Instead, her great blunt bows crushed the swells, churning them under or shouldering them contemptuously aside.

Peter had been around boats since before he could walk, he too was a sea-creature. But though his eye was keen, it was as yet unschooled, so he did not notice the working of the long wide deck.

Sitting beside Peter on the bench seat, Duncan Alexander knew to look for the movement in the hull. He watched the hull twisting and hogging, but so slightly, so barely perceptibly, that Duncan blinked it away, and looked again. From bows to stern she was a mile and a half long, and in essence she was merely four steel pods held together by an elaborate flexible steel scaffolding and driven forward by the mighty propulsion unit in the stern. There was small independent movement of each of the tank pods, so the deck twisted as she rolled, and flexed like a longbow as she took the swells under her, The crest of these swells were a quarter of a mile apart. At any one time, there were four separate wave patterns beneath
Golden Dawn’s
hull, with the peaks thrusting up and the troughs allowing the tremendous dead weight of her cargo to push downwards; the elastic steel groaned and gave to meet these shearing forces.

No hull is ever completely rigid, and elasticity had been part of the ultra-tanker’s original design, but those designs had been altered. Duncan Alexander had saved almost two thousand tons of steel, by reducing the stiffening of the central pillar that docked the four pods together, and he had dispensed with the double skins of the pods themselves. He had honed
Golden Dawn
down to the limits at which his own architects had baulked; then he had hired Japanese architects to rework the designs. They had expressed themselves satisfied that the hull was safe, but had also respectfully pointed out that nobody had ever carried a million tons of crude petroleum in a single cargo before.

The helicopter sank the last few feet and bumped gently on to the insulated green deck, with its thick coat of plasticized paint which prevented the striking of spark, Even a grain of sand trodden between leather sole and bare steel could ignite an explosive air and petroleum gas mixture.

The ship’s party swarmed forward, doubled under the swirling rotor. The luggage in its net beneath the fuselage was dragged away and strong hands swung Peter down on to the deck. He stood blinking in the glare of deck lamps and wrinkling his nose to the characteristic tanker stench. It is a smell that pervades everything aboard one of these ships, the food, the furniture, the crew’s clothing – even their hair and skin.

It is the thin acrid chemical stench of under-rich fumes vented off from the tanks. Oxygen and petroleum gas are only explosive in a mixture within narrow limits: too much oxygen makes the blend under-rich and too much petroleum gas makes it over-rich, either of which mixtures are non-explosive, non-combustible.