Sun Dance (42 page)

Our kit box stood at the top of the pier, I ran up grabbed a torch and began shining its beam slowly from side to side. Don't attempt to enter the bay. Hard judging distance at night, would the skipper spot my signal, put up his helm, swing to port? Had he room to clear the headland, make for the Sound?

On the vessel came; a mast rose against the southern sky; a yacht, in these conditions, my God, are they mad? Shipwrecked on the beach, drowned in the swell? She drew level with the jetty, centre of the bay, just outside the rolling tops. Red and green lights came round to face me. She's swinging, heading out? To my amazement her white aft light shone. Surely not trying to anchor?

Eilidh appeared, breathless, “Hector, are you OK?” I gave her a quick hug, “That yacht's in danger, she's going to anchor, I'll run out and take them off, if it goes wrong.” “No, no, Hector don't, you'll be swamped.” Loosing the aft rope off, I hauled our boat head in to the jetty and leapt aboard, “Eilidh, I need to help, could you cast off the bow line?” Perhaps my tone of voice- she slipped the rope. Outboard revving, I cleared the jetty's stonework, running broadside to a steep incoming swell. Not breaking, that would be fatal.

The yacht appeared to be drifting astern. In the glow of her green navigation light, I could make out a figure kneeling at the bow. In spite of the tension, I laughed. Dropping an anchor I hoped, not praying. At hailing distance I throttled back, nosing the rollers, “Do you need help?” A gust took the reply. Taking it as yes, I flicked out fenders and ran close in to the yacht's hull, both boats now rolling through forty degrees.

A bearded figure in yellow oil-skins stood above me, arm looped in the shrouds, balancing to a gyrating hull. I flung a line. Wind took it. Re-coil, second throw. Neatly caught, I was hauled tight alongside. Wait for the yacht's gunnel dipping towards me. One step, I was aboard, clinging to the rigging.

A man's voice at my ear, “I'm trying to get out two anchors, one's out. Can you ease away to starboard? Controls in the cockpit, gear lever goes down for ahead, throttle's the small lever. Go easy into gear,” and looking at the narrowing gap astern, “don't stall the engine.” Using every hand hold he clawed his way along the deck to the bow. I worked my way astern to the rattling of chain being hauled from a locker.

The bucking and rolling getting more erratic, we must still be drifting. Almost thrown overboard I grabbed the winch, dropped into a deep safe cockpit. Close one. Unlash the tiller, it thrashed wildly for a second, I gripped it between my thighs, hung on one handed, reached for the controls. At my right hand, fine, a touch of throttle, very gently into the gear. I steered us carefully to starboard. Violent rolling, it's getting shallow. Should we take to the wee boat, run the swell, leave the yacht before she struck?

A bellow from the bow, “Steady at that!” a rattle of chain, anchor down. I glanced astern. White lines of rollers were smashing into spray on the rocks, the only lightness which showed. Ledges close. Cream breakers ran up the gullies, burst in plumes, fell back sissing. A cable off, if the anchors failed, both boats would splinter on the black seal rocks.

The man fought his way aft and stood in the cockpit beside me.Neither of us spoke, tense and alert, watching. The engine might well tick over, it could never take us out of here.

Would the rolling turn to pitching? Her bow swing to the swell? Tell us the anchors were holding?

I saw Eilidh, high above the breakers. For myself I had no fear, but I felt the anguish of her watching.

The boom and hiss became louder.

Shipwreck closer.

Ten p.m. and Sir Joshua Goldberg sat in his strictly private office pouring over Nuen’s actual and projected profits. In the absence of the thrill of handling raw cash the pleasure of studying figures ending with seven noughts ran a close second. He lit a cigar and blew thoughtful rings. Tomorrow his first report to the Nuen’s Annual General Meeting as its Chairman would be a catalogue of success. His delivery must leave nothing to chance, must side step any awkward questions from the shareholding punters, vis a vis his predecessor Anderson’s abrupt departure. He needed to concentrate, fix the whole performance in his mind, make it look off the cuff.

Previous minutes proposed and seconded, they’d be followed by a series of graphs together with short videos of the Company’s latest projects, thence to coffee, that always got the shareholders relaxed. He’d begin by drawing attention to Nuen’s escalating capital assets, touch modestly on the eighteen percent improvement in profits, magnanimously announce a quarter of one percent increase in dividends and end dramatically by sketching their future global prospects.

Should he keep this gem to the last? He saw himself speaking with statesmanlike gravitas. Shareholders, it pleases me, slight pause, and your good suportive selves, here there would be laughter, to inform you all of the significant news which is emerging from Canada as I speak. Nine times all the oil we’ve so far consumed since the invention of internal combustion engine is contained in the tar sands of Alberta. Naturally we have to contend with the environmental lobby; no, no, cut that, they’re just a shower of green layabouts, easily discredited, given my media mogul friend’s ability to cast them as fanatical extremists bent on killing ecomomic growth and fomenting anarchy. Best to say, you see gentlemen separating oil from sand is energy hungry, extremely energy hungry but not surprisingly, given your Company’s eminence, it presents Nuen with a brilliant opportunity. Already I’ve been approached to construct two nuclear power facilities near the main extraction sites, and rest assured I can confidently predict that many smaller plants will follow.

Sir Joshua imagined he heard the indrawn gasps of surprise and approval. Very privately, his fund management friend’ Nicky’, during the past few months, had been quietly buying him more Nuen shares, nothing too obvious, just acquiring them for a small holding company registered in the British Virgin Islands. He’d called it Elixir Investments. Without doubt, releasing the news of fresh contracts would massage the one thing which interested all finance punters, the price. How he loathed these petty shareholders, loyal only to profit, but there you are, humoured they must be.

Feed them a snippit. The Mining Act of 1872 gives all US citizens the right to mine on public land and fellow shareholders, we at Nuen, on your behalf, are about to exercise that very right. We shall commence extracting ore from the major uranium deposits above the Grand Canyons National Park. Republicans to a share they’d love it, stuff the environmental Democrats. Go west young man. Covered wagons, Colt 45’s, conquer the land, the Gold Rush over again, from a touch pad.

One enthusiastic burst of applause after another, the very anticipation swelled his mind with pleasure. He’d bow his head modestly before holding up a hand to quell the standing ovation he’d asked Nicky to arrange, a nice touch, he congratulated himself, rather clever, just moments before proposing with due humility a small increase in his Chairman’s emoluments. More applause, maybe cheering and a voice from the back of the conference hall, Nicky would see to that, “Due reward Sir Joshua for your skill in guiding Nuen’s affairs.” Nobody would dare to question the amount. The figure involved, about forty percent and the doubling of Director’s bonuses to a figure not remote from six million dollars, must await their next monthly board meeting, prudence dear boy, prudence.

Another attack of palpitations and a slight pain gripped his chest. It had plagued him on and off since the morning’s disturbing event. He belched loudly, and grabbing a bottle from his desk draw swilled down a handful of pills. Fluent cursing followed. By mistake he’d swallowed the blue tablets kept for ‘special occasions’. Now something else would plague him all day!

Much had gone well since the pathetic Andrew Anderson’s very necessary replacement. Getting his screeching wife out of the office that morning proved more difficult. ‘How the mischief did this diabolical woman get past the doorman?’ was Goldberg’s first angry thought, but she had. He’d eyed her without speaking. A wall of perfume advanced towards him. As she perched on the edge of his desk and leant over him, he deliberately switched on the extractor fan. Not exactly his penchant; the ample display of expensive Botox treatment left Sir Joshua unmoved.

“Joshie darling I had to see you, I’ve nobody to help me.” Tears glistened, “Andy sure has vanished, just gone, left little me alone, helpless.” Mascara dripped from her eyelashes. Between sobs she added, “The cruel, heartless monster.” Goldberg gave a nonchalant wave of his hand, “So be it my dear woman and no, I don’t know where your husband has gone.” Given that almost twelve months had elapsed since Goldberg first heard of Anderson’s mysterious departure, it crossed his mind that the discovery of her husband’s absence seemed somewhat belated.

His coolness appeared to fan a flame. She flung her arms around his neck. “I’m running out of money,” and wailing hysterically, “I might have to sell the house.” With considerable difficulty he disentangled her arms shouting, “That, Mrs. Anderson is not my concern!” and praying the stench of perfume wouldn’t cling to his suit, he’d attempted to thrust her out of the room.

Bright red finger nails ripped down his left cheek. A leopard skin handbag hit him squarely under the right jaw, the accuracy of the blow suggested practice. He’d staggered back. Equally accurate, she aimed a kick. The pain was excruciating. The door slammed. She’d gone. Holding himself and staggering across the office he locked it, just in the nick of time. A stream of obscenity filtered through the keyhole. Hefty kicking from outwith thumped round the room. He made it to his desk and telephone before being sick.

The kicking stopped. At the hands of his doorman, the screeching departed down the corridor. Sir Joshua sank down, clutching at himself, rocking back and forth in agony. Later the Doctor examined him carefully, “Gee, that sure is some swelling, Sir Josh.” An observation Goldberg considered totally unnecessary as he lay exposed across his desk. At the next comment, “Yeah man, she sure did hit the bull’s eye,” the patient seethed inwardly, the sheer impudence. This Doctor would wait a long time for his money.

So the day had been trying, and still at his desk, late as it was, Chairman Goldberg finally pushed aside his copy of the Company Accounts, lit another cigar and inhaling deeply, lay back in his swivel chair. Smoke trickled from his nostrils. From time to time his hand hovered over the afflicted parts. Damn tablets, they’d double the pain. Stirring himself, he poured another two fingers of brandy. Thoughts of the morning’s fiendish attack were soothed away. Sir Joshua took to mulling over issues which certainly didn’t lend themselves to disclosure but rather to the pleasure of a little self congratulation.

Strictly off the books, his dealings with the Pentagon and the UK’s M.O.D. were bearing fruit; the weight of his little ‘piggy bank’ as he fondly described his offshore tax haven, nicely proved it. The forthcoming round of this damned International Non-Proliferation Treaty could be tricky. Whether the enriched plutonium which Nuen supplied went into defensive weaponry or otherwise was not his concern and wars had to be fought. Anyway nobody but himself and one Board member, that most helpful ex Westminster P.M., knew of the arrangements. The Company Chief Executive might have a shrewd idea. Given the man’s salary, only a complete idiot would open his mouth. Naturally Anderson would know. Any hint of trouble from that quarter and a certain team of ‘security experts’ would ensure an effect far from beneficial to the health of Nuen’s past Chairman.

Blue cigar smoke hung above his desk. Watching it trail gently towards the ceiling, he allowed his thoughts to envisage the conquest of far horizons. A wall map displaying a considerable part of the globe was already bedecked by Nuen symbols. Propping his heavy left jowl in a cupped hand, he looked proudly across to it. Uranium mines, Africa, Australia, Grand Canyon, big deposits there, the price of ore climbing nicely as demand increased, sites for the next range of eleven nuclear plants in America be flagged up, more pins in the map, where next in a world thirsty for cheap energy and luxury? Iran was out of bounds for several reasons, rather a pity. As much as he mistrusted the Iranians, business was business.

Anyway, hurrah at last! UK’s top priority, an agreement on the underground nuclear waste repository, was through. The secret test drill, given a slight adjustment to the results, did the trick, solid rock. The Nuclear Safety Authority raised no objections, National security interests had side- stepped tiresome planning consent; work would begin in the autumn. The next generation of nuclear power stations to be built in England were ‘privately’ in the bag. Sir Joshua gazed fondly at the map.

Nuclear energy to all nations, it will save the planet, the world would worship him yet.

Cigar smoke and a brandy at his elbow, how soothing; he screwed another cigar stub into an ornate silver ash tray which sat on his calf leather inlayed desk. This glittering little object d’art depicted a reclining nude Apollo, the embodiment of masculine pulchritude. He smiled, it’d been a naughty present from Nicky Fellows, his ‘funds management friend’, bent on becoming a billionaire, poor chap. As Goldberg was wont to reflect, beware of megalomaniacs and religious fanatics, or worse, a combination of both and never, never trust a man who’s fond of money. Sir Joshua’s half closed eyes focused on the heap of smouldering ash, his last cigar. Slowly it crumbled to nothing.