Kay staggered a few steps beyond the line of the ship's side, then pitched overboard.
Had she fallen from her original position, nothing could have stopped her being smashed to pieces on the deck. As it was, she catapulted clear of the ship. But a sea's surface from a height of twenty metres is as hard as a deck. She turned a complete circle in the air. It was not a quick kill fall. Even as my mind went numb, I sensed that she was falling more slowly than she should have. The wind had got under her loose track-suit top, ballooning into the loose-fitting pants as well.
It took a little less than five seconds for her to hit the water.
I followed her fall into the sea. A human body is a puny thing. It left no tell-tale splash where it hit the foam-torn surface. As Jetwind lifted again I caught a glimpse of a terror-struck face with staring eyes only a few metres from the ship's side.
I have no conscious memory of my actions during those brief seconds of her fall. All I know is that I had ripped a life-belt from the rail and was poised to throw it when her face showed again momentarily against the grey-white sea. Even as my mind registered the fact that she was still alive, another thought supervened: no human could live long in that icy ocean.
I hurled the life-belt. I could only pray that it would land near her. I didn't pause to think about the next flood of water sweeping along the deck. I took it up to the armpits. How I reached the starboard bridge wing within seconds, I shall never know. I threw open the door.
The bridge watch — Tideman was there now — stood frozen at my frenzied entry.
'Back the tops'ls — Numbers One and Two masts! Man overboard!'
No skipper gives an order like that in that sort of gale and sea unless he is mad or drunk. It is a life-or-death manoeuvre for a sailing ship — like pulling a Grand National steeplechaser up short while hell bent over Beecher's Brook. The ship, running off before the wind, would crash into the troughs of waves as big as hillocks. That meant she would roll — roll herself full of water, roll the masts clean off her. Even if she survived, she faced the same dangers a second time as she came round to pick up the rescue boat.
I was already shouting for a boat. 'Number Four boat — clear away! Volunteers!'
It was a small, four-man harbour runabout which was secured on the port, or lee, side of the quarter-deck.
I found Jim Yell at my elbow with two other of Tideman's men he had conjured up from somewhere.
Tideman held my eyes before obeying. He was silently asking the unaskable question — was it worth risking the ship and the lives of all aboard for the sake of one person who would already be starting to stiffen in the cold? Would it not be better rather to let her go? One life for the sake of twenty-eight? One life for the sake of twenty million dollars' worth of ship?
I never admired Tideman more than at that moment. When I did not respond, he gave the kill order steadily. 'Helm down!'
We four sprinted for the boat. Jim Yell cut it loose and in a moment we seemed to be pitching among the breaking crests. Once clear of Jetwind's stern, the full fury of the storm struck us. The light was as grey as a shroud. I steered by guess and by God. Somewhere to windward Kay was gasping out her life. It was the very greyness of the storm which saved Kay. 'Flare, sir! Thereaway!'
I was at the outboard tiller. Already the freezing metal was stripping my skin.
I got a sight of the self-igniting life-belt flare. That didn't mean to say Kay was in it. I guessed it to be a couple of hundred metres away; separating the boat from it were hills of water. I riveted my gaze in that direction.
Then — one of the men shouted. 'The ship — the ship, sir! Christ, she's going over!'
Maybe Tideman alone was capable of saving her. Nine degrees was Jetwind's theoretical maximum heel before things started to give. She must have been superbly built to have stood up to twelve degrees in those killer troughs. To my overwrought senses the sail plan seemed to flatten down almost parallel with the water. Would Tideman blow away her top-masts with the ring charges? It seemed the only way to save her now.
I tore my eyes away from the sight when Jim Yell shouted. 'There! There she is, sir! It's her!' 'Is she… dead?' 'No -1 saw her face.'
The next wave intervened like disaster itself. From its trough we had no sight of either Jetwind or Kay. We went deep, deep, into icy, white-lashed water.
When we soared to the crest — baling frantically — Kay was only two waves away. I hoped she could see us.
'Keep your eyes on her!' I yelled. If Jetwind were going to her death, there was nothing any of us could do now. Afloat in that tiny boat would be only a way of prolonging our agony. No wonder the old windjammer crews refused to learn to swim.
Jim Yell reached for an oar. 'Take-it easy, Jim! You'll smash in her face if that touches her! Hold the boat off till we can grab her!' 'She'll be safe enough with me, sir!'
The flare pinpointed her position. She was slumped over, head down, arms trailing. Her mouth and nose were perilously close to the water. 'Easy, boys! Let her come down into the trough to us!' Kay seemed to hang there at the summit, but the life-belt could not have taken more than a few moments to coast down towards us. Then — our boat cork-screwed away.
‘For Chrissake!' exclaimed one of the men. "Don't lose her now!'
I didn't though. The tiller felt ready to take my arm out of its socket but I forced the boar in close.
Kay's face was white against the scarlet paint of the lifebelt, Blotches of purplish-blue were forming round her mouth and eyes. 'Handsomely, boys!'
Yell leaned outboard, a man holding his legs, and plucked Kay, life-belt and all, to safety. I tried to steady my voice. 'Is there life in her, Jim?'
For an answer, she moaned and gagged sea-water on the bottom boards.
'Take over the tiller,’ I ordered, pulling off my thick jersey and pants. I'd already shed my oilskins. 'The cold will kill her if we don't get her warm soon.'
Jim and I got rid of her soaking track-suit. We rolled her over on her face and tried to clear her lungs. The roughness of the bucking boat platform helped our life-giving massage. She coughed and gagged repeatedly.
I picked her up. She was as limp as a rag doll. Her eyes were staring; I don't think she saw me. 'She'll make it, never you worry,' Yell consoled me.
With only my oilskins now, I realized how perishing cold it was.
'It's warmth she needs,' I repeated. I held her close to me to try and absorb some of my body heat. 'There's not such a thing as a blanket aboard, I suppose?' 'No, sir. Not in a boat this size.'
'Okay, let's get back,' I said urgently. 'Head for the ship, will you?' I said to the man at the tiller.
The tillerman made a gesture which took in the waves, the wind, the wide emptiness of the Southern Ocean. 'Ship, sir? There is no ship.'
Chapter 21
There was no ship.
Fear as icy as the gale plucked at me. From the vantage height of the next wave-crest all that confronted us was an empty sea, its foam-covered lips snarling for vengeance. 'See anything, Jim?' I asked.
He levered himself to a standing position. He tensed, and said quickly, 'Ice, sir! Close by! A couple of hundred metres away to port!'
His warning triggered a hope. Maybe it was the same growler Kay had tried to warn me against before she had pitched overboard. If that were so, it could save usyeto 'How big?' 'Big enough, sir. A growler.'
I knew what he meant. Big enough to have ripped open Jetwind. Growlers never float alone. There must be others around. If the ice were reduced to growler size, it was probably because the sea was slightly warmer than I thought. Kay could live. Could we? I tried to remember what they call in Antarctica the 'wind chill factor' — how much the human body can stand at various wind speeds. All I could recall was a ridiculous phrase about face protection being mandatory.
If it was the same growler that Kay had spotted, it could provide a marker, the point from which Jetwind started her turn into the eye of the gale. That is, if she hadn'
t rolled herself into eternity. She might therefore be coming back in a wide circle to pick up the wind… 'Close the ice!'
'Pardon, sir,' asked Jim Yell. 'Is that wise? If Jetwind spots the growler on her radar, she'll steer clear of it.'
He had not carried out my order but I wasn't going to pull my rank with a sailor of his calibre.
'Okay, Jim. There's the life-belt flare. The ice will act as a mirror and give it ten times the range it otherwise would have.'
One of the other men broke in excitedly. 'There are also a couple of emergency flares in this locker, sir. We could shoot 'em off against the growler, too!'
'Good man!' I said. I tried to imagine how Tideman would act. He would have everything furled except a couple of top-gallants, just enough to keep the ship from being pooped in order to have the maximum time to search for us over the previous area. He'd have every light aboard full on in the hope that we would spot him. He'd use rockets and flares.
Jim Yell edged the boat near the growler. Kay started to shudder. I said to Jim, 'If the ship doesn't come soon, she'll die.' ‘She won't be alone, sir. The rest of us can't last very long either.'
The growler seemed almost a friend, something stable, amongst the gyrating waters. One face angled away like the shape of a radar dish. Jim threw the life-belt plus flare against its base. The unreal light made our faces look like those of sacrificial victims. Kay's was corpse-like. 'Boat flare next, sir?' 'Fire away.' This flare was blue. It blinded us. 'Careful — keep the boat off!' I warned. 'A bang against the growler and we've had it.' Two minutes. Five minutes.
I was starting to shake with the cold. Sea-water Kay had gagged inside my oilskins froze on my chest. 'Try another flare, sir?' 'Not yet. Give the first one time.'
One of the men exclaimed suddenly as the boat soared to a wave-top. 'Seems like a bit of a glow — there, astern, sir.'
'Could be another berg’ I replied cautiously. 'Keep an eye on it.5 'It is something’ the man insisted. 'There — something white-square’ Tabular berg — or top-gallant?
We strained our eyes into the murk. It was difficult to judge distances — the grim uniformity of the water offered no scale. 'Two, sir!' yelled the man excitedly. 'It's two — it's a couple of top-gallants, sir!' ' See anything, Jim?'
Yell managed to stand on the gunnel while the others supported him.
'It's them all right, sir!' he shouted. 'It's the ship! Wait — she's turning away — that growler's scared her off…' 'Fire another flare! Note the ship's position!'
The brilliant spurt of orange-yellow penetrated even my closed eyelids. When the flare had burned down, we fixed our eyes on the quarter where we had last seen the sails. There they were. 'She's answering, sir!'
A brilliant white flare rose from the still invisible hull. I saw the angle of the sails diminish — she was turning towards us!
Tideman handled the rescue like a genius. In minutes the hull appeared below the burnished, streaming yards and masts which rose up out of the murk like the bright wings of an angel of salvation. We burned our last flare. The ship neared, slowed, then turned to give us a lee under the stern to bring the boat alongside. Tideman furled all sails except one top-gallant; his judgement of the balance of forces between the amount of sail necessary to keep the ship from being swamped and overshooting the boat was masterly. One false move, and Jetwind could never have beaten back a second time. They threw ropes down to us. 'You and Kay first, sir!' Kay couldn't be swung up alone for fear of her smashing against the ship's side. Jim Yell and I roped her fast to me. We waited for the ship's roll; eager hands hauled us up and grabbed us. 'Get those men aboard — quick,' I told the group on deck. 'Then cut the boat loose. Let it go.' 'Aye, aye, sir.'
I gave rapid-fire orders for blankets, towels and hot-water bottles for Kay. Her cabin was close by, in the stern; accommodation.
One of the rescuers remarked, 'You look pretty done in yourself, sir. Let us carry her to the cabin.' 'No. Just get me some clothes. Anything warm. 'Wait — a glass of hot rum too.' 'At the double, sir.' 'I'll be in her cabin.'
I laid Kay on her bunk. I stripped the soaking, icy under-garments off her. I got to work towelling her dry and warm. Her nipples were purpled and crumpled like metal foil; an old scar near her right groin had come lividly alive from the cold. Her head still lolled; her colour was a blend of grey and blue. She breathed: I could not detect any telltale choke-gurgle which would mean her lungs were full of water.
I paused only long enough in my life-restoring massage to renew my supply of towels and hot-water bottles. The messenger thrust a pair of pants, woollen shirt and jersey at me. I whipped into the clothes; the hot rum down my throat was worth more than any of them. I turned Kay over on her face; she was still senseless.
I turned away to switch the heating to maximum. When I returned to Kay, she had managed to roll herself over. Her body was now pink from my rough massage. Her eyes were open and conscious. She extended her arms to me with a lead-like effort. 'Peter!' 'Kay!'
I took her under the armpits and held her to me. Her mouth was against mine; her lips were cold but her tongue was warm. 'My love, my love!'
I reached for the survival gear heaped on her bunk and chair. Kay smiled and shook her head. 'Not that. Just you.’ I never got to her.
From down the corridor came the rattle of automatic fire.
Chapter 22
Kay's cabin was the second down the corridor; there were four others between it and the crew's dining-saloon at the end. I yanked open the door and sprinted. Cordite smoke was wisping from the last doorway — Brockton's cabin. I rushed in.
Brockton's body had been almost cut in half at shoulder level by the blast. He lay sprawled, face down, over the black brief-case he had had at his feet on the flight from the Cape to the Falklands.
My impetus almost impaled me on two stubby barrels of skeleton-butted UZIs. I grabbed the finning under the nearest one to save myself from falling. It was hot. The man who held it swept it free savagely. I found myself looking into Grohman's face.
Before I could say anything, the muzzle of the second sub-machinegun was jammed into my ribs from the other side. The cabin was full of the bitter smell of death, cordite, and the kill-sweat of the two men. In a flash I recognized Grohman's companion as one of the men I had seen on the Falklands plane. Crew additions, Grohman had called them to Tideman.
'Back!' snarled Grohman. 'Get back! Keep away from me!'
I started towards the door; Grohman waved me against a side wall. 'No tricks! Don't try and escape!'
The shock of Brockton's murder had left me momentarily speechless. Now the sight of the bullet-ridden body with blood starting to stain the carpet loosened my tongue.
'You stinking murdering bastard, Grohman! I'll see you hang for this!'
His gun-barrel had more warmth than his laugh. 'The great Captain Rainier,' he sneered. 'The man who kicks my country's Navy up the arse!' His swarthy face contorted. 'Shut up, or I'll kill you!’
The corridor was filled with shouting men trying to see what was happening. Grohman said something in Spanish to his bully-boy. The man went at the crowd like a hooker in a rugby scrum, leading his charge with his UZI.
'Brockton!' I shouted. 'You killed Paul Brockton! What had he ever done to you!'
Grohman kicked Paul's body from where it lay across the attache case. 'A filthy American spy!' he rasped. 'Look!'
The hard-fabric case, which I had seen Paul open several times for customs inspection, obviously had a false bottom. I caught a glimpse of electronics, a mini speaker, and what could have been a tiny transmitter.
'Do you know what that is?' demanded Grohman. 'It is called a Racal Datacom Portable Cipher Terminal — special to the United States Navy. That is a pocket cipher unit — there's a fragment of the signal he was transmitting when I got him. There is also an acoustic coupler and power supply…'
The thought crashed through my mind — had Brockton revealed everything about himself to me? What
else beyond what he had told me had led him to insinuate himself aboard Jetwind, Now I winced thinking of Tideman. He was in the same game as Brockton — did Grohman suspect him too? 'Grohman…'
'Captain Grohman to you now, Rainier.' His grin was a death's head. 'One false move from you and you'll join your friend. Shut up and listen. This ship is now under command of Group Condor, I am the leader. The bridge and other key points have been occupied by my men’
There was a renewed commotion at the door. I heard an oath from the thug with the gun and an angry voice.
'What the devil is going on here? I demand to know.. „’ It was Sir James Hathaway.
Grohman said, in English, to the guard, 'Don't hurt that man, he's worth a million dollars.'
Sir James would not have got as far as the entrance had it not been for that warning. He thrust himself inside, livid-faced.
'A million dollars? What!' He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Brockton.
'Group Condor will ask a million dollars' ransom for you,' Grohman said in a sinister voice. 'If it is not paid…' He indicated the dead man. 'Take him away,' he added to the guard. 'Lock him in his cabin. Get the girl. Bring her here — by force, if necessary.'
The man started to frog-march Sir James away. My concern was not for him.
'Leave Kay Fenton alone!' I snapped. 'If you touch her, I'll kill you with my own hands.'
My tone stopped the guard. He looked questioningly at Grohman.
I went on. 'She's half-drowned. She needs care, and above all rest. You'll kill her if you disturb her at this time.'
'It was a very touching rescue,' Grohman sneered. 'Very romantic, very brave. Just the sort of thing I would expect the great Captain Rainier to attempt against all the odds.'
'Cut out the sarcasm,' I retorted. 'We're dealing with someone's life.' 'A life that is precious to you?'
I gathered myself to jump him. My intention must have been obvious. He aimed the UZI at my chest.
'You'll never reach me. Rainier,' he warned. His fellow hijacker also switched his aim to me. 'Your gallant rescue cut right across the beginning of our operation,’ continued Grohman. 'You nearly sank the ship in the process.'
A Ravel of Waters Page 16
