The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4

by Scott Chapman

  "You want to sell this to us?" said the Provost.

  "I want it to be blessed by the Bishop,” said Salvatore. “Then I will sell it. And I will tell you the manner in which it was made and I will show you the man who knows best how to make more." He nodded towards Dimitrios who had been trying to hide.

  "Your price?"

  Salvatore had kept good accounts and knew that the machine had cost him almost two thousand dinars to build.

  "Four thousand dinars," said Salvatore. "And the blessing."

  Two dinars could feed a family for a month, thought the Provost, but feeding families was not his business; saving the Commune money and showing that they were the protectors of the city were his business.

  "At three thousand, you will have a good deal," he said.

  "At four thousand you will have this machine," replied Salvatore.

  The Provost nodded. It was a lot cheaper than a troop of troublesome mercenaries. "Why the blessing?"

  "It needs blessing for its name."

  "It has a name?"

  "The Warrior Bishop," said Salvatore.

  Wave

  “Husker One, Husker One, this is Bravo Delta Four Four, are you receiving me? Over.”

  “Husker One,” said Sparke, “receiving you loud and clear.”

  “Husker One, is that Peter Sparke? Over.”

  “Yes, Sparke here.”

  “Peter, this is Nick Godwin. We met in Vietnam last year. We are en route to Husker One for the pick-up.”

  “Nick, great to hear from you. All quiet here and ready for pick up,” said Sparke, recognizing the deep Texas drawl of the pilot.

  “Peter, we have a problem,” said the helicopter pilot. “We’ve received a mayday from the Korean freighter, Elkhorn. They have been holed and are sinking not far from your position.”

  “A collision?” said Sparke, wondering how a ship could be in such trouble in relatively calm seas.

  “Negative, they report a single huge wave that flipped them over and ripped off their bow.”

  “Casualties?”

  “At least three lost, eight survivors. They have no power and are sinking by the bow. The wave is heading your way.”

  “Can you pick me up after responding to the mayday? Do you have fuel?”

  “It’s not the fuel. They say the wave is thirty plus meters high. If it hits you before we can get to you it might take out Husker One.”

  For a moment Sparke considered the ability of the rig to withstand an impact of a wave of that height.

  “Husker One, Peter,” said the pilot, “are you receiving me?”

  “Yes. You need to respond to the mayday call. Can you get another chopper out to me?”

  “They have dispatched a helicopter, but it will take at least two hours to reach you. We have no idea where the wave is but it will almost certainly hit your location within that time.”

  “You need to respond to the mayday.”

  “Affirmative. Peter, listen, if you call in a mayday we can respond to you first. Husker One is closer to us. We can take the nearest mayday call as a priority.”

  “Will the ship stay afloat that long?”

  “Hard to say. They sound in a bad way. They lost their lifeboats with the wave.”

  Sparke had seen scores of computer models showing the impact of a single rogue wave on a static rig. If the wave was high but narrow at its base, the impact would crush the front of the structure, but might leave the rear intact. If the wave was followed by a full sea, the front would be driven back, ripping the whole structure to pieces and driving the rear underwater. If he tried to escape the rig on a lifeboat, the wave could easily throw him back onto the rig smashing his boat to pieces.

  All three scenarios were bad bets. He thought of the crippled ship and the men clinging to the hope of rescue by the chopper and the risk that delay would incur. With the tropical storm pushing in, it could soon be impossible to reach the Elkhorn. Sparke knew as well as any person alive that the first sixty minutes after a disaster are the most critical, the chance of successful rescue falling rapidly outside this ‘golden hour’. Diverting the chopper would radically reduce the chance of a rescue for the survivors of the Elkhorn.

  He was one man, alone on a deserted rig, they were eight men clinging to a ship without power and sinking.

  “Husker One, do you request assistance?”

  Sparke looked at the rig around him, knowing that its very structure could be fatal to him.

  “Husker One, do you request immediate assistance. Peter, all you have to do is say the word and we can divert to you first.”

  “This is Husker One,” said Sparke, “the situation here is under control. No assistance required.”

  “Peter, listen to me. If that wave is anything like as bad as they say you will be swamped. Just give me the word and we can divert.”

  “Nick, respond to the mayday,” said Peter. The radio buzzed in his hand.

  “Husker One, understood,” said the helicopter pilot.

  Sparke had no idea how far away the wave was, but he knew that either staying on board, or trying to escape were equally dangerous, in fact they were both almost certainly fatal. Any assessment of his chances would have been put at zero.

  He sealed his phone into a watertight pouch, slung it around his neck and ran up to the main deck. Husker One was known as a ‘compliant tower’ rig, designed to sway with wind and tide like a modern skyscraper, in waters up to three thousand feet deep. This made it better able to survive almost any storm, but meant that a massive wave would rip it from its legs and almost certainly tumble it into the sea.

  The escape deck of Husker One was near the lowest point of the structure. In the event of a fire or explosion, there would be no time to lower lifeboats from a rig using pulleys. Rig lifeboats were fixed to the side on launching chutes, ready to drop vertically into the sea within seconds.

  Husker One was equipped with Fassmer Freefall lifeboats, easily capable of falling over twenty-five meters into the sea below. Five meters long and weighing three metric tonnes, the Fassmer would hit the ocean surface like a bomb.

  Sparke had seen fires, earthquakes, volcanoes, and man-made disasters of every type, but the Ashoka tsunami was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.

  At first it was only a dark line on the horizon, but the rushing wall of water moved at incredible speed. He saw it grow and take shape as he watched, a distinct, living thing against the grey-green sea. It was impossible to gauge its height, but the sheer power was stunning.

  The portholes of the Fassmer were small, and faced to the sides of the rig, away from the wave, so his only chance was to perch half inside the five-meter craft.

  At four hundred yards the sea in front of the rig began to fall, the waters sucked up into the structure of the wave. At three hundred he could make out a dull hissing sound as water collapsed from its face into the surface far below. At two hundred yards he could see the face of the monster, trails of water streaming down, pouring off the near vertical wall. At one hundred yards he dropped inside, slamming the tiny hatch behind him. At less than forty yards the lifeboat began its sheer drop to the surface of the sea.

  The release mechanism was already armed and he threw himself into the steeply reclined seat, frantically trying to buckle himself into the seat belts as the lifeboat hurtled downward into the trough of the wave.

  He didn’t make it.

  Blessings and Worries

  "If we don't buy it from him he'll sell it to the Genoans."

  "Heaven forbid."

  "Never mind what heaven forbids, and don't worry about the Genoans, at least they pretend to be on our side. What if he sells it to the Countess? Lucia would relish any chance to show how much she is determined to protect the city."

  "She would nail herself to it and have it dragged through the street wailing her love for the city.”

  "Are you sure the Genoans are still on our side. It's been a week since we spoke to them."
<
br />   "It's only a catapult. We can have our own made, surely."

  "It's not a catapult, it's a trebuchet, and anyway, there are things about it that would be very hard to copy. I saw him fire it three times in two different directions as fast as you could eat an apple."

  "One of those things is worth a company of archers or five or six ordinary war machines."

  "Companies of archers can be very hard to get rid of once you are done with them. They can be very troublesome if they've no one to shoot."

  The Provost was deeply aware that he had been given his position partly because of his ability to listen patiently while every member of the Commune had his say, or several says. Now, seeing that the flow was slowing to a trickle, he attempted to bring the meeting to a decision.

  "He wants four thousand dinars for the machine. He will show us how to make more and give us the man who helped him make it. Who says 'yea' to this and who says 'nay'?"

  "If we can make them, we could sell them to others," said the Chancellor. "The Venetians have a great want for weapons in their struggle against the Pisans."

  "They are not fighting the Pisans any more. They want weapons for their war in Crete."

  "Who are they fighting in Crete?"

  "I can't recall, but it seems to be quite a big affair. They have a fleet of fifty galleys outfitting in Acre."

  The Provost, recognizing that there was still some way to go before the Commune reached their inevitable decision to agree to the deal, excused himself and descended to the courtyard within the Palace of the Commune.

  Salvatore sat on the shrouded machine, his eyes locked on some invisible point in the middle distance, appearing to be asleep with his eyes open.

  "No decision?" he asked the Provost.

  "Oh, the decision was made before the meeting began. The fund for the rebuilding of the sea wall is already four thousand dinars poorer," said the Provost, "but it will be another hour or so until they have all talked themselves out."

  "The money is part of it, but it must also be blessed."

  "Blessed. Yes of course. I'm sure the Bishop will be happy to give his blessing for such a virtuous apparatus."

  "In the cathedral."

  "Really? Is that entirely necessary? A blessing is a blessing. I think His Grace may not be happy to have your machine actually inside the cathedral."

  "He will."

  A breathless servant appeared in the courtyard. "Lord Provost, the Commune is looking for you. They have reached a decision."

  "Are you sure? That was fast," said the Provost. "Take my good wishes to His Grace the Bishop, and ask him if he would be willing to honor us with his presence on a matter vital to the safety of the City." The servant bowed and ran through the streets towards the Palace of the Bishop.

  "Will you come up to the meeting to hear the decision of the Commune?" said the Provost.

  "When the Bishop arrives," said Salvatore, resuming his seat on the machine.

  The Bishop was a friend of the Commune, mainly because they shared his enmity towards the Countess Lucia who believed, with some justification, that she was the hereditary ruler of the County of Tripoli. She showed little loyalty to the authority of the Church and was far too close to the influences of the Knights Hospitaller at Fort Nephin. Politics in Tripoli was like playing several games of chess simultaneously where any number of the opponents was conspiring against you.

  Every move and gesture was a sign of either growing hostility or increasing friendship.

  If the Commune was calling on his urgent advice, the Bishop could only respond, and while he did not appreciate being summoned, he was willing to indulge them.

  It took him barely an hour to cover the five hundred yards to the Commune in his litter, the four bearers straining to keep the chair from jolting as they navigated the hazards of open sewers, dung, potholes and the occasional dead animal. He descended from behind the silk curtain of his transport into the courtyard, ignored the strange wooden structure and gathered himself for the tiresome ascent of the long staircase to the chamber where the Commune met.

  "My good Lord Bishop," said the Provost, standing as he saw the Bishop appear at the entrance to the room, "you are here already. We sent a messenger only a moment ago and here you are, faster than I could blink."

  The Bishop already regretted his haste. It did not profit a man of position to be too keen to respond to others. "Your messenger told me you had urgent need of my advice and counsel. It is the burden of the Church to guide its flock."

  "And your help and guidance are truly welcome. Please, join us."

  The Bishop, reminded that, even amongst friends, politics never sleeps, took his seat as the Provost and the Commune explained their proposal to buy a war machine capable of slaughtering their many enemies in a way that would please both God and the penny-pinching taxpayers of the City and County of Tripoli.

  The Bishop listened intently, waiting for any sign of a trap, and then, hearing none, raised his hands in helpless supplication.

  "Our concern is for the souls of the people. Their security is a topic on which you are far more able to pass judgment," he said. "I cannot see how I can give you any help on this excellent project, except to offer you my blessing."

  "Your blessing, My Lord," said the Provost, "that is exactly what we seek. The constructor of this machine seeks your personal blessing. He even wishes to name it the 'Warrior Bishop', presumably after your victory over the tyrant Mosun."

  Cautiously, the Bishop nodded. "My blessing?"

  "Yes, nothing more. The man obviously has a great and sincere dedication to the Church and all he asks is that you perform a blessing on his machine," the Provost paused, "within the confines of the cathedral."

  "Within the walls of the sanctuary? Impossible. We cannot have the cathedral turned into an arsenal."

  "I told him exactly this myself," said the Provost, "but he was very insistent."

  The Bishop sighed with the frustration of a man burdened by the foolishness of others. "Bring this simple workman to me. I will ease his heart and explain why this cannot be done."

  "A most excellent idea," said the Provost, and sent a servant to the courtyard below.

  The room waited in silence until footsteps could be heard scuffing on the stairs outside and the servant appeared. Then, not knowing how to announce the guest, he waved in the general direction of Salvatore and stood in silence.

  His face covered by the hood of the faded yellow cloak, Salvatore entered the chamber and bowed towards the assembled group.

  The Bishop rose, beaming with a smile designed to communicate both power and humility. "My son," he said, "we understand you have a great love of the Church."

  Salvatore pulled back the hood and looked directly into the eyes of the Bishop who froze in horror at the sight of Salvatore's face.

  "My lord," Salvatore said, "I have a small favor to ask."

  Bright Lights

  Sparke released the lifeboat and it plummeted, nose first, towards the sea. By the time it hit the water, the surface of the ocean was nowhere near horizontal. It was starting on its steep sloping climb towards the face of the wave.

  Water is one of the few things that gets harder the faster you hit it. Dip your fingers in a pond and there is no resistance, slap your hand on its surface and it might sting, throw a three thousand kilogram lifeboat at it from the height of a four-story building and the impact is like dropping it on a parking lot. No manned craft will survive the force unless it is one of those unique vessels specifically built with this kind of punishment in mind.

  Sparke had known that there was no chance of escape if he stayed on Husker One, he also knew that the tiny lifeboat would be smashed to pieces against the rig if he tried to escape or, if he managed to survive that, be flattened by the wreckage of the rig as it disintegrated. Being on the same side of the wave as the rig meant death. Sailing to safety was impossible as the engines on the lifeboat could never get it over the top of the wave, so ther
e was only one thing he could do. There was never any choice and there was barely any chance.

  There was nothing good about this plan except that it was less bad than any other option. It wasn't a plan. It was hardly even an idea. It was something that would never be considered by anyone who had an alternative.

  The boat dropped like a stone and its snub-nosed bullet of a body carved its way into the face of the wave and a complex tug-of-war kicked in.

  First the downward momentum of the boat drove it underwater, then tons of falling water from the advancing wave face pushed it down further. Next the small but powerful engines kicked in, engines designed to get the craft away fast from a burning oil rig, and they in turn moved it forward, deeper in towards the base of the mountain of water.

  Against this, the huge amount of buoyancy built into the boat fought against the surrounding water, pushing it upwards. For perhaps the first time in history, a man in a lifeboat was willing the buoyancy to lose this fight, at least for the next few seconds.

  If the lifeboat rose too quickly, it would be pushed back out of the water the way it had come in, back on the wrong side of the wave. The only way Sparke could survive was if the boat could survive inside the wave until the highest, heaviest part passed over it.

  The crest of the wave has the most water underneath it, therefore the most weight, so all the water in front of and behind the crest had lower pressure. On the way into the water, Sparke's lifeboat was pushing against this pressure. His one hope of survival was that he would hit the water with enough momentum to push the fifteen foot boat far enough into the wave that he could pass under the crest. Theoretically, if the boat passed under this point, the water pressure would then push him away from the crest line and towards the back of the wave.