Hungry as the Sea Read online

  He is a mean, joyless, constipated son of a bitch - and probably the

  best radio man afloat.

  Captain/ said the Trog, in a reedy petulant voice. Nick did not ponder

  the fact that the Trog recognized him instantly as the new Master. The

  air of command on some men is unmistakable. Captain, I have an "all

  ships signify .

  Nick felt the heat at the base of his spine, and the electric prickle on

  the back of his neck. It is not sufficient merely to be on the break

  line when the big wave peaks, it is also necessary to recognize your

  wave from the hundred others that sweep by.

  Coordinates? he snapped, as he strode down the passageway to the radio

  room.

  1 7 2 1 6 south 3 2 1 2 west.

  Nick felt the jump in his chest and the heat mount up along his spine,

  The high latitudes down there in the vast nd lonely wastes. There was

  something sinister and menacing in the mere figures. What ship could be

  down there?

  The longitudinal coordinates fitted neatly in the chart that Nick

  carried in his mind, like a war chart in a military operations room. She

  was south and west of the Cape of Good Hope - down deep, beyond Gough

  and Bouvet Island, in the Weddell Sea.

  He followed the Trog into the radio room. On this bright, sunny and

  windy morning, the room was dark and gloomy as a cave, the thick green

  blinds drawn across the ports; the only source of light was the glowing

  dials of the banked communication equipment, the most sophisticated

  equipment that all the wealth of Christy Marine could pack into her, a

  hundred thousand dollars'worth of electronic magic, but the stink of

  cheap cigars was overpowering.

  Beyond the radio room was the operator's cabin, the bunk unmade, a tray

  of soiled dishes on the deck beside it.

  The Trog hopped up into the swivel seat, and elbowed aside a brass

  shell-casing that acted as an ashtray and spilled grey flakes of ash and

  a couple of cold wet -chewed cigar butts on to the desk.

  Like a wizened gnome, the Trog tended his dials; there as a cacophony of

  static and electronic trash blurred with the sharp howl of morse.

  The copy? Nick asked, and the Trog pushed a pad at him. Nick read off

  quickly.

  CTM.Z. 0603 GMT. 72 16 S. 320 12 W. All ships in a position to

  render assistance, please signify. CTM.Z.

  He did not need to consult the R. T. Handbook to recognize that

  call-sign CTMZ'

  With an effort of will he controlled the pressure that caught him in the

  chest like a giant fist. It was as though he had lived this moment

  before. It was too neat. He forced himself to distrust his instinct,

  forced himself to think with his head and not his guts.

  Beyond him he heard his officers voices on the navigation bridge, quiet

  voices - but charged with tension.

  They were up from the saloon already.

  Christ! he thought savagely. How do they know? So quickly? It was as

  though the ship itself had come awake beneath his feet and trembled with

  anticipation.

  The door from the bridge slid aside and David Allen stood in the opening

  with a copy of Lloyd's Register in his hands.

  CTMZ, sir, is the call sign of the Golden Adventurer.

  Twenty-two thousand tons, registered Bermuda 1975.

  Owners Christy Marine.

  Thank you, Number One, Nick nodded. Nicholas knew her well; he

  personally had ordered her construction before the collapse of the great

  liner traffic. Nick had planned to use her on the Europe-to-Australia

  run.

  Her finished cost had come in at sixty-two million dollars, and she was

  a beautiful and graceful ship under her tall light alloy superstructure.

  Her accommodation was luxurious, in the same class as the France or the

  United States, but she had been one of Nick's few miscalculations.

  When the feasability of operation on the planned run had shown up

  prohibitive in the face of rising costs and diminishing trade, Nick had

  switched her usage. It was this type of flexible and intuitive planning

  and improvisation that had built Christy Marine into the goliath she was

  now.

  Nick had innovated the idea of adventure cruises - and changed the

  ship's name to Golden Adventurer. Now she carried rich passengers to

  the wild and exotic corners of the globe, from the Galapagos Islands to

  the Amazon, from the remote Pacific islands to the Antarctic, in search

  of the unusual.

  She carried guest lecturers with her, experts on the environments and

  ecology of the areas she was to visit, and she was equipped to take her

  passengers ashore to study the monoliths of Easter Island or to watch

  the mating displays of the wandering albatross on the Falkland Islands.

  She was probably one of the very few cruise liners that was still

  profitable, and now she stood in need of assistance.

  Nicholas turned back from the Trog. Has she been transmitting prior to

  this signify request?

  She's been sending in company code since midnight.

  Her traffic was so heavy that I was watching her.

  The green glow of the sets gave the little man a bilious cast, and made

  his teeth black, so that he looked like an actor from a horror movie.

  You recorded? Nick demanded, and the Trog switched on the automatic

  playback of his tape monitors, recapitulating every message the

  distressed ship had sent or received since the previous midnight. The

  jumbled blocks of code poured into the room, and the paper strip printed

  out with the clatter of its keys.

  Had Duncan. Alexander changed the Christy Marine code? Nick wondered.

  It would be the natural procedure, completely logical to any operations

  man. You lose a man who has the code, you change immediately. It was

  that simple. Duncan had lost Nick Berg, he should change. But Duncan

  was not an operations man. He was a figures and paper man, he thought

  in numbers, not in steel and salt water.

  If Duncan had changed, they would never break it. Not even with the

  Decca. Nick had devised the basis of the code. It was a projection

  that expressed the alphabet as a mathematical function based on a random

  six-figure master, changing the value of each letter on a progression

  that was impossible to monitor.

  Nick hurried out of the stinking gloom of the radio room with the

  print-out in his hands.

  The navigation bridge of Warlock was gleaming chrome and glass, as

  bright and functional as a modern surgical theatre, or a futuristic

  kitchen layout.

  The primary control console stretched the full width of the bridge,

  beneath the huge armoured windows. The oldfashioned wheel was replaced

  by a single steel lever, and the remote control could be carried out on

  to the wings of the bridge on its long extension cable, like the remote

  on a television set, so that the helmsman could con the ship from any

  position he chose.

  Illuminated digital displays informed the master instantly of every

  condition of his ship: speed across the bottom at bows and stern, speed

  through the water at bows and stern, wind direction and strength,

  t
ogether with all the other technical information of function and

  mulffunction. Nick had built the ship with Christy money, and stinted

  not at all.

  The rear of the bridge was the navigational area, and the chart-table

  divided it neatly with its overhead racks containing the 106 big blue

  volumes of the Global Pilot and as many other volumes of maritime

  publications.

  Below the table were the multiple drawers, wide and flat to contain the

  spread Admiralty charts that covered every corner of navigable water on

  the globe.

  Against the rear bulkhead stood the battery of electronic navigational

  aids, like a row of fruit machines in a Vegas gambling hall.

  Nick switched the big Decca Satellite Navaid into its computer mode and

  the display lights flashed and faded and relit in scarlet.

  He fed it the six-figure control, numbers governed by the moon phase and

  date of dispatch. The computer digested this instantaneously, and Nick

  gave it the last arithmetical proportion known to him. The Decca was

  ready to decode and Nick gave it the block of garbled transmission - and

  waited for it to throw back gibberish at him. Duncan must have altered

  the code. He stared at the printout.

  Christy Marine from Master of Adventurer. 2216 GMT.

  72 16 S. 32 05 W. Underwater ice damage sustained Midships starboard.

  Precautionary shutdown mains.

  Auxiliary generators activated during damage survey.

  Stand by.

  So Duncan had let the code stand then. Nick groped for the croc-skin

  case of cheroots, and his hand was steady and firm as he held the flame

  to the top of the thin black tube.

  He felt the intense desire to shout aloud, but instead, he drew the

  fragrant smoke into his lungs.

  Plotted/ said David Allen from behind him. Already on the spread chart

  of the Antarctic he had marked in the reported position. The

  transformation was complete, the First Officer had become a grimly

  competent professional.

  There remained no trace of the high-coloured undergraduate.

  Nick glanced at the plot, saw the dotted ice line far above the

  Adventurer's position, saw the outline of the forbidding continent of

  Antarctica groping for the ship with merciless fingers of ice and rock.

  The Decca printed out the reply:

  Master of Adventurer from Christy Marine. 22.22 GMT.

  Standing by.

  The next message from the recording tape was flagged nearly two hours

  later, but was printed out almost continuously from the Trog's

  recording.

  Christy Marine from Master of Adventurer. 0005 GMT.

  72 18 S - 32 05 W. Water contained. Restarted mains.

  New course CAPE TOWN direct. Speed 8 knots. Stand by.

  Dave Allen worked swiftly with parallel rulers and protractor.

  While she was without power she drifted thirty-four nautical miles,

  south-southeast - there is a hell of a wind or big current setting down

  there/ he said, and the other deck officers were silent and strained.

  Although none of them would dare crowd the Master at the Decca, yet in

  order of seniority they had taken up vantage points around the bridge

  best suited to follow the drama of a great ship in distress.

  The next message ran straight out from the computer, despite the fact

  that it had been dispatched many hours later.

  Christy Marine from Master of Adventurer. 0546 GMT.

  72 16 S. 32 12 W. Explosion in flooded area. Emergency shutdown all.

  Water gaining. Request your clearance to issue all ships signify.

  Standing by.

  Master of Adventurer from Christy Marine. 0547 GMT.

  You are cleared to issue signify. Break. Break. Break.

  You are expressly forbidden to contract tow or salvage without reference

  Christy Marine. Acknowledge.

  Duncan was not even putting in the old chestnut, except in the event of

  danger to human life.

  The reason was too apparent. Christy Marine underwrote most of its own

  bottoms through another of its subsidiaries. The London and European

  Insurance and Finance Company, The self-insurance scheme had been the

  brain-child of Alexander Duncan himself when first he arrived at Christy

  Marine. Nick Berg had opposed the scheme bitterly, and now he might

  live to see his reasoning being justified.

  Are we going to signify? David Allen asked quietly.

  Radio silence/snapped Nick irritably, and began to pace the bridge, the

  crack of his heels muted by the cork coating on the deck.

  Is this my wave? Nick demanded of himself, applying the old rule he had

  set for himself long ago, the rule of deliberate thought first, action

  after.

  The Golden Adventurer was drifting in the ice-fields two thousand and

  more miles south of Cape Town, five days and nights of hard running for

  the Warlock. If he made the go decision, by the time he reached her,

  she might have effected repairs and restarted, she might be under her

  own command again. Again, even if she was still helpless, Warlock might

  reach her to find another salvage tug had beaten her to the scene. So

  now it was time to call the roll.

  He stopped his pacing at the door to the radio room and spoke quietly to

  the Trog.

  Open the telex line and send to Bach Wackie in Bermuda quote call the

  roll unquote.

  As he turned away, Nick was satisfied with his own forethought in

  installing the satellite telex system which enabled him to communicate

  with his agent in Bermuda, or with any other selected telex station,

  without his message being broadcast over the open frequencies and

  monitored by a competitor or any other interested party.

  His signals were bounced through the high stratosphere where they could

  not be intercepted.

  While he waited, Nicholas worried. The decision to go would mean

  abandoning the Esso oil-rig tow. The tow fee had been a vital

  consideration in his cash flow situation.

  Two hundred and twenty thousand sterling, without which he could not

  meet the quarterly interest payment due in sixty days time - unless,

  unless ... He juggled figures in his head, but the magnitude of the

  risk involved was growing momentarily more apparent - and the figures

  did not add up. He needed the Esso tow. God, how badly he neededit!

  Bach Wackie are replying/ called the Trog above the chatter of the telex

  receiver, and Nick spun on his heel.

  He had appointed Bach Wackie as the agents for Ocean Salvage because of

  their proven record of quick and aggressive efficiency. He glanced at

  his Rolex Oyster and calculated that it was about two o'clock in the

  morning local time in Bermuda, and yet his request for information on

  the disposition of all his major competitors was now being answered

  within minutes of receipt.

  For Master Warlock from Bach Wackie latest reported positions. fohn

  Ross dry dock Durban. Woltema Wolteraad Esso tow Torres Straits to

  Alaska Shelf That took care of the two giant Safmarine tugs; half of the

  top opposition was out of the race.

  Wittezee Shell exploration tow Galveston to North Sea.

  Grootezee lying Brest That was the two Dutchmen out of
it. The names

  and positions of the other big salvage tugs, each of them a direct and

  dire threat to Warlock, ran swiftly from the telex and Nicholas chewed

  his cheroot ragged as he watched, his eyes slitted against the

  spiralling blue smoke, feeling the relief rise in him as each report put

  another of his competitors in some distant waters, far beyond range of

  the stricken ship.

  La Mouette/ Nick's hands balled into fists as the name sprang on to the

  white paper sheet, La Mouette discharged Brazgas tow Golfo San Jorge on

  I4th reported enroute Buenos Aires.

  Nick grunted like a boxer taking a low blow, and turned away from the

  machine. He walked out on to the open wing of the bridge and the wind

  tore at his hair and clothing.

  La Mouette, the sea-gull, a fanciful name for that black squat hull, the

  old-fashioned high box of superstructure, the traditional single stack;

  Nick could see it clearly when he closed his eyes.

  There was no doubt in his mind at all. Jules Levoisin was already

  running hard for the south, running like a hunting dog with the scent

  hot in its nostrils.

  Jules had discharged in the southern Atlantic three days ago. He would

  certainly have hunkered at Cornodoro. Nick knew how Jules mind worked,

  he was never happy unless his bunkers were bulging.

  Nick flicked the stub of his cigar away, and it was whisked far out into

  the harbour by the wind.

  He knew that La Mouette had refitted and installed new engines eighteen

  months before. With a nostalgic twinge, he had read a snippet in

  Lloyd's List. But even nine thousand horsepower couldn't push that

  tubby hull at better than eighteen knots, Nick was certain of that. Yet

  even with Warlock's superior speed, La Mouette was better placed by a

  thousand miles. There was no room for complacency. And what if La

  Mouette had set out to double Cape Horn instead of driving north up the

  Atlantic? If that had happened, and with Jules Levoisin's luck it might

  just have happened, then La Mouette was a long way inside him already.

  Anybody else but Jules Levoisin, he thought, why did it have to be him?

  And oh God, why now? Why now when I am so vulnerable - emotionally,

  physically and financially vulnerable. Oh God, why did it come now?

  He felt the false sense of cheer and well-being, with which he had

  buoyed himself that morning, fall away from him like a cloak, leaving