Hungry as the Sea Read online

  Hungry as the Sea

  Wilbur Smith

  Hungry as the Sea

  By: Wilbur Smith

  Synopsis:

  "Nick went head down, finning desperately to catch the swirling body

  which tumbled like a leaf in high wind, He had a fleeting glimpse of

  Baker's face, contorted with terror and lack of breath, the glass visor

  of his helmet already swamping with icy water as the pressure spurted

  through the non-return valve. The Chief's headset microphone squealed

  once and then went dead as the water shorted it out."

  Robbed of his wife and ousted from his huge shipping empire, Nick Berg

  is hell-bent on vengeance. It is the sea which gives him his

  opportunity. When his arch-rival's luxury liner is trapped in the

  tempestuous Antarctic, Nick stakes all to pit his powerful salvage tug

  the Warlock in a desperate race against time and the elements.

  the novels of Wilbur Smith

  The Courtney Novels: When the Lion Feeds

  The Sound of Thunder

  A Sparrow Falls

  The Burning Shore

  Power of the Sword

  Rage

  A Time to Die

  The BaUantyne

  Novels:

  A Falcon Flies

  Men of Men

  The Angels Weep

  The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

  The Dark of the Sun

  Shout at the Devil

  Gold Mine

  The Diamond Hunters

  The Sunbird Eagle in the sky

  givin wor

  The Eye of the Tiger

  Cry Wolf

  Hungry as the Sea

  The Wild Justice

  Golden Fox

  Elephant Song

  Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933. He was educated at

  Michaelhouse and Rhodes University.

  He became a full-time writer in 1964 after the successful publication of

  When the Lion Feeds, and has since written twenty-three novels,

  meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide.

  He normally travels from November to February, often spending a month

  skiing in Switzerland, and visiting Australia and New Zealand for sea

  fishing. During his summer break, he visits environments as diverse as

  Alaska and the dwindling wilderness of the African interior.

  He has an abiding concern for the peoples and wildlife of his native

  continent, an interest strongly reflected in his novels.

  He is married to Danielle, to whom his last nineteen books have been

  dedicated.

  This book is for my wife Danielle

  HUNGRY AS THE SEA

  First published in Great Britain 1978 by Mandarin Paperbacks

  The an imprint of R6ad International Books Ltd Michelin House, 8i Fulham

  Road, London SW3 6RD effec and Auckland, Melbourne, Singapore and

  Toronto

  Reprinted 1992, 1993 (twice), 1994 (twice), 1995 (twice), 1996 (twice)

  Copyright 0 Wilbur Smith 1978

  catalogue record for this title to d is available from the British

  Library

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of

  trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated

  without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding oi cover

  other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  including this condition. being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Uk 9 IM718HO1340 429969

  Nicholas Berg stepped out of the taxi on to the floodlit dock and paused

  to look up at the Warlock. At this state of the tide she rode high

  against the stone quay, so that even though the cranes towered above

  her, they did not dwarf her.

  Despite the exhaustion that fogged his mind and cramped his muscles

  until they ached, Nicholas felt a stir of the old pride, the old sense

  of value achieved, as he looked at her. She looked like a warship,

  sleek and deadly, with the high flared bows and good lines that combined

  to make her safe in any seaway.

  The superstructure was moulded steel and glittering armoured glass,

  behind which her lights burned in carnival array. The wings of her

  navigation bridge swept back elegantly and were covered to protect the

  men who must work her in the cruellest weather and most murderous seas.

  Overlooking the wide stern deck was the second navigation bridge, from

  which a skilled seaman could operate the great winches and drums of

  Cable, could catch and control the hawser on the hydraulically operated

  rising fairleads, could baby a wallowing oil rig or a mortally wounded

  liner in a gale or a silky calm.

  Against the night sky high above it all, the twin towers replaced the

  squat single funnel of the old-fashioned salvage tugs - and the illusion

  of a man-of-war was heightened by the fire cannons on the upper

  platforms from which the Warlock could throw fifteen hundred tons of sea

  water an hour on to a burning vessel. From the towers themselves could

  be swung the boarding ladders over which men could be sent aboard a

  hulk, and between them was painted the small circular target that marked

  the miniature heliport. The whole of it, hull and upper decks, was

  fireproofed so she could survive in the inferno of burning petroleum

  from a holed tanker or the flaring chemical from a bulk carrier.

  Nicholas Berg felt a little of the despondency and spiritual exhaustion

  slough away, although his body still ached and his legs carried him

  stiffly, like those of an old man, as he started towards the gangplank.

  The hell with them all/ he thought. I built her and she is strong and

  good. Although it was an hour before midnight, the crew of the Warlock

  watched him from every vantage point they could find; even the oilers

  had come up from the engine room when the word reached them, and now

  loafed unobtrusively on the stern working deck.

  David Allen, the First Officer, had placed a hand at the main harbour

  gates with a photograph of Nicholas Berg and a five-cent piece for the

  telephone call box beside the gate, and the whole ship was alerted now.

  David Allen stood with the Chief Engineer in the glassed wing of the

  main navigation bridge and they watched the solitary figure pick his way

  across the shadowy dock, carrying his own case.

  So that's him/ David's voice was husky with awe and respect. He looked

  like a schoolboy under his shaggy bush of sun-bleached hair.

  He's a bloody film star, Vinny Baker, the Chief Engineer, hitched up his

  sagging trousers with both elbows, and his spectacles slid down the long

  thin nose, as he snorted.

  A bloody film star/ he repeated the term with utmost scorn.

  He was first to Jules Levoisin/ David pointed out, and in the note of

  awe as he intoned that name, and he is a tug man from way back. 'That

  was fifteen years ago. Vinny Baker released his elbow grip on his

  trousers and pushed his spectacles up on to the bridge of his nose.

  Immediately his trousers began their slow but inexorable slide

  deckwards. S
ince then he's become a bloody glamour boy - and an owner.

  Yes, David Allen agreed, and his baby face crumpled a little at the

  thought of those two legendary animals, master and owner, combined in

  one monster. A monster man which was on the point of mounting his

  gangway to the deck of Warlock.

  You'd better go down and kiss him on the soft spot/ vinny grunted

  comfortably, and drifted away. Two decks down was the sanctuary of his

  control room where neither masters nor owners could touch him. He was

  going there now.

  David Allen was breathless and flushed when he reached the entry port.

  The new Master was halfway up the gangway, and he lifted his head and

  looked steadily at the mate as he stepped aboard.

  Though he was only a little above average, Nicholas Berg gave the

  impression of towering height, and the shoulders beneath the blue

  cashmere of his jacket were wide and powerful. He wore no hat and his

  hair was very dark, very thick and brushed back from a wide unlined

  forehead. The head was big-nosed and punt-boned, with a heavy jaw, blue

  now with new beard, and the eyes were set deep in the cages of their

  bony sockets, underlined with dark plumcoloured smears, as though they

  were bruised.

  But what shocked David Allen was the man's pallor. His face was

  drained, as though he had been bled from the jugular. it was the pallor

  of mortal illness or of exhaustion close to death itself, and it was

  emphasized by the dark eye-sockets. This was not what David had

  expected of the legendary Golden Prince of Christy Marine. It was not

  the face he had seen so often pictured in newspapers and magazines

  around the world. Surprise made him mute and the man stopped and looked

  down at him.

  Allen? asked Nicholas Berg quietly. His voice was low and level,

  without accent, but with a surprising timbre and resonance.

  Yes, sir. Welcome aboard, sir. When Nicholas Berg smiled, the edges of

  sickness and exhaustion smoothed away at his brow and at the corners of

  his mouth. His hand was smooth and cool, but his grip was firm enough

  to make David blink.

  I'll show you your quarters, sir. David took the Louis Vuitton suitcase

  from his grip.

  I know the way, said Nick Berg. I designed her.

  He stood in the centre of the Master's day cabin, and felt the deck tilt

  under his feet, although the Warlock was fast to the stone dock, and the

  muscles in his thighs trembled.

  The funeral went off all right? Nick asked.

  He was cremated, sir/ David said. That's the way he wanted it.

  I have made the arrangements for the ashes to be sent home to Mary.

  Mary is his wife, sir/ he explained quickly.

  Yes/ said Nick Berg. I know. I saw her before I left London.

  Mac and I were ship-mates once. He told me. He used to boast about

  that. Have you cleared all his gear? Nick asked, and glanced around

  the Master's suite.

  Yes sir, we've packed it all up. There is nothing of his left in here.

  He was a good man! Nick swayed again on his feet and looked longingly

  at the day couch, but instead he crossed to the port and looked out on

  to the dock. How did it happen? my report Tell me!

  said Nicholas Berg, and his voice cracked like a whip.

  The main tow-cable parted, sir. He was on the afterdeck.

  it took his head off like a bullwhip. Nick stood quietly for a moment,

  thinking about that description of tragedy. He had seen a tow part

  under stress once before.

  That time it had.and killed three men.

  , Nick hesitated a moment, the exhaustion had slowed and softened him so

  that for a moment he was on the point of explaining why he had come to

  take command of Warlock himself, rather than sending another hired man

  to replace Mac.

  It might help to have somebody to talk to now, when he was right down on

  his knees, beaten and broken and tired to the very depths of his soul.

  He swayed again, then caught himself and forced aside the temptation. He

  had never whined for sympathy in his life before.

  All right,, he repeated. Please give my apologies to your officers. I

  have not had much sleep in the last two weeks, and the flight out from

  Heathrow was murder, as always.

  I'll meet them in the morning. Ask the cook to send a tray with my

  dinner. The cook was a huge man who moved like a dancer in a snowy

  apron and a theatrical chef's cap. Nick Berg stared at him as he placed

  the tray on the table at his elbow. The cook wore his hair in a shiny

  carefully coiffured bob that fell to his right shoulder, but was drawn

  back from the left, cheek to display a small diamond earring in the

  pierced lobe of that ear.

  He lifted the cloth off the tray with a hand as hairy as that of a bull

  gorilla, but his voice was as lyrical as a girl's, and his eyelashes

  curled soft and dark on to his cheek.

  bowl of soup, and a pot-all-feu. It's one of my little special things.

  You will adore it/ he said, and stepped back.

  He surveyed Nick Berg with those huge hands on his hips. But I took one

  look at you as you came aboard and I just knew what you really needed.

  With a magician's flourish, he produced a half-bottle of Pinch Haig from

  the deep pocket of his apron. Take a nip of that with your dinner, and

  then straight into bed with you, you poor dear., No man had ever called

  Nicholas Berg dear before, but his tongue was too thick and slow for the

  retort. He stared after the cook as he disappeared with a sweep of his

  white apron and the twinkle of the diamond, and then he grinned weakly

  and shook his head, weighing the bottle in his hand.

  Damned if I don't need it/ he muttered, and went to find a glass.

  He poured it half full, and sipped as he came back to the couch and

  lifted the lid of the soup pot. The steaming aroma made the little

  saliva glands under his tongue spurt.

  The hot food and whisky in his belly taxed his last reserves, and

  Nicholas Berg kicked off his shoes as he staggered into his night cabin.

  He awoke with the -anger on him. He had not been angry in two weeks

  which was a measure of his despondency.

  But when he shaved, the mirrored face was that of a stranger still, too

  pale and punt and set. The lines that framed his mouth were too deeply

  chiselled, and the early sunlight through the port caught the dark hair

  at his temple and he saw the frosty glitter there and leaned closer to

  the mirror. It was the first time he had noticed the flash of silver

  hair - perhaps he had never looked hard enough, or perhaps it was

  something new.

  Forty he thought. I'll be forty years old next June. He had always

  believed that if a man never caught the big one before he was forty, he

  was doomed never to do so.

  So what were the rules for the man who caught the big wave before he was

  thirty, and rode it fast and hard and high, then lost it again before he

  was forty and was washed out into the trough of boiling white water. Was

  he doomed also?

  Nick stared at himself in the mirror and felt the anger in him change

  its form, becoming directed and functional
.

  He stepped into the shower, and let the needles of hot water sting his

  chest. Through the tiredness and disillusion, he was aware, for the

  first time in weeks, of the underlying strength which he had begun to

  doubt was still there. He felt it rising to the surface in him, and he

  thought of what an extraordinary sea creature he was, how it needed only

  a deck under him and the smell of the sea in his throat.

  He stepped from the shower and dried quickly. This was the right place

  to be now. This was the place to recuperate - and he realized that his

  decision not to replace Mac with a hired skipper had been a gut

  decision. He needed to be here himself.

  Always he had known that if you wanted to ride the big wave, you must

  first be at the place where it begins to peak. It's an instinctive

  thing, a man just knows where that place is. Nick Berg knew deep in his

  being that this was, the place now, and, with his rising strength, he

  felt the old excitement, the old I'll show the bastards who is beaten,

  excitement, and he dressed swiftly and went up the Master's private

  companionway to the Upper deck.

  immediately, the wind flew at him and flicked his dark wet hair into his

  face. It was force five from the south-east, and it came boiling over

  the great flat-topped mountain which crouched above the city and

  harbour. Nick looked at it and saw the thick white cloud they called

  the table cloth spilling off the heights, and swirling along the grey

  rock cliffs.

  The Cape of Storms/ he murmured. Even the water in the protected dock

  leaped and peaked into white crests which blew away like wisps of smoke.

  The tip of Africa thrust southwards into one of the most treacherous

  seas on all the globe. Here two oceans swept turbulently together off

  the rocky cliffs of Cape Point, and then rolled over the shallows of the

  Agulhas bank.

  Here wind opposed current in eternal conflict. This was the breeding

  ground of the freak wave, the one that mariners called the hundred-year

  wave,, because statistically that was how often it should occur.

  But off the Agulhas bank, it was always lurking, waiting only for the

  right combination of wind and current, waiting for the inphase wave

  sequence to send its crest rearing a hundred feet, high and steep as

  those grey rock cliffs of Table Mountain itself.

  Nick had read the accounts of seamen who had survived that wave, and, at