The Bomb Ship

by Peter Tonkin

  While Andrew began to describe what he could make out and his interpretation of how it might have happened, Harry Piper stood beside him at the rail, straining to see what was going on. Clotho had released the towing cable from the capstans at her rear and had fed out enough slack to allow the ships to come together almost bow to bow. It had been easy enough to do this because each ship was equipped with a full set of manoeuvring screws as well as a massive main propeller. The new relationship between the vessels gave anyone on Atropos’s forepeak a chance to look at the damage. The two engineers were the only men here now, but Piper reckoned there would be more sightseers soon.

  He had a clear view of the damage which Andrew was describing, from the buckled underside of the folded back deck section to the twisted mess of corrugated metal beneath it looking like a multicoloured, almost concave cliff from the rust-streaked beak of the forepeak down to the choppy water. And each time a wave slammed up against it, water washed in through the metal, though no holes could be seen at this distance until it poured back out again into the next deep trough. When this happened, it was chilling to see the tears and rents in the buckled metal looking like multiple stab wounds gushing reddish, foaming liquid from the bilge and ballast tanks. Harry watched in sick fascination until he noticed something else was going on. On this side of Clotho’s forepeak, as far up the slope of metal as possible, two makeshift davits were being pushed over the damaged rail. As Harry swung round to look askance at Andrew, the chief pulled the walkie-talkie away from his mouth. ‘The captain’s going over for a closer look,’ he said.

  ‘She’s mad.’

  Andrew’s countenance darkened into an old-fashioned look and he broke the habit of a lifetime. ‘You’ll not say anything disrespectful about my captain again, Harry Piper. Not a word. Ever.’

  Harry, who had truly meant no disrespect, had the grace to look contrite.

  Andrew’s expression lightened. ‘She wants us to continue observing things from here. So I’d like you to present my compliments to Captain Black and ask him if I can borrow a pair of binoculars, please.’

  *

  Nico was overseeing this himself. He knew he had said he would check out number one hold, but with Sullivan on watch, to do so would leave only Rupert Biggs to ensure Robin’s safety. And, what with one thing and another, that was simply not good enough. Biggs was a competent young officer under most circumstances, but he was too breezy and over-confident for this job. Nico was convinced that one slip, one mistake, one error of judgment, one oversight, no matter how small, would allow Clotho to kill someone. And he very much did not want that someone to be Robin. Sam Larkman and Joe Edwards stood at the securely anchored feet of the metal frame. Errol held the fall. Nico had triple-checked the block and tackle and now, with rough familiarity which was unconsciously near to being patronising, he was tugging and testing the straps of Robin’s harness — and giving her breasts quite a pummelling as he did so.

  There was mildly affectionate amusement in her voice when she asked, ‘Satisfied, Number One? May I proceed now, please?’

  At last he nodded curtly and she turned to the railing. Because of the angle, it was difficult for her to climb and he gave her a hand up. ‘Ready, all,’ he called automatically as she teetered there for a moment. She thrust out her hands automatically, regaining her balance, and it was as well her walkie-talkie was attached to her wrist by a strap. Then she pulled in her hands to hold the rope like a climber about to abseil down a cliff and glanced down over her shoulder. ‘Okay, Errol?’ asked Nico. He was uncharacteristically hesitant, not really wanting her to go at all.

  ‘Take the strain, gentlemen,’ she ordered crisply and stepped back confidently over the side.

  Her disappearance coincided with the jarring impact of the largest wave yet and a squall rushed down from the north-east just behind it. Nico hurled himself to the rail and looked down but she was standing solidly against the metal, engrossed in her task. Soaking, but safe.

  *

  The metal before her was slippery with spray but at least the ridges resulting from the damage made it easy for her to move across it. The buckled steel gave her so many hand- and footholds that her task proved easier than she had thought it would be. Easier but far more worrying. Even with the vision of the forepeak deck buckled right up in the air like that, she had still not imagined there could be so much damage down here. It was as though Clotho had been in a major collision. The metal of her bows had just collapsed back, cracking and splitting as it did so. How could strengthened steel behave like this? Thankful that she had thought to wear thick work gloves as well as the bright orange survival suit, she wedged her left hand in one of the cracks and swung herself round the corner onto the wall which had once been the cutwater. The walkie-talkie buzzed immediately and she reported in to Nico who had now lost sight of her.

  She was effectively hanging halfway down a twenty-foot cliff which rose into the twisted wreckage of an overhang above her and fell in concave confusion to the gushing mess immediately above the waterline little more than five feet below her foul-weather boots. The bow had collapsed straight back, without buckling to one side or the other. That was something. She had suspected this was the case, however, or Nico would have reported trouble maintaining course as uneven damage would have pulled them one way or another quite sharply. They had clearly lost the forward water ballast tank and the ballast within it, hence the ship’s head-high disposition in the water, but Robin reckoned that she could correct this by running the mid-deck gantry as far forward as it would go. That would settle Clotho back on an even keel before the weather deteriorated any further. But it would also put those parts of her hull immediately behind the damaged area under increased strain. And that could be disastrous. So far, in spite of this damage, the rest of Clotho had remained watertight, or she wouldn’t still be afloat. Would it be wise to trust the forward wall of number one hold?

  Robin put her walkie-talkie to her lips. ‘Andrew, can you hear me?’

  *

  For the better part of an hour Robin scrambled about on what was left of the bow section. She all but chopped the toes of her boots off on sharp edges, and the extra thick work gloves were seriously abraded long before she was finished. At last, using the harness more like a safety net than an actual support, she clung precariously to the sharp-edged hand- and footholds and actually climbed down the iron cliff face until she could feel the wash and tug of the wave tops at her heels. It was dirty, dangerous, freezing, depressing work. But at least she could make a full assessment of the detail of the damage while agreeing the big picture with Andrew on the walkie-talkie. The actual cutwater, the point where the two flanks of the bow met at the very front of the ship, seemed to have been welded. There was a crack running inconsistently but discernibly right down the centre of the wreckage. Here obviously the two massive bow plates had met and been attached to each other. But the welded seam was broken and, like the other fractures which had appeared, large and small, it now sucked in and spewed out water with each succeeding wave. And through the crack before her face Robin noticed something on the far side of the cracked weld. Something actually on the inside of the water ballast tank.

  Around her waist she had a belt with work tools attached to it. She pulled a torch off this and flashed its bright beam through, but at first it showed her nothing new. A space, all too narrow, and then the solid brown wall of the number one hold. But there was something there, she was certain of it. She put the torch back and unhooked her crowbar. The crack was widest at the top and she wedged the roughly fashioned length of iron in there and jerked it down with all her force. So much force did she use, in fact, that she nearly pulled herself off the front of the ship and had to release the bar and grab another handhold to pull herself back from disaster. As she did so, something rattled against the metal on the inside of the plates before her face, then tumbled, clattering against the wreckage, to land with a tiny splash in the heaving water below. Robin did not see i
t and had no idea what it was. It sounded to her like something small and light, perhaps with metallic parts. Beyond that, there were no clues. She dismissed it from her mind and pulled the crowbar free.

  Without looking at it she put it back against her belt, but the gloves were thick enough to make her fingers clumsy and she failed to attach it properly. As she looked down, another wave heaved the whole ship upwards and her precarious footing slipped again. The crowbar tumbled into the sea at once and not even Andrew McTavish, who was watching the incident as closely as possible through Captain Black’s second best binoculars, caught the telltale flash of white from the long smear of Semtex which had got stuck to the end of it when Robin pushed it into the saboteur’s makeshift bomb and knocked the clock-timer free of the primary detonator.

  *

  ‘The number one is dry. The forward water ballast tank is gone but the other tanks are secure. If we’re careful she’ll still get us home,’ said Nico.

  Robin nodded. ‘And Atropos?’ she asked.

  There was a brief silence, underpinned by the blustery rain outside and the hiss of the open walkie-talkie channels. They were on the bridge with Johnny Sullivan in the early part of Biggs’s watch and they were having a conference with the men on Atropos’s bridge.

  ‘Will you still be able to tow us?’ Captain Black’s voice was shaking with strain. Even over the airwaves, the fear was audible.

  Nico looked at Robin, his eyebrows high in mute query. He had spent the morning, since thankfully pulling her aboard, checking the damage from this side and as far as he was concerned, there was no chance at all that they would be able to tow Atropos home. In the Italian’s eyes, Black was now the captain of the Titanic, and he could rearrange the deckchairs on his own.

  Robin leaned forward towards the walkie-talkie. ‘Andrew, are you there?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘How well will Clotho’s engines run in reverse?’

  There was a brief silence as they took that one in. Clearly it was such an unexpected question that it caught them all unawares.

  ‘In reverse?’ asked Andrew faintly.

  ‘Yes. How fast? How far? With what power?’

  ‘Jesu!’ Nico understood. She was going to turn Clotho round and run the tow rope to Atropos across the wreck of the forecastle head, and then she was going to reverse all the way to Greenland. That way the stern of the ship would face the brunt of the water and the weather. It was risky, of course, but infinitely safer than proceeding with Clotho facing the normal way round. It made sense. It could work.

  He slammed his palm against his thigh and rose, too excited to stay still any longer. His understanding of her thinking brought a multitude of questions teeming into his head. Questions she was going to want answers to before very much longer. Was Clotho’s split windlass strong enough? If it wasn’t, where else could the rope be attached? If it was, what would be the effect of the tow on the way the front of the ship sat in the water? It was sitting high at the moment and needed to be pulled down in any case. The effect of towing would be to lower it — the simple weight of the rope, the drag, the effective weight at the far end. But would it lower the damaged bow so much that there would be danger of yet more damage? Impossible to tell. He would have to have a constant watch up there. And it would be dangerous. Should they move their people off, all except a skeleton crew? Or should they bring Atropos’s crew over here? Which vessel was in the greater danger? HMS Devil or HMS Deep Sea?

  *

  The saboteur watched the work on the bow from her secret eyrie with increasing desperation. It was hardly surprising that her situation, so far from what was planned and spiralling out of control, should have made her feel paranoid. But she was far further away from sanity than even she supposed. She had not been isolated for any great length of time — little more than a week so far — but the stress had been enormous, the danger and the deprivation so real. And she had hardly slept at all. Now they were moving about like ants down there, up to some scheme. All to thwart her and her plans, no doubt. She watched them secretly, a pale, dark-eyed face framed with yellow rat’s tails of hair pressed against the glass. She watched them test the windlass and run ropes up to the ruined bow. She watched them send teams of men up the green slope with cutting equipment and hammers to cut a safe channel for something to lie in. She saw them carry the tow rope round and secure it into place and then she felt the engines throb. The angle of the deck changed as the rope tightened and her view of the world swung round until she was no longer looking out over wild water or wild ice, but across towards the gantry of the sister ship, with the tall bridgehouse standing behind it as she knew Clotho’s stood behind her — as though she were in front of some huge mirror.

  Utterly entranced, unaware of what she was doing, she came out of hiding then. He was over there somewhere. In the invisible heart of that tremendous, oddly beautiful sight, the great ship framed against the storm clouds and the black water, her partner in adventure waited. And even as she looked, she saw smaller boats begin to ply between the two vessels carrying people from one to the other. Suddenly she couldn’t wait any longer. There was nothing to be gained from further hesitation and if she told someone she was aboard now, then she and he would be together all the sooner. She rose to her feet as though in a dream only to realise that she had been curled on the bench seat looking down and was now standing precariously on the seat itself.

  The gantry lurched forward at that moment, controlled by the master system on the bridge, to fine-tune the balance of Clotho’s angle in the water, and the saboteur went over the back of the seat and smashed her head open on the floor of the cab behind. Had her sleeping bag not been there, she would have died at once.

  *

  When the tow began again towards the end of Rupert Biggs’s midday watch, there was only a skeleton crew left aboard Clotho. This consisted of the captain, the first, second and third deck officers, the chief, the second engineer, and the cadet who had been an insistent volunteer. Last man off apart from these was the chef who had remained until the bitter end, preparing pile after pile of sandwiches, as well as soup and coffee which only needed microwaving to heat. Andrew McTavish and Harry Piper had come back across on one of the boats transferring everyone else the other way because, as Andrew had put it, ‘No one other than me and my men will look after my propulsion system running backwards, by God.’

  There was no need for any GP seamen as there was really no more deck work to be done and the helm would be best controlled by laying in a direct course for the southern tip of Greenland and running it in reverse on the automatic pilot. Equally, as everyone aboard proposed to camp in the wheelhouse and its immediate environs, there was no need for any of the stewards to stay to look after them. But it proved impossible to get Sam Larkman to desert his ship. And where Sam went, Joe and Errol followed. Robin was prepared to be indulgent. Three more first-rate men were a heartening buttress against the unexpected.

  To begin with, the tow went very well. It was strange to be on the bridge looking backwards through the clear-view, seeing Atropos following doggedly out of the darkening afternoon, her lights coming into brighter focus as the day began to die. It was an odd sensation to be studying the reverse angles of the collision alarm radar to see what dangers lay behind their slowly reversing ship. Robin went outside and stood at the back of the bridge wing, wrapped warmly and dryly against the gathering north-easter, looking over the stern towards the invisible cliffs and fjords of what has been called the world’s largest island coming towards them at five knots once more.

  As night fell, the threatened storm arrived and the conditions of the tow deteriorated dangerously. In the engine room, Andrew and Harry kept a careful watch on the revolutions of the propeller as it rose and fell increasingly sharply through wildly varying water pressures and even began to threaten to tear itself out of the sea altogether.

  The steepening waves put more and more strain on the rope and on the two windlasses sec
uring it between the ships. One moment both hulls would be pointing down together into the same trough as Clotho climbed carefully down the back of one wave while Atropos was on the rushing face of the next. Then they would be thrown apart, separated by the crest of the same wave. Luckily the waves were not yet big enough to throw a destructive strain on the all too fragile arrangement, but the night was young and the worst of the weather was yet to come.

  *

  Ann Cable and Henri LeFever sat facing each other over a table in the officers’ dining room. It was late and under normal circumstances Atropos’s chef would have closed up shop, black eye or no black eye. But the presence of Clotho’s complement, and her galley staff and stewards, had put all of Atropos’s men on their mettle and so there was food. Good food, too. Both Ann and Henri were vegetarians and so far this voyage they had subsisted in mutually supportive misery on salads which would hardly have been suited to the arctic conditions even had they been fresh. Tonight, however, they were in seventh heaven, despite the worsening weather conditions. The galley had produced a curry. Onion bahjees and vegetable samosas were crowded together on plates encrusted with jewels of chutney and pickle. Piles of naan and stuffed parathas sat fragrantly steaming beside a crazy tower of golden poppadoms surrounded by more condiments compounded of tomatoes, coconuts, chillies, cucumbers and yogurt.

  A vegetable vindaloo was in prospect, to be served on pilau rice flavoured with coriander, cardamom, bay and cinnamon bark, and accompanied by a saag of spinach decorated with toasted almonds, mushroom and sweet pepper bahjees and a thick dahl of red lentils. Although they both avoided meat of all kinds, neither was particularly self-sacrificing in the matter of the grape or the grain, and they accompanied this feast, as was only right and proper, with glasses of Carlsberg’s golden Elephant beer so cold that only its high alcohol content kept it from freezing.