The Bomb Ship

by Peter Tonkin

  She was jerked back to that cave in the iceberg’s mountains when he had mumbled the name in his sleep and she had wondered if he was gay. It was as simple, as unavoidable, as that.

  She looked down. He saw the accusation in her eyes. She saw the admission of guilt in his.

  At once he started climbing again with feverish, febrile speed. She stood there as though turned to stone, watching him as he swarmed up towards her. Her mind was a whirl of revelation. Of the two people closest to her aboard, she had trusted the wrong one and suspected the wrong one. Robin would never do anything underhand, she realised; not with Nico, not with anyone. And Henri had never done anything honest. She thought of his attempt at seduction, of her childish suspicions about his sexual orientation. How stupid she had been. How he must have laughed at her. Well, he wasn’t laughing now.

  And she pulled the line Robin had shown her with all the strength at her command and let the ladder fall free.

  *

  ‘FULL AHEAD, FLANK SPEED!’ Richard was under such stress that his voice rose beyond a shout again. Clotho had just swept out of the lead into the open sea beside the Northern Lights. Her reverse thrust was cancelled and, even as she swept backwards, stern wave foaming under her counter, so the blades of the great propeller were reversed to drive her forward once again. Richard watched narrow-eyed as the knot meter began to click up out of reverse. He had every intention of throwing his vessel as hard as he could against the central ridge of the ice barrier. The Maier-form icebreaker bow lifted as the great Rolls-Royce engines thundered up to full power. The edge of the ice swept away in front of the ship as she reversed out of the lead, then hesitated and began to race back towards the ship as the course went back on itself.

  Colin and Richard both rocked onto the balls of their feet as Clotho’s momentum also reversed. She seemed to hover for an instant, the water heaving behind her like a big surf behind a surfboard. Colin actually took a step forward as though the deck were on a steeper slant than it was.

  Clotho gathered way into the black water of the lead. Richard took the helm himself and held the line as the vessel began to speed up the mile’s length between the floating fields of ice. The pair of RB211 turbine engines delivered so much power that the freighter took off more quickly than a speedboat. She came majestically up to full speed, the knot meter in the bridgehouse clicking relentlessly through twenty knots, twenty-five and thirty.

  ‘We’re going to hit very hard indeed,’ Richard warned as the ice skimmed past on either side. He wasn’t speaking particularly loudly, but his words carried across the wheelhouse as though he had been shouting at full voice.

  It seemed to him in those moments as he prepared to throw it all away that he had nothing important left to lose. His company was effectively lost. His personal possessions were tied up with the finances of the lost company. The only things he cared about were lost: his ships. The only people, too, apart from his children: his father-in-law in intensive care and his beloved wife trapped at death’s door. Posterity would write him off as just another self-destructive failure. But, in the final analysis, at least he would be going out with a bang, not a whimper.

  Running his ship at full speed up against the ice ridge seemed to be a futile gesture, but any gesture would be better than none. It was self-indulgent, as any borderline suicide always was. But it was worth making, he calculated. It would be remembered, and perhaps the reason for making it, and even the love which had caused it, would be remembered too.

  Clotho was moving at thirty-five knots when she hit the ice. Her bow was riding high and it lifted out of the water and rode across the narrow area of flat ice which lay before the fifty-foot cliff.

  The ruined forecastle head was still moving at full speed when it hit the solid ice.

  The water in the first hold was frozen and the weight of it was hurled forward by the impact, to tear through the front of the ship. It weighed several hundred tons and it was travelling at nearly forty miles an hour. Likewise, the men on the bridge and in the engine room were hurled hither and yon, tumbling about the place like puppets. And that was lucky, especially for the men up on the bridge.

  The ice from the hold and the ice from the cliff came together with tremendous force. And sandwiched between them was Jeanne Hennessy’s bomb. The bomb had been designed by the explosives expert to spread its power as widely as possible. The effect of the ice from the hold, however, was to force the whole power of the bomb forwards into the ice ridge. A huge column of ice exploded up and out, to the sides and over the barrier. Massive shock waves from the explosion sped at light speed through the ice barrier and were, if anything, amplified in the echoing caves beyond the crest.

  The impact of the ship and the bomb came together just as the full force of the berg was pushing back, with the power of the thunder squall behind it, and the effect was devastating. The backbone of the ice barrier was broken as completely as a neck severed by the headsman’s axe. At once the westward section of the barrier began to swing southwards, borne against the breast of the triumphant iceberg. The eastern section of the barrier, still gripped by the northward pressure of that offspring of the Gulf Stream, began to swing back up towards the coast of Greenland which had given it birth.

  And while Clotho, her forward quarter blown to smithereens, rolled sideways onto the solid section of the ice barrier over which her ruined bow had lifted her, so Atropos her sister thundered down off the edge of the icy slipway into the clear deep water of the North Atlantic Ocean, into the channel opened up for her through the cold heart of the barrier, relaunched, reborn, resurrected after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - Independence Day

  Sunday, 4 July 12:00

  The consultant had completed his round of the private rooms and Bill Heritage had decided it was time he got organised for when the youngsters came to pick him up. All he had to do, really, was to dress himself and then finish packing his weekend case with the basic necessities and the hospital treats he had been surrounded by during the last weeks since his heart by-pass operation.

  He could have called for one of the private nurses to do it for him with no more than the press of a bedside button. But he retained the independence of mind traditional in men late of the navy. He could do his own darning; he had done his own ironing on more occasions than he cared to remember; he was more than capable of doing his own packing. As soon as he had managed to get his trousers on.

  He was a very lucky man, they informed him. He was lucky that Maggie DaSilva had known what to do and had done it so quickly; that the studio had maintained such an expert and well-equipped first aid team; that the ambulance had arrived so quickly; that he had suffered no brain damage during the attack; that it was possible to repair the damage short term; that it had proved possible to correct it so effectively long term.

  He didn’t feel all that lucky; perhaps that was why they made a point of emphasising his good fortune to him so often.

  He felt that he had let Robin and Richard down; that he had let Heritage Mariner down; that he had let Helen down; and, in the final analysis, that he had let himself down.

  If he wasn’t retired, then he ought to be. How could anyone trust the running of a major company to a man who got out of breath while buttoning up his trousers? He shrugged his braces over the shoulders of his pyjama jacket with more than accustomed resignation and reached for the cashmere polo-necked pullover he preferred to wear on Sundays after he had been to church. His hair surrendered to the flats of his palms; he would brush it later.

  He crossed to the window on the sill of which were piled a collection of papers, books and magazines. He paused before he collected the pile together, looking downwards, struck as always by the view. The Thames flowed by as brown as toffee, seeming to wash the wall beneath his feet. On his right hand, the span of Westminster Bridge stepped across the river. If he looked up, his face and that of Big Ben seemed to be about level and not very far apart.

  The riverside balc
onies of the Palace of Westminster stood out over the dark water opposite and his room was high enough for him to gaze down on them, remembering functions he had attended there with friends and colleagues in both Houses of Parliament, the Commons and the Lords.

  He looked down to gather up the pile of printed matter and was struck again by the picture of an exploding ship and the headline which accompanied it: TERRORIST BOMB SAVES SISTER SHIPS.

  It was an old paper, the better part of a month out of date, but it was the first thing he had been conscious of seeing when he had come out of the anaesthetic after his operation, and he knew he would keep it for ever.

  He would probably keep all of them which day by day had given the world the story of how the bomb in the bows of Clotho had exploded on impact with the ice barrier and so released Atropos from the lethal clutches of the iceberg. How Clotho, apparently fatally damaged, had remained wedged on the ice with her bows clear of the water until simple repairs could be effected and then how Atropos had towed her sister ship to Frederiksdal in Greenland, the nearest safe port.

  It was a story which seemed to have caught the popular imagination on both sides of the Atlantic, and in among the correspondence which accompanied the printed matter was a letter from Ann Cable informing him that he could expect a typescript of her new book The Sister Ships, based on her experiences aboard Atropos, to confirm his part in the whole adventure.

  There was the gentlest tapping on his door and he swung round to see Helen Dufour standing there. The tall woman swept across the room towards him and he enfolded her in a huge bear hug. Usually she complained that he crushed the life out of her, her Provençal chic being something which did not react well to his bluff northern gallantries. This morning she answered his grip with possessive fierceness and indeed it was he who broke away first. His ribs were still a little tender after the rough treatment they had received during his operation.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘St Petersburg? Fine. It’s all sewn up. When we have the ships, they will have the cargo. The same as Archangel and Murmansk.’

  ‘You’ve been working so hard, my darling.’

  ‘We all have. But the worst is over now. Things started looking up when the insurers agreed that Clotho’s damage definitely came from a terrorist bomb and they would meet the salvage and repair bills in full. The Russian deal is just icing on the cake now. I think we can all take a well-earned holiday.’

  Another knock came at the door and there was Maggie DaSilva partially obscured behind a massive bunch of flowers.

  ‘Matron says you’re going home,’ she said accusingly. ‘What shall I do with these?’

  Sir William smiled at her, as indulgent as a father with a favourite daughter. ‘We’ll think of something,’ he rumbled. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? You’ve never struck me as a Sunday morning girl.’

  ‘I’m only up this early because I haven’t been to bed yet,’ she countered. ‘I’ve been out on the town with the most gorgeous New York attorney. I think he’s trying to tempt me into going West with him.’

  ‘Well, you think it through carefully,’ warned Sir William and the kindly concern in his tone elicited a wide grin from her.

  ‘Oddly enough, I didn’t come for paternal advice,’ she purred. ‘I have a little news for you. Apparently the word has gone out forcefully, even in the Big Apple. The people who killed the Italians outside the TV studio have said that no one will be allowed to profit from the Napoli affair. Anyone else who goes ambulance-chasing like the late Vito Gordino can expect to meet the same fate as he did. So that just leaves the US government. And they will only take action if our appeal fails; and if Napoli proves to be doing damage within their legitimate area of jurisdiction. Either way, Heritage Mariner is off the hook for the time being.’

  He nodded at her, a lump in his throat forbidding speech.

  Into the silence which lay between them came the sound of approaching mayhem. Maggie put the flowers down. ‘If that’s who I think it is then I’m off,’ she said. ‘You pay me handsome fees and Richard buys me stunning dinners, but nothing will induce me to play with the twins when I’ve had no sleep for thirty-six hours.’ And she was gone like a sorceress leaving only a whiff of Obsession.

  ‘Did you see Maggie?’ asked Helen an instant later as Robin struggled through the door swinging William by his reins.

  ‘Maggie DaSilva? No. Has she been in already ...’ The Obsession hit her nostrils. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see what you mean. No, we haven’t seen her. Is she avoiding us?’

  ‘She’s avoiding some of you,’ said the French woman dryly.

  Mary burst in next, seemingly dragging Richard by main force. ‘All ready?’ he asked. ‘Whew! What’s that smell? Helen?’

  ‘No,’ chided Robin lovingly. ‘Helen’s a Chanel girl, like me. That’s Maggie.’

  ‘Is it? What did she want so early?’

  ‘She wanted to tell me some good news,’ said Sir William. ‘I’ll tell you more about it on the way home.’

  ‘Great,’ said Richard. ‘Mary, sit down. Sit! Good girl. Now, let me get that suitcase.’

  ‘Helen says we can all take a holiday,’ said Sir William, gathering together his bits and pieces. ‘And Maggie’s news means we do have the breathing space, if we want it. I think you two should get away.’

  Richard nodded soberly. ‘I think you’re right, Bill. We’ve put a good, reliable senior management structure in place more quickly than I’d have thought possible in the time. It’s going to take a load off all of us.’

  ‘Excellent! Helen and I will be going to Grimaud. What about you four?’

  ‘We’ve been thinking about it. Haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be teaching the twins to ski, but it’s the wrong time of the year unless we go to Australia,’ said Richard.

  ‘Spare me,’ shuddered Robin. ‘No more ice. Please!’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to get used to it anyway,’ said Richard defensively.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Sir William.

  Richard zipped up the case and hefted it as though it weighed nothing at all. He remained quite pointedly silent.

  ‘Well?’ asked Sir William.

  Robin answered. ‘Oh, he’s got himself mixed up in this scheme to deliver a bit of ice, that’s all.’

  Sir William looked across at his son-in-law with total incomprehension.

  Richard burst into laughter. ‘Deliver a bit of ice,’ he echoed. Then his eyes met Sir William’s, and he explained, ‘It’s Colin Ross and me. We’re going to try and tow an iceberg from the Arctic to the Congo.’

  Acknowledgements

  Two weeks before the Long Vacation, when I had planned to start writing The Bomb Ship, I went blind in my right eye. My thanks must therefore start with the ophthalmic department of the Kent and Sussex Hospital in Tunbridge Wells who diagnosed the precise nature of the problem. More especially, I must express my deepest gratitude to the Eye Department at St Thomas’s Hospital in London, particularly to Mr Chignell and his team who performed the emergency surgery to save my sight; and to the matron, sisters and nurses in the Royal Eye Ward who nursed me for a week afterwards.

  At this point I must therefore say thank you to my brother Simon and his flatmate, Clive, who took me in until a bed at St Thomas’s could be found for me.

  It was at St Thomas’s that I met Errol, Sam and Joe and I thank them for allowing me to include them in the story — my only regret being that I lost some of the notes made of conversations with these extraordinary characters and therefore have changed names and missed out one beloved motorcycle.

  I am pleased and grateful to thank my colleagues at The Wildernesse School who, at the busiest time of the academic year, shouldered my responsibilities along with their own. I thank all those colleagues who took lessons for me. I owe my deepest thanks to Hilary Burdett who ran the English department, to Beverly Butler who ran the Sixth Form (or the Post-16 Provision
, as we must now call it) and to the Senior Management team who shared the rest of my responsibilities — to Steve Guest, David Flint, Stuart McTavish and headmaster Ron Herbert.

  The research for The Bomb Ship is based on a wide range of material. The situation and some of the characters are drawn from my earlier novel Killer. I revisited much of the original research material, including the diaries of Captain Scott and South by Ernest Shackleton. The more recent material fundamental to the work includes the writings of Tristan Jones, Robert Swann and Ranulph Fiennes. Pictures as well as words were particularly important in Bryan and Cherry Alexander’s The Eskimos and, for the berg itself, Reinhold Messner’s Die Alpen. Even as I write this, Sir Ranulph has just completed his epic journey across Antarctica for charity. I hope it is not too presumptuous to offer him my most sincere congratulations on a truly historic feat.

  As ever, I must thank Stanfords the map makers of 12-14 Long Acre, London, for their help. This time I promised to mention Paul Hart. Especially, I must thank Kelvin Hughes, ships suppliers of 145 Minories, London, who supplied hard-to-get charts of the Davis Strait and the Arctic Pilot for the region.

  Finally and most warmly of all, I must thank Richard Atchley. Not only did he advise me in great detail about the legal aspects of the story, guiding me round the chambers and courts in question, but he also added a crucial amount of maritime experience and, perhaps most importantly from my point of view, a portion of that cheerfully boundless enthusiasm with which he approaches everything he does.

  If you enjoyed The Bomb Ship you might be interested in The Coffin Ship by Peter Tonkin, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from The Coffin Ship by Peter Tonkin