by Peter Tonkin
‘There are the better part of sixty men aboard this ship,’ continued Robin as they plunged downwards. ‘If we can get them organised and all pulling their weight, then there’s nothing we can’t achieve. Especially as the alternatives are pretty unpleasant. If we leave them with too much time to sit and worry, we’ll have panic and trouble. Even when the weather’s clear and calm like this, it’s obvious that the ice around us is building up. Unless we get out of this position, we may find the hull gets badly damaged and we have to camp on the ice until we’re picked up. If this weather continues, it will go from being difficult to get a rescue ship in here to being downright impossible. Then what are we going to do? Rely on air-dropped supplies and wait for the next storm to break up the ice and start praying for help again? No. If we can’t rely on anyone getting in to help us, then we will simply have to get out under our own steam.’
*
‘Well, gentlemen, here we are,’ she began again, fifteen minutes later, standing in front of the charts LeFever had pinned to the wall and looking down at the expectant sea of faces in front of her. ‘I am aware that when I say “Here we are”, many of you do not know exactly where “here” is. Well, we’re at this point on the chart here. Halfway between Hope and Desolation.’ She pointed to the spot on the chart, and did so surprisingly accurately, considering she was using a steaming mug of coffee. She pretended not to hear the rustle of sound that went through the room at her dramatic pronouncement. ‘Hopedale in Newfoundland is here on the Labrador coast,’ she moved her mug, ‘and Kap Desolation is here in Greenland. I can give you the co-ordinates though they probably won’t make much sense to most of you. We’re fifty-two degrees and six minutes west and a whisker over fifty-nine degrees north. The most important aspect of the situation for you to bear in mind is that we are well beyond helicopter range from either Greenland or Canada. The only way we can be contacted by air is if we make a landing strip somewhere near the ship. And, as we are beyond the limit of most small aircraft’s range, it would have to be quite a big airstrip.
‘You all know that we are secured against a barrier of ice. At this time I have no way of telling with any accuracy how thick it is, or how broad or long. We are on its north shore, so to speak. It is to the south of us, between us and the obvious courses for rescue. Judging from its general character and the very close look I got at parts of it yesterday, it is far too thick for us to break through, at this point at least. By the same token, it is too thick for any other ship to break through. So anyone coming to our rescue and hoping to pull us out will have to sail round one end of the barrier or the other, and that could be a long business.
‘To the north of us there is still quite a wide stretch of open water before the floes and the ice field, but the water is crusted over with thin ice and cannot be seen at the moment. We do have the freedom to move through it if we can get under way, however, so you need have no worries on that score. But the ice field is moving southwards. There are currents beneath it pulling it down towards us and so that freedom of movement may well be limited by time. As is the hope of getting a tug or another icebreaker in to pull us free.
‘So, how are we going to get out of here? We can’t rely on helicopters coming close. We could leave the ship, try to find a big flat piece of ice and hope they send a couple of thirty-seater aircraft out to the right spot before we all freeze to death. We can stay with the ship and wait for a rescue ship to come in after us and pull us out — and hope they get here before we get really hungry or a storm comes up or the ice crushes us. We have enough food aboard to feed thirty people for six more days, before you ask. And, unless you know where the late Mr Reynolds kept his supply, we have no alcohol at all.
‘Well, gentlemen, I would like to propose an alternative that I haven’t mentioned so far. I would like to propose that we get up off our backsides and fix our own wagon. We still have the docking screws so we can manoeuvre, and even sail forward or backwards at a knot or two. It should not be beyond the realms of our wit or ingenuity to find a piece of ice that gives us at least the start of a slipway, reverse this tub up a little and see about sorting the propeller out. Remember, if it wasn’t for that particular damage, Atropos is exactly the sort of ship that would be coming in here to help us out. She’s ice-strengthened and powerful. If we can get the propeller repaired so that the turbines can start turning it again or, failing that, replace it with the spare propeller, she will sail us out of here with no trouble at all.’
It was at that point that the walkie-talkie buzzed urgently. Ann handed it up to her automatically and Robin thumbed the receive button.
‘Yes?’
‘Hogg, Captain. The communications console just lit up. The whole shooting match. We’re back in business again, even got a fax.’
‘I’m on my —’
‘Captain?’
‘Yes?’
‘This is Stone. I’ve got a queue of people on the radio for you.’
‘Patch the first one through to me here. I’ll talk to them while I’m on my way up.’ She caught Ann’s eye and jerked her head.
Ann was up and in action at once, only to collide with Robin who had stopped in her tracks as though she had been stunned.
‘Richard! Darling, where are you?’
Ann was close enough to hear the reply relayed by the black handset. ‘Fifty-two degrees, six minutes west; fifty-nine degrees north.’
‘Halfway between Hope and Desolation,’ whispered Robin, awed. As she spoke, she swung round and the two women’s gazes locked while the walkie-talkie relayed Richard’s voice.
‘What? Oh yes, I see what you mean. Hopedale and Kap Desolation. That’s right. Exactly. I’m on Clotho with Nico and the rest. We’re less than ten miles south of you.’
23 - Day Ten
Friday, 28 May 12:00
Sir William Heritage sat in the operations room of Heritage House with Helen Dufour on his right and Magdalena DaSilva on his left. The world map towered imposingly up the wall behind them. Beyond the dashing, dazzling Maggie, the bookcases stood, solid, reliable, traditional. Beyond coutured, business-chic Helen, the wall of screens and displays glowed, high-tech, efficient, impressive. In front of them, beyond the solid table hastily borrowed from the boardroom downstairs, in place of the chesterfields and the antique coffee table, stood the local representatives of the world’s press.
‘If I may begin by reading a statement,’ Sir William said firmly. ‘Then we can answer individual questions later.’
Silence fell, except for the quiet conversations of the people in charge of the communications boards beyond Helen. An occasional flash exploded as photographers tried to catch the ambiance ofthis carefully selected location. Tape machines whirred as though whispering to themselves. Pencils poised, dagger-sharp. Sir William cleared his throat and began.
‘The two nuclear waste transporters Atropos and Clotho are at present in the Labrador Sea, exactly at the points you see marked on the map behind us. Atropos is fully laden with nuclear waste from the north American subcontinent on its way for reprocessing at the Sellafield nuclear reprocessing plant in Cumbria. She is currently moored to an ice barrier and is perfectly safe. There is no damage to her hull and no question of any damage to her cargo. She has on board not only a scientific officer specially trained in the observation and maintenance of such cargoes, but a member of the Greenpeace organisation with free access to all areas of the ship. And, of course, both ships have a full range of specially designed safety equipment as well as handpicked officers and crew. Atropos has been very slightly damaged and currently cannot make her way home unaided. She is under the command of my daughter Captain Robin Mariner who, as I am sure you are all aware, is one of Heritage Mariner’s most senior and respected captains. Clotho is within ten miles of her and we confidently expect that a tow will be offered within the next few hours and certainly before the end of the day. Clotho is unladen and, although also damaged herself, is well able to offer assistance. She was in
fact towing Atropos perfectly adequately until the line parted thirty-six hours ago in a storm. Clotho is currently under the command of Captain Richard Mariner, whose reputation will be well known to all of you.
‘We do not at this time envisage any particular problems, especially as the weather in the Labrador Sea is calm and clear with every prospect of remaining so for the next few days. We have not, therefore, requested any help from ships or agencies outside Heritage Mariner itself, and do not envisage doing so unless there is a major change in the circumstances. Heritage Mariner would like to go on record as stating categorically that we believe the situation to be of little seriousness. We believe it will be satisfactorily resolved within twenty-four hours and we see no reason at all for concern.’
Sir William laid the paper on the gleaming mahogany before him and sat up straight. His hands, clasped on the paper, shook very slightly but at his age it could have been incipient Parkinsonism. His shoulders were square, his blue gaze clear and level. He looked every inch the commercial elder statesman that he was, with his perfectly barbered, carefully parted silver hair and his militarily clipped white moustache. No one would have suspected that he felt he was lying through his teeth.
The questions began as quickly as he had feared and soon took the line he had most dreaded.
‘Andrew Pierce, Shipping. How badly damaged are the ships?’
‘One has a bent propeller, the other has some weakness to her bows. But the hulls of both ships have been strengthened for icy conditions.’
‘And how thick is the ice they are involved with at the moment?’
‘I understand it is first-year sea ice. As such it is probably less than six feet thick.’
‘Is that likely to do the ships any damage?’
‘Highly unlikely, and of course we carry full insurance.’
‘Who insures the world against the cargo?’ demanded a new voice.
‘Mr Stonor, would you please observe the proprieties. The cargo is sealed in containers which are guaranteed to withstand any extreme.’
‘Utterly unbreakable.’ Stonor’s voice was a sneer of disbelief.
‘Even stronger than the ones British Nuclear Fuel crashed a locomotive train into in that famous advertisement ...’
‘Andrew Pierce again. To what extent is it true that these ships have been designed and indeed financed with the expectation of transporting this nuclear waste in and out of the near arctic ports of Russia?’
‘That is our hope, certainly, Mr Pierce. In fact Miss Dufour here has just returned from Moscow where —’
‘Ms Dufour, have you completed an agreement with the Russians?’
‘As you know, Mr Pierce, since the disintegration of the old Soviet empire, it has become impossible to make one agreement with all the republics involved, but the people in Moscow —’
‘But these ships were financed on the expectation of the Russian deal ...’
‘Mr Stonor.’
‘... so any slowing down of the process will add to Heritage Mariner’s financial problems?’
‘No, Mr Stonor, that is not true,’ Helen Dufour told him. ‘They were not so financed. And the agreement of one or two republics would in theory be sufficient. Effectively we are only talking about the ports of Murmansk and Archangel, though there is some possibility of the authorities opening St Petersburg to this traffic eventually. And, of course, Heritage Mariner’s finances are absolutely sound.’
‘Sam Duncan, International Press. Sir William, we hear from our Canadian associates that your partners in this enterprise, Sept Isles Shipping who actually own Atropos, are also on the verge of financial collapse.’
‘Since the death of Dan Williams in the terrorist outrage at our launching ceremony three months ago, the company has been undergoing some restructuring but they are financially sound.’
‘And word is that Heritage Mariner has every spare penny tied up in these two ships.’
‘Heritage Mariner is a broad-based company with substantial interests in oil shipping and leisure boating ...’
‘Both shrinking markets, going from bad to worse.’
‘... of established and longstanding reputation.’
‘John Stonor, of the Sketch.’ The piercing voice was heavy with ironic innocence.
‘Yes, Mr Stonor.’
‘Isn’t it true that the insurance on these two ships, all of which your company is bearing —’
‘As agreed with our Canadian associates.’
‘All of which you are bearing is beginning to cripple you financially ...’
‘No, Mr Stonor, that is absolutely —’
‘... to such an extent that if these ships go down, then Heritage Mariner goes down with them?’
‘I have answered that already. Yes, Miss —’
‘And, furthermore, that is the real reason you have sent Clotho after Atropos in spite of the fact that she is badly damaged and conditions in the Labrador Sea are so dangerous. Even the salvage cost of bringing in help from outside will put Heritage Mariner at risk. Isn’t that so?’
‘No. These allegations are absolutely untrue. You are speculating wildly. As you were with the question of the cargo.’
‘How many people have been killed so far?’ Stonor chucked the question in out of nowhere and it was so unexpected that Sir William flinched in spite of himself.
‘Miss Silver —’
‘Rachel Silverberg, Economic Review Isn’t it the case that the judgment outstanding against Captain Richard Mariner over the loss of the Napoli leaves your company wide open to further litigation, especially in America? Litigation which could destroy the financial base of your company?’
‘That judgment is under appeal here and we know nothing about further —’
‘If I may field this one, Sir William.’ Maggie rose to the fray.
‘Certainly, Miss DaSilva.’
‘There is no question that our appeal here will fail, Ms Silverberg. And I am in contact with several of the New York law firms who were considering moving on the strength of yesterday’s judgment but they are all as yet undecided.’
‘And the United States government is considering making an order against Heritage Mariner, forcing them to retrieve Napoli’s cargo and dispose of it properly!’ that sneering voice accused.
‘Mr Stonor, that has nothing to do with the strength of our appeal —’
‘It’s got everything to do with the American litigation, though. Half the lawyers in New York are just waiting until the State Department makes up its mind. I have an American lawyer who will stand up and say —’
‘When he stands up, we will answer his allegations. Not before.’
‘Okay, then tell me how many are dead so far on Clotho and Atropos. Ten, Sir William? Twenty?’
Sir William’s jaw squared and his lips thinned as he remained in solid silence, staring the reporter down.
Maggie sat, and the silence persisted for a heartbeat longer.
‘Steven Palmer, World News. Could you comment on the terrorist involvement in the recent history of your company?’
‘We do much of our work in the Gulf, Mr Palmer. We have dealt with people who also work in the Middle East. We build our ships in Northern Ireland. Terrorism is a fact of life these days, I’m afraid.’
‘But your contacts with international terrorism go even further than that, do they not, Sir William?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t it true that the sister of one of your senior officers is a member of the PLO? Haven’t you actually had an unofficial contact with them for some time now?’
Only after he had thundered another outraged negative did Sir William notice Maggie’s covert signal begging him to be careful. But he was too enraged to stop now.
‘If that was the case, Mr Palmer, do you suppose we would have allowed terrorists to murder and maim at the launching ceremony for Clotho and Atropos? Especially as it was our friends and associates who bore the brunt. My own son-in-law was nearly kil
led.’
‘Now you mention that incident, Sir William, do you think it was wise of you to let your ships sail without a full naval escort? May I remind you that when the Japanese sent just one ship like yours to Europe last year, they sent a fully armed coastguard vessel with her to protect her from terrorists.’
‘The Japanese were picking up weapons grade plutonium, Mr Stonor. And even they had nothing to fear from the PLO.’
‘Ah, but of course it wasn’t the PLO who bombed your ships in Belfast, Sir William.’
‘PLO, IRA, what difference does it make? They were trying to kill the Secretary of State and only used our ceremony by coincidence.’
‘It was neither of them, Sir William. And it wasn’t a coincidence.’ Stonor’s voice had lost something of its sneer and he deigned to stand up for the first time as he spoke. ‘What do you know about the LGV, La Guerre Verte?’
Sir William’s memory was jerked back to the poster Justin Bulwyr-Lytton had shown him yesterday. Trust old Bull to be right on the nail, he thought wearily.
‘I heard of them for the first time less than twenty-four hours ago, I don’t see —’
‘They are terrorists whose concerns are ecological rather than political. They kill to save the world from people who pollute it, like oil transporters, like traffickers in nuclear waste.’
‘This sounds like fantasy to me, Mr Stonor. I have never heard such arrant nonsense in my —’
‘And can you tell me if you’ve ever seen this woman before?’ Stonor held up an A3-sized poster of a young, long-haired woman.
‘No, I have never seen her.’ He looked from side to side. Both women shrugged. ‘We have never seen her.’
‘Her name is Joan Hennessy. She is an American citizen, wanted for murder in the United States and Canada. She is apparently quite a lady. Ex-US Army; highly trained explosives expert. Favours a kind of Bowie knife for close combat, I’m told. She and her husband are among the leading lights of La Guerre Verte.’
