by Peter Tonkin
‘The propeller,’ bellowed Richard. ‘She’s struck something.’
Side by side, each with a twin in one hand, Richard and Robin leaned out over the aft rail behind the helideck. And there, bobbing up into the sluggish wake, came the culprit. A piece of ice the size of a big John Deere. Deep blue. Yielding nothing to the green of the ocean or the suddenly returning overcast of the steel-grey evening. Iceberg heart-ice, ten thousand years old at least. Older than mankind, maybe, oozing down off Antarctica over centuries without number, compacted, hardened, everything of liquid squeezed out of it with the lighter shades of the spectrum until only the steely blue registered. Half as old as coal and every bit as hard as iron, it had smashed into the whirring blade just at the most critical moment; and God alone knew how much damage it had done.
Chapter Eleven
It was the chief engineer’s quick thinking that saved the shaft. Now it was the chief’s right-hand man who was going to be lowered over the stern to check on the extent of the damage. First he had to be made proof against hostile Antarctic environment, the pressure ten metres and more down and the possibility of attack. As Richard helped get the diving suit ready for the young engineer and his colleagues secured a winch in place to lower and raise him, Richard was suddenly and forcibly struck by just how light and apparently fragile Major Schwartz’s suit had been. He was as knowledgeable as most people about space hardware and he knew about the great, multi-layered, pressurised, space-strengthened monstrosities most astronauts wore. The major’s suit, which had been designed to withstand the hostile environment of Mars, must have been a thoroughly extraordinary piece of kit, he thought to himself. He wondered how much Jolene actually knew about it, and just how important that knowledge might be. Certainly, when the engineer was ready, it was easy to see why the winch was necessary, with the heating lines, the power lines, the life-signs monitor line, the two-way radio line, the videocam monitor line and, of course, the air line. And this man was going ten metres out of his element at most, thought Richard. Ten metres, for half an hour or so.
By the time the young engineer was winched back aboard, most of those who had remained on the deck were well aware of the gloomy predictions and the tutting and headshaking with which the chief had greeted the video pictures of the damage. While the pair of them went off with the video and the engineer’s observations, Richard and the rest cleared up and stowed away. During the hour or so that they had been drifting since the accident, the great berg, given new impetus by the act of calving, had swung onto an even tighter course for the bay where Armstrong was, and had picked up speed so that retreat was forbidden them now. They could not get back into the bay even if they wanted to. With everything packed away, Richard stood looking back across the sudden mountain range which had risen with volcanic swiftness between the ship and the shore. They could walk back to Armstrong, if they wanted to, he thought.
The accident to Erebus was not an uncommon one. It had happened to one of Robin’s ships in the North Atlantic. Typically ingenious, she had contrived to pull the stern of her command high enough out of the water to put a new propeller in place. Not a luxury likely to be afforded Andrew Pitcairn, thought Richard. Then, more prosaically, his stomach growled. He looked at the quartz face of his old steel Rolex, amused as always that the quartz was over the display, not in the movement. Coming up for seven. Dinner time.
*
Immediately after dinner, while all the senior people were still in the dining salon, Andrew and the chief came in.
‘It’s not quite as bad as we thought at first,’ said Andrew. ‘As I believe you all know, the chief’s quick thinking saved the shaft from any damage. The only immediate problem is the propeller itself. Chief?’
The chief was a plain, blunt Newcastle Tynesider. He took no bull and gave no quarter. ‘Aye. Well, shaft and engines are fine. The propeller’s another matter. The propeller’s got three variable-pitch blades. One of these is severely twisted and locked. It is absolutely firm, however, and poses no danger to the hull or the other blades. It’s twisted out of its normal line and cannot by my estimation be returned to it. Even if we cut it off — if we could, out here — we could not reattach it firmly enough in a more acceptable position. We do not have spare parts to allow any alternative make-do and mend. However, if we set the other two blades very carefully and make no attempt to sail at any great speed, then we should at least be able to proceed under our own power.’
‘That speed should be about five knots or so,’ supplied Andrew. ‘We should be able to make the American base on Anvers within forty-eight hours and, with luck, they may help us without too excessive a salvage fee. Alternatively, we could make for Faraday and have some spares flown out.’
‘Aye,’ said the chief. ‘In a safe anchorage, with the correct parts and a little leisure, I believe we could get her A1 again.’
‘So there you have it,’ said Andrew. ‘We’ll come up to speed at the chief’s convenience, enjoy tomorrow night at sea — that’s Tuesday. Then with any luck by Wednesday the twenty-ninth we’ll be at Palmer base dropping off our American friends. Then over to Faraday by Friday evening at the latest for the celebrations.’
Jolene listened to the captain’s words, but only the early part of his address really interested her. Of all the Americans aboard she was the only one well enough to be in the dining salon. She knew nothing about the American base at Palmer on Anvers Island but she was quite heartened to be going there. At the very least, by the sound of it, a couple of Federal Special Agents would be only a couple of hours’ flight time away, courtesy of the Ice Pirates. But that knowledge abruptly focused her mind. There was still a lot of investigating to be done. And now was a good time to do a little more.
She went downstairs to talk to Sergeant Killigan if he was awake, or Billy Hoyle if he was not. But when she got to the sickbay, she found Killigan and Washington were still sedated and Billy Hoyle was nowhere to be seen. Thinking nothing much of it, she went to the little anteroom where the sailor on nursing duty was sitting reading a book. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes, miss?’ he supplied, looking up.
‘You seem to be missing one patient here.’
‘Oh no, miss. He went off with my oppo, my opposite number, Ernie Marshall, at the end of the first dogwatch when I came on. Just for a look around, like, all legal and above board. Though don’t tell the doc or Mrs Ross or Mrs Mariner, if you wouldn’t mind, miss. We have a saying in Britain, “Least said, soonest mended”, if you follow my drift, miss.’
‘I do. May I sit with Sergeant Killigan, please?’
‘Of course, miss, and I’d be pleased if you would. He’s been restless and I expect he’ll wake up soon. Nice to see a friendly face, I dare say.’
So Jolene went to sit by Pat Killigan and soon, as the orderly had predicted, the sergeant woke. At first he did not remember where he was or seem to understand why his face and bits of his body felt pain and sticking plaster. Most especially he did not seem to recognise the woman with eyes as clear as water sitting smiling by his bedside. It was the perfect situation for a little close questioning.
‘Hi, Sergeant,’ said Jolene brightly as she saw Killigan begin to stir. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not good. Where am I?’
‘In the infirmary. You’ll be fine. Do you remember anything?’
‘Anything about what? How did I get here?’
‘We brought you. The doc says you’ll be fine. Do you remember anything about the fire?’
‘What fire? Jesus, I hurt like a son of a bitch. What happened to me?’
‘You’re a bit burned. Don’t you remember anything about the fire? How it started?’
‘The first John Deere went up right on …’ Killigan lifted his blankets to steal a quick glance beneath them. ‘Hey, I got no underwear on. Who took my stuff?’
‘One of the nurses, I’m sure,’ said Jolene, aware that the sergeant was playing for time in the face of her questions. ‘The Joh
n Deere went up right on what?’
‘What nurses? There are no nurses at Armstrong.’
‘Right on time?’ she probed, using the last of his disorientation. ‘No women at Armstrong at all’
‘There are nurses here. You’ll be all right. But the John Deere. It went up right on what? Right on schedule? Right on plan?’
Silence.
Killigan looked up, suddenly clear-eyed and frowning. ‘Right on that fucking chopper’s landing gear. You’re the S&MA inspector. Jolene DaCosta. I got you now.’
‘I’m glad you’re feeling stronger. Can I get you anything? Food? Drink? Reading matter?’
‘So where am I? This isn’t Armstrong. Hey, I hear engines. This is a boat.’
‘That’s right. The British ship Erebus. It’s evacuating some of the wounded from the fire. You weren’t caught in the first explosion, though. You were caught when the store shed and the labs went up.’
‘No kiddin’?’ said Killigan, his eyes narrow, giving nothing away now. He began to pull himself up a little. He winced.
‘You’ll get good treatment aboard here,’ Jolene told him. ‘These facilities are better and warmer than anything left at Armstrong, and you’ll be dropped at Palmer in a day or two. We will, rather. I’ll be coming ashore there too. What’s there? At Palmer, I mean? Do you remember?’
Killigan frowned, clearly giving it all he’d got. ‘Permanent base. Bigger than Armstrong. Good helipad. Raised. Metal. All-weather, near as dammit. Proper landing strip. Four hundred metres, if memory serves. You’ll be able to fly in FBI by the shitload there. Fly out whatever you want too. lf there’s anything left for you to fly anywhere.’
‘I still have Major Schwartz.’
‘You do? You are a persistent person, Dr DaCosta.’
‘Thank you. May I get you anything? Food? Drink?’
‘A babe with a Martini would be a good start.’
‘Any particular babe? Vodka or gin? Shaken or stirred?’
‘What’ve we got?’
‘American girls? Only me. Captain Mariner and Dr Ross if you want British women. Among your men, Billy Hoyle up and about. Otherwise, anything you fancy.’
Killigan’s narrow eyes slid away. ‘Billy Hoyle,’ he said to himself. Then, more firmly, ‘Vodka. On the rocks. Bring a pitcher.’ He held up his hands. They were singed. Shaking.
‘And a straw.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ said Dr Chappie, pulling aside the curtain briskly. ‘The only container you’re going to need for the next few hours, Sergeant, is a bedpan. And they don’t come with straws.’
On the way back up the sickbay, Jolene noticed that Billy Hoyle was back on his bed, hands linked behind his bandaged head. ‘Hi, Billy,’ she said equably. ‘Where did you vanish off to?’
His eyes flicked over to the distant doctor, but Jolene had spoken softly; the termagant had not heard. ‘Just making a few acquaintances aboard. Settling in,’ he said.
‘Don’t get too settled in. We’ll be at Palmer in a couple of days.’
‘Palmer?’ His gaze was suddenly calculating. A door opened behind those bland, shallow eyes, showed her a racing intelligence reckoning odds like a card sharp. Then it slammed closed. ‘Good old Palmer. Well, what do you know? When do we get there?’
‘Forty-eight hours,’ she said. ‘On the dot if it all goes to plan.’
‘Two days,’ said Billy. ‘Two days and a night.’
‘Two nights,’ she said, frowning. ‘Tonight and tomorrow night.’
‘But I’m a sick man. Tonight I gotta sleep,’ said Billy Hoyle and closed his eyes.
*
They all slept well that night, or seemed to do so. The full sea watches reported nothing untoward above or below decks. Kate and Robin’s dedication to first aid stretched as far as a late check and the promise of another first thing, but only the medical orderlies prowled the sickbay in the middle and morning watches, with orders to disturb the doc in dire emergency only. The twins, overcome by the mixture of terror and elation which had characterised so much of the day, slept very nearly as soundly as Major Schwartz in his icy drawer. Their parents, only a little less exhausted, went out like lights and stayed that way. Even Andrew Pitcairn slept, though the restfulness of his slumber was more than a little undermined by visions of Captain Ogre wearing nothing but her epaulettes and the golden badges of rank which matched so exactly the luscious over-abundance of her hair.
Jolene DaCosta woke. She was burning. She sat up in her bunk, gasping the thick, almost liquid air. She could feel the perspiration trickling between the tense hillocks of her breasts and running down her belly like raindrops on a windowpane. She pulled back the blanket and the starched perfection of the Navy regulation sheet. Somehow the tissue-fine cotton of her travelling nightdress had got all bunched up around her waist. She swung her long legs out of the bunk and stood, waiting an instant as the nightdress slithered languidly into place, falling with that familiar little kick into place just below her buttocks’ flare; just below the deepest curve of her tummy. Lingeringly she smoothed it into place, feeling how hot she was beneath its gauzy surface.
The gentlest rapping whispered at her door. She crossed the cabin, heart aflutter, feeling each tuft of carpet with super-sensitive toes. She turned the lock and the door swung silently inwards.
He was tall, but not as tall as she remembered. Little more than a collection of light-limned curves, emphasised by bottomless deeps of shadow. Hair like silver in the perpetual light of midnight here. Hands like white doves upon her. As though she was weightless he picked her up and carried her to her bunk. His palms and fingertips were like warm down drifting beneath the nightdress that was little more in substance than a fragrant breath. But his knee between her thighs was rougher, denim-clad. She rubbed against it gently, not wishing to hurry things too much. Her own fingers were busy, sliding under the paler, softer, warmer woven cotton of his T-shirt.
‘Oh my God,’ said Jolene.
Her lover raised his head. His eyes twinkled knowingly.
‘Richard was right,’ said T-Shirt. But his voice was her own voice.
Jolene woke. She was cold.
Because her dream was still so vivid in her mind she pulled herself out of the bunk and checked the door. It was open. And that was very bad because she had locked it before she went to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Jolene slept no more that night. She dressed, feeling at risk and invaded. She checked the simple door lock. It was capable of being unlocked from either side and looked easy enough to pick. She went through her stuff, most of which was laid out on the top bunk of the little double room. Nothing had been taken. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Then, investigator that she was, she went through the room again, looking for clues. In the face of another blank she fell to reasoning. Who? Why? Or rather, why and then who. If the motive was sexual, it could be pretty much anyone on the sex-starved crew. If the motive was almost anything else, then the suspects could probably be narrowed to those who knew who she was and thought they knew what she was up to.
Having got that far in her logic, typically Jolene took action. With no further hesitation, not even pausing to check the time, she went out, locked her door, pasted a couple of hairs across the jamb with spit and went for a prowl. The hairs on the door ploy was a bit James Bond and they would fall off when the spit dried but there was a certain security in knowing that little bit more than any potential burglars. Thus empowered, Jolene crept down towards the sickbay, right palm itching for the reassuring weight of her Glock.
It was probably just as well that she didn’t have the gun because when Robin called, ‘Morning, Jolene. You’re up early,’ from just behind her, she got such a fright that she’d probably have shot her if she had been armed. Then how could she have asked Richard for his advice and help?
‘I need,’ said Jolene a little while later, ‘a knight in shining armour.’
‘Oh?’ said Richard. He did not sound particu
larly convinced. ‘What’s the problem?’
Jolene explained about the break-in.
‘I’d have thought changing the lock would be no problem,’ said Richard, being practical. ‘Ships are self-regulating, self-repairing entities. No matter what you want doing in that line, there’ll be someone aboard to do it. If you want a new lock the first officer will know if there’s one aboard, and if there is, a chippie will fix it.’
‘I think my lock was picked. Anything stronger? I was thinking maybe bolts.’
‘Bolts if you insist. But they tend to be frowned on. Prime directive on any ship is safety. In an emergency the head of your station or assembly point should be able to open your door with a master key — in case you were knocked out, gassed, fainted, hurt. If you’re bolted in, they’re screwed and you’re dead.’
‘I’d say the chances of that are pretty slight. Slighter than robbery or ravishment in any case.’
‘So you think the motive might be intercourse rather than information?’
Jolene’s eyebrows rose. ‘You mean you don’t think so?’
‘You fishing for compliments? I’d say that most of the men aboard would queue up to get at you, if that’s what you wanted.’
‘But if whoever it was broke in for information, why didn’t they take any?’
‘You woke up. Disturbed them. Frightened them off. What was in your mind when you woke?’
T-Shirt Maddrell, you clever bastard, but she did not say it. ‘Well …’
‘No impression of movement, someone leaving?’
‘No. Nothing like that. Maybe it was just someone trying to put the frighteners on me.’
‘Scare you? Did they succeed?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Right then. Tell you what, I’ll ask around about locks and bolts, all right?’ Richard stood without waiting for an answer, turned away from the preoccupied woman and left.
