"Joe," ordered Barrett, "show them into the saloon. And you, Karl, come back to the wheel."
It was not long before the German was back in the wheelhouse. Hard on his heels was the big man from the cabin cruiser. He glanced from Barrett to Maloney, then back to Barrett, studying the braid on their epaulettes rather than their faces. He demanded, "Where is the master?"
Barrett returned his stare. There was something familiar about the full, ruddy face, the pale blue eyes, the close-cropped white hair. It wasn't that he recognized the man himself, but he recognized the type. The command of big ships induces a rather surprising gentleness in some, a not unsurprising arrogance in others. And this man, Barrett knew, had commanded not single ships, but squadrons.
"I'm acting master," said Barrett briefly. "And now, sir, if you'll excuse me I'll get my ship under way."
"And may I ask where you are taking her, Captain?" asked the other. He contrived, by a subtlety of inflection, to insert quotation marks ahead and astern of the courtesy title.
"Clear of the harbor," snapped Barrett. "Then I'll see."
"Have you considered picking up refugees?"
"Yes, I have considered it. But where am I to pick them up from? What arrangements have been made?"
"You could establish radio contact with the authorities."
"The air is dead," stated Maloney.
"You're the radio operator, aren't you?" he asked, turning to Maloney. "How do you know the air is dead?"
"It was when we pushed off from the berth," growled Maloney.
"How do you know it is now?" He turned back to Barrett. "I suggest that this man stand his watch in the radio room."
"There are only three officers aboard," explained Barrett. In an aside to Maloney he ordered, "Full ahead both," and then, to Karl, "Port a little ... steady ... steady as you go." He resumed, "There are only three officers aboard: the third engineer, the radio officer and myself."
"Can't you put a rating at the telegraphs?"
"That's not standard practice in the Merchant Service. Furthermore, I have only two ratings. One is at the wheel, the other is looking after things on deck."
"I will take the telegraphs," said the big man. He turned to Maloney, "Sir, I relieve you. Kindly take charge of the radio office."
The radio officer looked to Barrett. "Tim, shall I—?"
"Yes. Off you go, Bill. See if you can raise anybody. See what you can pick up."
Thick smoke billowed down on the ship, reducing visibility to zero. Barrett went to the radar, peered into the luminescent screen. "Port a little more, Karl."
"Isn't your speed somewhat excessive?" asked the man at the telegraphs. "You've already had one collision, you know."
Barrett had been about to order a reduction, but decided against it. He said, "This smoke is from burning oil. It's spreading over the harbor. I've no desire to be trapped in it."
"You've already had one collision."
"And whose bloody fault was it? You were crossing from port to starboard. You were the keeping-clear vessel."
"You were the overtaking vessel, young man. And I think my word will carry rather more weight than yours at a court of enquiry."
"If there are such things any more," said Barrett. He watched the screen intently. There was something there, close, fine to starboard. Was it another small craft, or was it a buoy? He tried hard to visualize the chart, decided that it must be one of the buoys. In any case, its relative bearing was opening.
"Let me know as soon as we're clear of the Heads," ordered the big man.
"And who the hell are you, anyhow?" exploded Barrett.
"Admiral Keane. I am taking over this vessel for the Royal Australian Navy."
What a helluva time for an argument, thought Barrett, not daring to let his attention stray from the screen. Nevertheless, he was able to ask nastily, "Active or retired?"
"Retired, if you must know. But—"
Barrett heard high heels tap-tapping on the deck planking. He thought it was Jane, felt deeply relieved that she was making a recovery. He did not look up from the screen. Then he heard a high, musical voice say, "Uncle Peter, there's a dead man down there. In the officers' smoking room.
"There are dead men everywhere, my dear," the admiral told her. "And dead women. Now go below like a good girl-"
"But I don't want to. I want to know what's happening." She essayed a small laugh. "Old Mrs. Taine is quite convinced the end of the world is coming, and Mr. Hannaway is equally convinced that the ICBMs, with nuclear warheads, are due at any second. They're almost fighting about it, although as far as we're concerned the result will be the same no matter which theory is correct. And there's that man Clarendon, the sanitary inspector. He's got yet another theory, and he's demanding to see the captain."
"This ship has no captain," said Keane nastily.
"Like hell she hasn't," snarled Barrett.
"Are you in charge?" Barrett heard the girl ask. "I'd like to volunteer my services, Captain. I'm a fair yachtswoman and I know port from starboard and the sharp end from the blunt end."
"Starboard a little," ordered Barrett absently.
"Starboard a liddle, sir," repeated Karl.
"Steady, now. Steady...." Then he said, addressing the girl. "I believe you offered your services, Miss ... Keane?"
"Henderson, as matter of fact, Captain. But you can call me Pamela."
"Then would you mind—" He barked at Karl, "Steady, I said. Steady." Then, to the girl, "Would you mind slipping down to the officers' flat again? My wife's in my cabin—the chief officer's cabin. She managed to get down to the ship, but she's had a rough time of it. I haven't had a chance to see to her yet."
"Certainly," the girl said. He listened to her high heels tapping away from him and then down the ladder.
"North Head abeam," said Barrett to the admiral. "If you like, you can ring Full Away." He changed from the one-mile range to the three-mile range on the radar, then to the six-mile range, then to twelve miles, then to twenty-four. Apart from what seemed to be a cluster of small craft just south of the Heads, the sea was empty. He murmured, "We may as well run until we're out of this blasted smoke, then I'll heave to and we'll get things sorted out."
"But you must be going somewhere," said the admiral.
"Have you any ideas?" asked Barrett.
He heard the girl returning to the bridge. He looked up from the radar screen as she came into the wheelhouse. The light was too dim for anything more than an impression of slimness and, surprisingly, of sleekness. And her hair, he saw, was a very pale blond.
She said, "Jane's all right, Mr. Barrett. A few scratches, but I found the key to the medicine chest and fixed them up. And she's sipping hot, sweet tea now. I believe that's the specific for shock."
"What about that radioman?" demanded Keane. "He must have heard something."
Maloney's voice came from the radio office, just abaft the chartroom.
"Not a bloody thing," he said.
Dawn was breaking when the smoke started to clear.
The ship was gliding over a dark blue sea, calm, with the merest suggestion of a low swell from the south'ard. Ahead, the sky was cloudless and the horizon hard, but astern of Katana was what looked like a fog bank, a dark, amorphous mass hiding the sea surface, obscuring the skyline. But it was not fog. It was the smoke of the burning of cities and ships, of bush and forest, of the homes of men.
Joe was at the wheel, having relieved Karl for a spell. His glistening, swarthy face was expressionless as he fondled the polished spokes. He appeared at least half asleep, but Barrett knew that if he looked at the compass card he would find the ship not more than half a degree off her course. Not that it mattered. She was going nowhere. She had nowhere to go.
Maloney was still on duty in the radio room, still listening to the meaningless hiss and crackle of static, still transmitting, at regular intervals, unanswered requests for information and guidance. The admiral had gone below to see to the comf
ort of those whom he referred to as "his people."
And I, thought Barrett, should like to go below to see to the welfare of my wife. If the old bastard had any imagination he'd have relieved me for a few minutes.
Pamela Henderson came up to the bridge. She was carrying a tray. On it were teapot, cups, milk and sugar, a plate of fresh buttered toast. Barrett opened a folding table in the starboard cab, took the tray from the girl's hands, set it down. He said, "Thank you. But would you mind holding the fort for me for a few minutes? I want to go down to see how Jane is."
She said, "She's sleeping. I looked in on my way up with this. And you need it. All the others have been stuffing their guts, but nobody thought of you."
"You did," he said.
She smiled in reply, and he noticed her face for the first time—a strong face, tending to the rectangular, with sculptured planes, but too feminine to be called hard. Her smile was dazzling against the dark tan of her skin, and her hair so pale a gold as to be almost silver.
"Milk?" she asked. "Sugar?" She poured as though she were hostess at an afternoon tea party in one of the more fashionable suburbs.
He said, through and around a mouthful of the hot, crisp toast, "I appreciate this."
"I volunteered my services, you know," she reminded him.
"Yes. So you did, Pamela."
"And what's your name when you're up and dressed?"
"Barrett. Timothy. Tim for short." She said, "I'll call you Tim. And you can call me Pamela. But not, please, Pam."
"Suits me," he said.
After a short interval of tea sipping and toast crunching, she asked, "And what now?"
For a moment he was not sure of her meaning. In the few short minutes that she had been on the bridge, a sudden intimacy had come into being, an awareness of her as a person and as a woman.
"And what now?" she asked again.
He said, "I'll carry on, on this course, until sunrise. We shall be well clear of the smoke by then; there'll be no risk of our being run down. If there's anybody around to run us down, that is. Then I shall stop."
She said, "But you have radar."
"It's switched off now," he told her. "It's time it had a rest.
She asked, "But why stop?"
"Because," he said, "we carry a limited amount of oil fuel. There's no sense in burning any more until we know where we want to go."
"I see," she said thoughtfully. "And what about food and fresh water, Tim? As I seem to have been elected chief steward, acting, unpaid, they must be my concern."
"The food is. But it's the fresh water that's a fairly immediate problem. We shall have to start rationing at once. Regarding food, the situation isn't too bad, if you don't mind a certain monotony. After we've finished what's in the storeroom there's a thousand tons of spuds in the holds, as well as two hundred and fifty tons of canned fruits and vegetables."
He blinked as the dazzling disc of the sun lifted over the eastern horizon. He turned to look aft, estimated that the ship was now at least five miles from the edge of the smoke bank. He walked, without haste, to the engine-room telegraph, brought both handles to the Stop position with a double ring, waited for the pointers to move in reply. The sound of the telegraph bells was startlingly loud. He went into the wheelhouse, picked up the engine-room telephone, pressed the call button. "Mr. Ferris," he said, "you'd better come up. I don't know when we're getting under way again, but it will not be for a while yet."
Keane stamped onto the bridge. In spite of his informal attire—shorts, sandals, gaily patterned shirt—he radiated authority, an authority to which Barrett was not prepared to submit. The admiral's heavy Service revolver in its holster, only partly concealed by the loose upper garment, made him feel even more stubborn.
"Why have you stopped, Barrett?" demanded the admiral.
"Because I decided to stop."
"As the senior officer present, I—"
"But not, sir, of this ship. I am the senior officer as far as this vessel and her owners are concerned."
"Let me finish, young man. As the senior officer present, I demand to know why you have hove to."
"Because, sir, we have nowhere to go. Because we don't carry much oil fuel, and we'd better not burn any more until we have some destination."
"How much have you on board?"
"About sixty-five tons. Twelve days' steaming."
"Ample for a voyage to New Zealand."
"Or," said Barrett, "to Queensland, or Tasmania, or Victoria, or even West Australia. But what's the point of it?"
"There must," said the admiral, "be port facilities somewhere."
"Must there? What about your own base in Sydney Harbor? As we passed Garden Island on the way out there seemed to be some sort of fighting in progress. There was machine-gun fire, and I heard some heavy explosions."
"You should have told me," snapped tie admiral.
"You never asked me," countered Barrett. He tried to control his temper. "Look, sir, we're in the same boat. Metaphorically and literally. As far as I'm concerned, the head office in Sydney has gone up in flames, and there just aren't any managers or marine superintendents to tell me what to do next. I hold a master-mariner's certificate, so am competent to command this vessel. As far as you're concerned, your top brass—I suppose you still are supposed to take orders from them, even though you are on the retired list. Or do you have to be called up again first? Anyhow, your top brass has gone the same way as my owners. But if there ever is any maritime law again, I'm the legal master of this ship."
"And is your name on the Register?" demanded Keane.
"No. But it's on the Articles, as first mate—as second in command. When and if Captain Hall rejoins, I step down. Until such time—"
"Bloody civilian pettifogging!" sneered Keane.
"No worse than Admiralty red tape!" retorted Barrett.
"Uncle Peter! Tim!" Pamela's voice was sharp. "Shut up, both of you. This is the best exhibition of fiddling whilst Rome is burning since the late Emperor Nero." She paused. "All right. We're all civilians. You are, Uncle Peter. You have been ever since they retired you. You are, Tim, as a merchant officer. And I am, as a yachtswoman. But we're all of us seamen, of sorts. For the love of God let's sort this out in a seamanlike manner."
"And have you any suggestions?" asked Keane coldly.
"Yes, I have. When you were a serving admiral, and on the occasions that you actually went to sea, did you interfere in the running of your flagship?"
"No, but—"
"But you left things to the captain. I suggest that you do the same here."
"And I suggest," said Barrett, "that we call a general meeting; that we hear everybody's stories; that we try to sort out just what has happened and what we can do about it."
"Laws of Oleron?" asked Pamela.
"Sort of..." He turned to Keane. "It's an old Swedish custom. When the ship's in a really spectacular jam, and the master wishes to pass the buck, he calls a meeting of all hands to decide the course of action."
"I know, I know," grunted the admiral. "But there's more to it than buck passing."
In the short ensuing silence they heard a fresh sound from the radio office, the clicking of Maloney's typewriter. Barrett leading, they hurried from the wing of the bridge into and through the wheelhouse, into the chartroom. The door between it and the radio office was open. Maloney, seated at his desk, ignored them, intent on the whisper of Morse in his headphones, his fingers flickering over the keyboard.
There was a final clatter, then silence. Maloney waited for a while, and then, without haste, pulled the message pad from his machine, handed it to Barrett. He said, "A ham. In some town called Pleasantville. In New York State. In the U.S.A."
Barrett read aloud: "The fires. Everywhere the fires. Smoke and glare—can't tell if night or day. Watch stopped. Can you hear me? Can anybody hear me? Why don't the rockets come and finish the job? Can you hear me, you in the Kremlin? Fire your bloody rockets and get it over and done with
. The rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. But is it? But is it? The door is opening. So there's somebody alive still. But it's not—"
"And is that all?" demanded Keane.
"No. Not quite. After 'not' there are two letters. 'H' and 'U'."
"And his sending, at the end, was very ragged," volunteered Maloney. He was adjusting controls as he spoke.
And then, from the speaker, came a voice, faint at first and then quite loud. It was a heavy voice, and the language was English, but accented English.
"Cosmonaut Voronov calling Australia. Cosmonaut Voronov calling Australia. What is happening? What is happening? Has the war started? I can see the fires. I have seen the fires everywhere. All over the world. So I have broken radio silence." The voice was fading. "Please reply on my next circuit. Please try to reply on my next circuit. I shall be listening."
"If atomic weapons had been used," said the admiral slowly, "this man Voronov would have known about it."
"And so should we," said Barrett. He turned to the girl. "Pamela, would you mind rounding up everybody? I think the crew's messroom will be the best place for the meeting." And to the man at the wheel he said, "Joe, will you go down to help the lady?"
Karl—fat, elderly, walrus-mustached—came panting up the starboard ladder, hurried into the wheelhouse. "Mister Mate, in der paint locker I find idt."
"What did you find, Karl?"
"Idt not been human, mister."
Barrett clattered down the starboard ladder to the boat deck, followed by Pamela, the admiral and Karl, then down the ladder to the afterdeck. The paint locker was in the poop space, adjacent to the steering flat. Its door was open. The light was on.
At first Barrett thought somebody had been spilling red paint. But the smell was not that of linseed oil or turpentine. It was a stale, organic smell. A dead smell. And there was a cat there—was it the tough black and white tom, the wharf cat that Barrett had petted by the gate so long ago? It could have been. And its throat had been torn out, and one of its forelegs was missing. And there were rats there, five of them, also dead and badly mangled.
The Hamelin Plague Page 6
