by Derek Fee
Barrett watched the sleek black hull of the Penhalion boat cutting through the blue waves off Sainte Marguerite as it approached the start of the race south of the island of Saint-Honorat.
“We’ll give it to that fucker today,” Milan said, twisting his mouth into a gargoyle grin.
“I’ll deal with Kane. Concentrate on making sure that this tub moves at maximum speed. I want to win this one.” Barrett’s features were set hard.
The thirty powerboats collected around a flotilla of organisers’ boats located south-west of Saint-Honorat. A helicopter bearing the logo of the French national television station, ‘TF1’ hovered directly over the start, whipping up the waves into a sheet of spray. A cameraman was perched perilously on a steel trestle affixed to the door on one side of the helicopter. Further out to sea two safety helicopters were already patrolling the route of the race.
The seas ten kilometres off the coast were not the still pond the drivers had experienced close to Cannes. Long waves broke in white caps lifting and then dropping the stationary powerboats as they waited for the instructions to move to the start.
“Don’t forget, Mark, no sightseeing.” Morweena laughed. “You can take a pleasure cruise along the coast some other time.”
Kane stared straight ahead.
The outline of the famed fortress of Saint-Honorat was directly over their heads when the white flag was raised on the starter’s launch. The blue water around them was immediately churned white as the thirty competitors gunned their engines in anticipation of the start of the race. Kane let the prow of the boat drift around until it was facing directly east along the coastline. Suddenly the starter’s flag fell and millions of pounds worth of highly engineered powerboats shot forward from the starting line.
The course of the second race in the European offshore series ran in a line parallel to the Riviera coast. Each of the fifty laps consisted of a straight run east from Saint-Honorat along the coast towards the Italian section of the Riviera. Each lap measured roughly seven kilometres. A series of buoys had been placed to mark the turning points at each end of the course.
Kane was in the leading group as the boats powered away from the start and onto the first lap of the race. The boat, weighed down by a thousand litres of fuel, skimmed over the waves, occasionally ‘stuffing’ its nose into an oncoming wave. The leading group of ten boats gradually separated until they were spread out across the course at twenty-metre intervals. The noise of the engines was terrific as the throttlemen opened the throttles wide in order to gain an early advantage and some clear water.
“Not a bad start,” David’s voice came crackling over the radio. “We made it in time. You’ll be getting progress reports from us as the race proceeds.”
“It’s good to know you’re there,” Kane replied.
Kane took a quick glance at the GPS. Morweena tried to maximise the shelter they could expect but even at this early stage of the race, the waves were sending up huge sprays which cut visibility and dashed like a thousand hailstones against the toughened canopy of the cockpit.
Barrett settled in behind Kernow as the boats roared away from the start. “Keep the throttle open enough to stay in contact with Kane,” Barrett said into his microphone.
Milan smiled from the other corner of the cockpit. “I love a race with a bit of spice in it. Or maybe I should have said spite.” He cackled into the microphone and eased the throttle forward until they were travelling in the wake of the Penhalion boat.
Constantinos Karakatis was also travelling in the group directly behind the leaders. He peered through the spray which poured in a constant stream over the canopy searching for the black colours of Penhalion’s boat. It was directly in front of him following the inside line by sticking as close as was possible to the coast in the hope of staying away from the roughest water. Karakatis turned the wheel of his boat to the left and brought himself into line behind Barrett. There was no way that Karakatis could match the speed of the two catamarans during the early part of the race; he had already accepted that he would have to play a waiting game. As soon as the catamarans became lighter and were forced to reduce speed, Karakatis would pounce.
The race was beginning to develop into a pattern with the speedier catamarans of Hakonen, Tadeka, Jackson’s Brit1 and Kernow forming a leading group. They sped across the blue water bordering some of the most expensive real estate in the world. A flotilla of yachts and small speedboats clung to the shore serving as vantage points for those interested in the progress of the race. Doc, Reg, and Bill Thompson were out there somewhere on one of those boats, ready in case of trouble or an accident. However, only those in the helicopters saw how the race was unfolding. In this way, powerboat racing was like motor racing – the static spectator witnessing only the order of the cars as they sped past his position. But like motor racing, the main attraction for the spectators was not the two-hour war of attrition between the boats and the drivers but the possibility that something spectacular might happen.
They were ten laps into the race and Kane could already feel the strain in his arms as the boat rose out of the water only to pound against the waves several seconds later. On the turns, the boats swept around the huge white buoy throwing jets of blue water into the air. Tadeka was in the lead closely followed by Hakonen with Jackson and Kane interchanging third and fourth places.
“She didn’t trim properly on that turn,” Morweena said as soon as Kane straightened for the return leg of the eleventh lap.
“Let’s fire the driver,” Kane said, bringing the boat onto course. The hours he’d spent staring at the bank of dials before him made them as familiar to him as the dashboard of his car and he could absorb their information in a glance. “There’s nothing amiss on the panel.”
“Take my word for it, she didn’t trim properly.” The trim indicator in front of her was showing minute changes which should not have been present.
“Any ideas?”
“I don’t understand it,’ Reg said over the communications channel. “She was damn near perfection during the tests. Maybe you got the fuel rotation wrong.”
“No way,” Morweena said, a note of tension in her voice.
Kane felt a slight lurch in the boat when the engines began to pink on him. He struggled to keep the boat on course as the engines coughed and spluttered. “Morweena was right, we’ve got a problem.” The engines gave a final splutter and then faded, running down slowly as the boat came to a stop in the middle of the return leg.
“What the hell’s happening down there?” David’s voice was a full octave above normal. “Reg, get out there now.”
“Already on the way, boss,” Reg said.
“Relax, David,” Kane said in the calmest voice he could muster. “Reg, time for you and the gang to do your stuff.” The canopy was clear and he could see a speedboat racing in their direction.
Reg was not a young man but he belied that fact by jumping from the speedboat onto the rear of the stricken Kernow. He pulled open the engine canopy while Doc clambered on board. “The smell of fuel down here would knock you out.”
Doc handed Reg the emergency toolbox and took out the torch. He ran the light quickly over the engines. The beam of orange light picked out a pool of fuel lying at the bottom of the hull. “There’s fuel all over the bloody place that’s why she lost the trim,” Reg said.
“Can you fix it?” Kane said sharply. “We’re already at the back of the field.”
“Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on down there?” David Penhalion’s shrill voice came over the radio.
Karakatis smiled as Hellas sped past the stricken Penhalion boat which lay dead in the water. Thompson was as good as his word, he thought. It was the best ten thousand pounds he had ever invested. He pointed his boat along the course he had plotted and braced himself as the fifty-foot vessel soared out of the water returning with a crash that shook the hull.
The Riviera would be another nail in the coffin of David Penh
alion and the gods were assisting Karakatis by driving the nail in to the hilt.
Barrett could afford to give no more than a cursory glance at the bobbing hull but it was obvious that Kane’s boat was in serious trouble. “What’s happening with Penhalion’s boat?” he shouted into his microphone.
“We have no idea,” his team manager replied. “It looks like an engine problem. They slowed right down and then came to a complete stop.”
“Keep an eye on them and inform me of their progress.”
The gods were certainly smiling on him today, he thought. Kane was out of the race and even if they managed to get the engines working, he’d finish well down the field.
That bastard Kane had taken his water at Sorrento and cost him a place on the rostrum and a fat cheque to boot. He and Morweena could go to bloody hell now. Revenge was sweet.
The other boats raced past the stricken craft sending out waves in their wake which rocked the hull. Reg had to brace himself against the sides as he continued his examination of the engines. No apparent problem with the fuel pump. The orange beam from the torch moved into the pit of the engine housing and traced the fuel lines running from the engines to the segregated fuel tanks. The thin black tubes stood out against the grey paint of the inner hull. Reg squinted as he followed the lines to the intersection with the tanks.
“Got it,” Reg murmured.
“What is it?” Kane asked.
“The fuel lines are fractured,” Reg said. “No, Mark, they’re not fractured. At a guess, I’d say some bad bastard cut through them with a knife. We’ve been sabotaged.”
Kane thought of the look on Barrett’s face and immediately knew the source. “You heard that, David.”
The helicopter carrying Tom and David was now hovering directly overhead.
“Yes.” There was a sound of defeat in David Penhalion’s voice. “Can you fix it, Reg?”
Reg had already descended into the engine housing with his toolbox in tow. There was hardly room for him to squeeze between the engines. The bastard who’d sabotaged the fuel lines had chosen the most awkward spot. He pushed past the engines while Doc shone the torch on the severed tubing. “A neat job,” he said. “Very neat and clean. I can fix it but it’ll only be a temporary job though with a bit of luck it should hold until the end of the race.”
“Who checked the fuel lines in the final inspection?” Kane asked.
“Reg did the engine checks and Bill checked the fuel lines,” Doc answered.
“As soon as we dock, I want to speak with Bill,” Kane said. “Where is he?”
“He sloped off as the race began,” Doc said. “We haven’t seen him since.”
Reg worked quickly and deftly pulling in the small amount of slack in the fuel lines. He cut the line and made small incisions around the periphery before inserting the other end of the cut tube into the openings. As soon as the two ends of the tubes were sufficiently tight, he bound them with tape.
“For God’s sake, Reg, hurry.” Kane couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice.
“We’ve had it in this race, Mark,” Morweena said.
“I thought it was you who told me that offshore racing was two hours of attrition. We need to stay in there and give this race everything we’ve got.” The other boats were disappearing into the distance ahead of them. “Reg, you finished back there yet?”
“Keep your hair on, skipper.” Reg spliced the final piece of tubing. “The bottom of the engine housing is swimming in fuel.” He pulled a hand pump off the side of the housing and pumped the fuel over the side.
“You’ll never get it all out, Reg.” David’s voice had a resigned calm. “As soon as you’ve drained the bottom as best you can, you’ve got to get going again.”
“What about the trim?” Reg asked, continuing to work the pump.
“Forget about the bloody trim,” he shouted. “What about a loose spark down there? To all intents and purposes, we’ll be travelling in a time bomb. One spark into even a small pool and we can kiss our arses goodbye.”
“I did my best,” Reg said, fixing the pump to the side of the engine housing before slamming down the canopy and joining Doc by jumping into the waiting speedboat.
Kane immediately tried the ignition and after a few turns, the engines took. “What the hell are we waiting for?” he shouted at Morweena.
Morweena pushed the throttle and the boat powered away, a full lap behind the leading boats.
The helicopter carrying David and Tom whirled away skywards above their heads.
“How does it look from up on top?” Kane asked.
“Pretty hopeless, I’m afraid.” David’s voice was flat and listless. Even ten minutes lost in a two-hour race could prove fatal. “The lead boats are a lap ahead.”
“There’s plenty of time to catch the bastards,” Kane said.
“That’s the spirit, Mark,” Tom’s voice came over the radio. “The only thing I’ve learned in forty years of business is that it’s never over until it’s over. Hang in there, boy.”
As the leaders turned the buoy south-west of Saint-Honorat to start the next lap, Kernow was ploughing through the waves behind them. The throttle was fully open and they flew across the surface of the water only touching to obtain another impetus as the propellers bit into the sea. All Kane’s concentration was now on closing the distance between them and the last boat which he couldn’t even see in the distance. He was sure that Barrett was responsible for sabotaging their boat but the actual saboteur would be found nearer to home. He would settle with both Barrett and Bill Thompson when the race was over. “Tardelli’s out,” David’s voice crackled over the radio. “There’s smoke pouring out of the engine housing.”
“How far behind are we?” Kane asked, peering through the spray-soaked Plexiglas canopy. “We can’t see a bloody thing.”
David swung his binoculars around and looked back at the hull of the Kernow speeding through the water. “You’re made up some ground. You’ll soon be among the laggards but the lead boats are still well ahead.”
“Is that bloody throttle fully open?” Kane asked sharply.
“Yes, the bloody throttle is as open as I can keep it without blowing the engines completely,” Morweena said. The engines whined as she was late in throttling back as they leapt out of the water. “Get my point.”
Kane could see the buoy directly ahead and beside it the crimson hull of Tardelli’s stricken boat bobbing in the water. White wisps of smoke were still pouring from the open engine canopy and a motor launch was preparing to take the boat under tow. Tardelli’s luck was out on the Riviera. “It’s never over until it’s over,” Kane said softly, bracing himself as they reared out of the water and came crashing down on the waves. Perhaps Morweena was right and they were pushing too hard. Only time would tell. She throttled back slightly and Kane eased the boat around the turn tilting into the buoy as they cornered. The boat powered out of the turn and raced off in pursuit of the leaders.
“Skata!” Karakatis smashed his hand into the steering wheel. He couldn’t believe the news from his team manager. Penhalion’s boat was back in the race. They couldn’t have fixed the boat that quickly. Thompson had screwed the whole damn thing up. The birdbrain hadn’t even been capable of the not so difficult task of scuppering Penhalion’s boat. He should never have trusted the mechanic. If you wanted something done properly, you had better do it yourself. He would make sure that Thompson paid dearly for his mistake. It wasn’t just a question of recouping the money. There was the question of exacting suitable punishment for the failure to put Kane out of action.
“Give me maximum throttle.” Barrett looked at Milan.
“Ja, Mein Kapitan,” Milan said opening the throttle fully.
The Metro launched into the air after hitting the top of a wave. Barrett watched helplessly as the nose of the boat rose skywards before hanging suspended for a second and then crashing seawards. A bolt of fear shot through his stomach. That was too bloody close, he t
hought.
“Watch what you’re doing, you crazy fucking bastard,” Barrett shouted.
“Only obeying orders, Cap’n,” Milan said with a wild grin on his face.
The war of attrition was now fully engaged. Kane and Morweena pushed the boat to the maximum. He was in among the laggards and knew he must be gaining on the leaders. Morweena and Kane were lost in their own forms of concentration, each one operating by touch to nurse their boat forward at maximum speed. They were two kilometres from the nearest buoy when Doug Jackson’s Brit1 with its distinctively coloured red, white and blue colours appeared through the spray on the canopy. Kane glanced down quickly at the GPS screen as Brit1 skipped over the waves past them heading in the opposite direction. They had managed to cut the lead to maybe three-quarters of a lap. The knowledge that they were gaining galvanised them to further efforts. Kane’s arms and knees were aching from the continual buffeting the boat was taking. The afternoon breeze was rising, whipping the tops of the waves into spray-laden white horses. The boat lifted out of the water as it hit the top of a wave and reared into the air. Morweena immediately cut back the throttle. The fifty-foot hull was suspended in the air before smashing back into the water. Anticipating their landing, she was already opening the throttle and the propellers churned as the stern of the boat hit the water. A steady stream of boats was passing them heading in the opposite direction.
