The Coffin Ship
Page 21
So, after Bodmin left, Richard remained on the bridge and Martyr remained in the Engine Room, each one of them at full alert.
And the hours began to pass.
At a quarter past midnight, Robin found herself in the same spot as usual, outside Richard’s door in the C deck corridor. She had come down here straight off watch as though driven by some Pavlovian reflex.
The situation and the time were so correct that she paused, though she knew Richard was up on the bridge keeping the first part of Ben’s watch while Ben tried to fix the computers in the Cargo Control Room for the morning. She paused for a moment, then, almost ready to turn left toward her lover’s empty berth, only to turn right after all and knock quietly on the door opposite.
The owner’s suite was occupied again. Oddly—or perhaps not so oddly at that—without a word being said on either side, Sir William Heritage had joined the team. In what capacity it was not quite clear, but when the other interlopers left by helicopter and pilot’s launch, he was still aboard. And he had no intention of being anywhere else. Though no great sailor himself for many years past, he fitted into Prometheus’s routine as he fitted everywhere—quietly and without fuss.
The battered but sizable expanding briefcase he habitually carried held as much as he needed—a few office things in one side and a few overnight things in the other; and a small, two-way radio, which could transmit as far as Exeter, perhaps, but which could receive from very much farther afield.
He was speaking quietly into this as Robin entered. He glanced up, grinned, and waved her to a seat. “Please wait,” he said into the small microphone and took his thumb off TRANSMIT.
“New toy,” he announced, pleased. “It can transmit as far as Exeter, and I arranged a relay there on the way down. Just having a word with the twenty-four-hour secretary at the office.” He depressed the button once more and began to speak.
It was from another, half-forgotten world. Robin watched, bemused; amazed anew at her father’s grasp of his business. He would have settled everything important before leaving Town and yet here he was, still tying up loose ends with no reports or memoranda—with nothing to help but a few crisp notes from his personal tape recorder.
Abruptly a tidal wave of warmth swept over her. In the weeks she had been aboard Prometheus she had forgotten how much she loved this man.
Finishing, he leaned back and massaged his eyes gently,fingers and thumb almost lost beneath his shaggy brows, in a gesture that she remembered with poignant affection from childhood. Unaware of her scrutiny, he leaned forward and flicked a switch on the radio. At once the quiet voice of a BBC newsreader filled the room.
At last he turned, the routine complete. “Well now, lass, you’re looking gradely,” he rumbled. “Seems I wasn’t working you hard enough.”
She had come down to see that he was all right. She had no intention of staying for long, but a chat and maybe a drink wouldn’t go amiss. Smiling wryly, therefore, she crossed to his small bar-fridge. “You’re looking better yourself, Dad,” she said.
“Mebbe I am at that.”
“Whisky?”
“Grand.”
As she poured them a whisky each and turned back toward him, so the news bulletin on his radio finished.
“You want water with this?”
“Has it been that long, lass?”
“No; it’s ice-cold.”
“Ah well. No help for it.”
She turned back and opened the fridge. There were some small bottles of Perrier in the door. “And it’s fizzy…”
“Gah! The privations of shipboard life, eh?”
“Pity poor sailors…” she said.
“And here is the shipping forecast issued by the Meteorological Office at midnight to night…”
She crossed to her father and handed him his glass. Then she sat comfortably on his bunk. He sipped the amber liquid. “So,” he said, “what exactly have you been up to then?”
“German Bight, Humber: six to seven, southwesterly, strengthening. Showers. Moderate to poor…”
“Well, it’s a long story…” She was suddenly a little defensive; unsure how much she wanted to share.
“We’ve got time now, lass…” He spread his hands wide, holding the whisky firmly in the left.
“Thames, Dover: seven to gale eight, south-southwesterly, strengthening. Intermittent rain. Poor…”
“Not too long. I’m going back up onto the bridge in a minute or two.” Already she sounded distracted. She sipped her whisky.
“Nay, Robin. What good can you do? And you’re worn out. Look at you.”
“I’m third officer here, damn it, Dad. I can do my duty…”
“Wight, Portland, Plymouth: gale eight to severe gale nine. Strengthening. Heavy rain. Poor…”
“Don’t you swear at me, my girl! You’re mixed up in something pretty dirty here. Dirty, and, by the look of it, dangerous. I’m your dad. I want you safe out. It’s only natural…”
Erect now, she put her glass on his bedside table and turned. “Don’t you patronize me, Father. As I have already said, I am third officer here and I…”
It hit her then: the weather forecast.
“Biscay: severe gale force nine gusting to storm ten, southerly, strengthening. Heavy rain. Visibility poor and worsening…”
“My God! Did you hear that?”
“What…”
“South Finisterre…”
“That! There’s a southerly storm coming and we’re anchored on a lee shore. Jesus!”
She crossed to the door.
“Robin,” he called.
She turned in the doorway. A vibrant, controlled, competent person he had never seen before. “Make it quick, Dad,” she snapped, “or we’ll all be sitting hard aground on Exmouth promenade long before the dawn.”
The VDU screen flickered. A column of figures appeared then vanished in the twinkling of an eye. “Nearly there,” exulted Ben. “McTavish, is that circuit going to hold up?”
“Aye. There’s nothing uncou’ complex about it, Mr. Strong. It’s just been blown tae hell and gone. That’s all.”
“Well, if we pull this one off, my bonny boy, we’ll be able to hand in our papers here and get a job with IBM.”
“And gie up the sea, Number One?”
“And give up the sea indeed.”
They worked for a while in silence; then McTavish ventured, “But what’d there be tae catch the lassies af I’d no ma uniform tae wear?”
They were working in the Cargo Control Room as they had been since the anchor went down. The two of them, with occasional help from Quine, had been at it for nearly eight hours solidly and were quite prepared for eight more. But there would be no need: if this last circuit held up without shorting out, the end was in sight at last.
Fortunately, the computer’s memory banks did not seem to have been damaged by the explosion. Richard had sealed the room against wind and weather once it had been cleared of debris, and now Ben and McTavish were hoping to get it ready for the inspection later this morning.
“That’s it!” called McTavish from under the console.
“Right. I’ll try it again. Come out…”
McTavish needed no second warning. His face was a rash of burn spots from their last such experiment, which had shorted like a Roman candle an inch above his nose. But Ben didn’t even see him move. Even as he spoke, he pressed ENTER and now the whole screen lit up again. And stayed alight.
“Good…”
Ben’s nimble fingers moved across the keys, rattling off the entry codes that would bring up the memory index. He would check that, then the file headings. And if they were all still there, the files themselves.
But the machine was already answering perfectly:
FILE ONE: LADING: LADING SCHEDULES 1–10…
By 02.30 he knew for certain that the bulk of the memory was intact. He sat back and cracked his knuckles, satisfied for the moment. “I’m finished with the first part of this, McTavish. You all tidi
ed?”
“Just about, Number One. Screwing down the last panel now.”
“I know someone I’d like to screw down: the S.O.B. who did all this in the first place.”
“Aye.” McTavish picked himself up and dusted off his knees punctiliously. “It’s nothing short of criminal, ruining all this expensive equipment.”
“Still, it’s working now.”
“That it is, Mr. Strong. I’ll tell the chief so too. Do you want tae tell the captain?”
“I’ll clean up first. You run along.”
“Aye. It’s been a dirty job.” The young Scot paused at Ben’s shoulder, looking across the room. “But it’s done now. And well done.”
Then he was gone.
Ben’s hands hovered over the keyboard an instant longer. Then he, too, left.
He did not go to the bridge, however, but to his own quarters. He wanted to check that everything was ready. He was still busy there when Robin arrived.
Bang Bang Bang! The hammering at his door was so unexpected that he nearly fainted. He answered as quickly as he could, still pale from the shock.
“Lord!” said Robin. “You look terrible!”
“I’m okay. What is it?”
“Where’ve you been for the last few hours, Number One?” she demanded, taking a leaf out of his own book. “It’s a bloody great storm is what it is. Got us trapped against a lee shore. It’s either hard aground on Exmouth Prom or safely afloat in the Seine Bay—so we’re off to France, says our less-than-happy captain. Off to France. Right now!”
“Can’t you get anyone on that radio, Mr. Quine?” snapped Richard.
“No, sir. It’s not really powerful enough to handle all this atmospheric interference.”
“Then our departure will have to remain unannounced. What’s our bearing, John?”
“One twenty.”
“Steady at that. What are we?”
“Slow ahead. Making five knots.”
“Okay. But I want more speed as soon as possible.”
It was the earliest part of John’s watch, and he stood by Salah Malik’s left shoulder while Ben stood at his right, both peering through the fogged glass. Robin was guarding the Collision Alarm Radar, which, though set at its lowest calibration, was mercifully quiet. The first big seas thundered into her, beam-on, black and hard as coal. She lurched a little, not liking this at all. Richard remembered the last time he had put her through anything like this, sitting confidently in his captain’s chair. Before bombs; before anyone had mentioned anything about sister ships breaking their backs on the long seas of the Roaring Forties.
Another big sea hit her. She moved only infinitesimally, but Richard knew all her ways now, and that one felt as though it had come more from head-on than beam-on. Richard went forward and pressed himself close to the glass, wishing he had a clearview in front of him. He could hardly see the deck. He couldn’t see the sea at all.
“Quine?”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s getting increasingly important…”
Just as Richard spoke, Quine at last got something on the portable radio he had brought aboard. The World Service News.
“…And the hurricane-force winds which have devastated Southern France today turned north, against all predictions, and are currently blowing over the Channel. Coastguards fear considerable danger to shipping. And now, sport…”
Richard exploded. “Hurricane force! That’s no bloody use at all, Mr. Quine! I need facts, not journalistic horror stories. I want reports from weather ships and coastal stations. I want accurate wind velocities. I want exact atmospheric pressure readings. I want state of sea and sky, and I do not need the blasted news and sport.”
“N…No, sir!” stuttered Quine, unnerved by the injustice of the attack. But Richard had slammed out onto the port bridge wing where he could vent his frustration on the elements, and not on innocent bystanders.
The wind out here was thunderous, breathtaking. It buffeted him with a cold fury, numbing him almost at once. He strode forward and gripped the handrail. Only that unrelenting grasp kept him upright as the wind tore at him, pushing icy fingers through the apparently impenetrable cold-weather gear he was now wearing. This was the last thing on earth he wanted to be putting Prometheus through, but he had no choice. The storm, approaching from this direction, simply turned Lyme Bay into a lee shore and threatened to blow him aground off Exmouth. He had to run for the shelter of the Seine Bay, off the north coast of France opposite.
It was a matter of mere miles—little more than a hundred—before the Cherbourg Peninsula would start giving a mea sure of protection. In these conditions, perhaps ten hours’ sailing time. So little and so short a time after their voyage so far. But there was something that made him more than a little uneasy; and it was not just the thought of the use Demetrios’s man might put this weather to. Perhaps he thought the old girl had had enough. Perhaps he felt that this was one test too many.
Certainly, it was the one final test he now most dreaded facing with her. Even as he stood there, lost in thought, the first great column of lightning striking the wavetops far ahead showed him the worst.
As it sometimes does, the Channel, under the storm conditions, had pulled in the great Atlantic rollers from the Western Approaches; it had steepened their sides and lengthened the distance between their crests. It had swung them round and was hurling them head-on at Prometheus: a perfect facsimile of the seas of the Roaring Forties. It didn’t happen often but it had happened now. To get to the safety of northern France, Prometheus must sail through a flawless replica of the seas off Valparaiso. The seas that had broken her sister’s back. On a clear day. In a calm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Richard remained outside on the bridge wing for fifteen minutes, expecting to be summoned momentarily as Quine managed to contact the Coastguards. When no such thing happened, his patience ran out quickly. The occasionally glimpsed seas looked too dangerous for him to allow the boy much indulgence.
After the icy rigor of the storm, the bridge was almost suffocating. He paused for an instant to reorient himself, streaming water. Nothing much had changed. Quine was palely wrestling to extract sense from his radio. Without success. Richard bit back further recrimination and turned to Robin.
“Number Three. Go down and ask your father if you can bring his radio up here. It may be open to less atmospheric interference than Mr. Quine’s.”
“Aye, sir,” snapped Robin and exited at once.
Robin was quite pleased at being asked to go to her father. Her bladder was about to burst, courtesy of that unwise whisky at midnight, and the mission at least saved her from having to ask to leave the bridge. Really she should have gone straight to the owner’s cabin, but her need was too acute. She ran down to her own cabin first and let herself in with a sigh of relief. It was pitch dark in the little vestibule, for the only light bulb in her quarters lit her cabin, perpetually dark now that the windows had been boarded up.
She knew, as soon as she stepped in, that she was not alone, and she swung the door behind her wide again, to let in light from the corridor.
The layout of the cabin was similar to Richard’s except that there was no dayroom or office on her left. Only the curtain before her into the shower and toilet, and the door on her right led out of the little cubicle where she now stood, not even breathing, trying to make her ears overcome the bluster of the wind, the rattling of the window-ply. What was it that had warned her? Some fragrance on the unquiet air? Some sound half hidden in the wind? Some more subtle sense?
It was probably only one of the stewards after all. “Who’s there?” she called, as though she hadn’t hesitated, being careful to open the door to her sleeping quarters before the door behind her closed.
The cabin was empty. There was no one visible and nowhere to hide: even the doors to her wardrobe had gone to fix the windows. She gave an angry sigh, irritated with herself for acting like a ner vous child, frightened of her own
shadow.
She went back out to the toilet, vexed.
Sitting in the dark, with the shower curtain eerily caressing her as it moved in the draft, her room suddenly became very clear before some inner eye, and she realized just how many things were not quite in the places she had left them.
Her room had been very thoroughly searched.
And the unease that this shock realization brought started another train of thought. Why had Ben looked so shaken when he had answered his door? She let her mind go back and looked at his face in her clear memory. Something was wrong there. She checked her luminous watch. She might just take a further moment to find out what was going on before she fetched her father.