Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (18 page)

‘
Oh, Angel, you are a horrible man and I hate you. How can you make fun
of me now?
’
He saw how close she was to tears, and became brisk and
businesslike.

‘
First of all, you better know something about him
,’
and he began to tell
her, giving her a waspish biography of Nicholas Berg, embellished by a
vivid imagination and a wicked sense of humour, together with a
quasi-feminine love of gossip, to which Samantha listened avidly, making
an occasional exclamation of surprise.

‘
His wife ran away with another man, she could be out of her mind, don't
you think?
’

‘
Dearie, a change is like two weeks at the seaside.
’

Or asking
a question.
‘
He owns this ship, actually owns it? Not just Master?
’

‘
He owns this ship, and its sister, and the company. They used to call
him the Golden Prince. He's a high flyer, dearie, didn't you recognize
it?
’

‘
I didn't
.’

‘
Of course you did. You're too much woman not to.
There is no more powerful aphrodisiac than success and power, nothing
like the clink of gold to get a girl's hormones revving up, is there?
’

‘
That's unfair, Angel. I didn't know a thing about him. I didn't know
he was rich and famous. I don't give a damn for money
-‘

‘
Ho!
Ho?
’
Angel shook his curls and the diamond studs flashed in his ears.
But he saw her anger flare again.
‘
All right, dearie, I'm teasing. But
what really attracts you is his strength and air of purpose. The way
other men obey, and follow and fear him. The air of command, of power
and with it, success.
’

‘
I didn't
-‘

‘Oh,
be honest with yourself, love. It
was not the fact he saved your life, it wasn't his beautiful eyes nor
the lump in his jeans
-‘

‘
You're crude, Angel.
’

You're bright and beautiful, and you just can't help yourself. You're
like a nubile little gazelle, all skittish and ready, and you have just
spotted the herd bull. You can't help yourself, dearie, you're just a
woman.
’

‘
What am I going to do, Angel?
’

‘
We'll make a plan, love, but one
thing is certain, you're not going to trail around behind him, dressed
like an escapee from a junk shop, breathing adoration and hero
-
worship.
He's doing a job. He doesn't need to trip over you every time he turns.
Play hard to get.
’

Samantha thought about it for a moment.
’
Angel, I
don't want to play it that hard that I never get around to being got -
if you follow me.

Be
auty Baker had the work in hand
well organized and
going ahead as fast as even Nick, in his overwhelming impatience, could
expect.

The alternator had been manhandled through the double doors into the
superstructure on B deck, and it had been secured against a steel
bulkhead and lashed down.

‘
As soon as I have power, we'll drill the deck and bolt her down
,’
he
explained to Nick.

‘
Have you got the lines in?
’

‘
I'll by-pass the main junction box on C
deck, and I will select from the temporary box
-‘

‘
But you've identified the
fore-dec
k
winch circuit, and the pumps?
’

‘
Jesus, sport, why don't you go
sail your little boat and leave me to do my work?
’

O
n the upper deck one
of Baker's gangs was already at work with the gas welding equipment.
They were opening access to the ventilation shaft of the main engine
room.
The gas cutter hissed viciously and red sparks showered from the steel
plate of the tall dummy smoke stack. The stack was merely to give the
Golden Adventurer the traditional rakish lines, and now the welder cut
the last few inches of steel plating. It fell away into the deep, dark
cavern, leaving a roughly square opening six feet by six feet which gave
direct access into the half-flooded engine room fifty feet below.

Despite Baker's advice, Nick took command here, directing the rigging of
the winch blocks and steel wire cable that would enable a cable to be
taken down into the flooded engine room and out again through that long,
viciously fanged gash in the ship's side. When he looked at his Rolex
Oyster again, almost an hour had passed. The sun had gone and a
luminous green sky filled with the marve
l
lous pyrotechnics of the Aurora
Australis turned the night eerie and mysterious.

‘
All right, bosun, that's all we can do now. Bring your team up to the
bows.
’

As they hurried forward along the open fore-dec
k
, the wind caught
them, a single shrieking gust that had them reeling and. staggering and
grabbing for support, then it was past and the wind settled down to nag
and whine and pry at their clothing as Nick directed the work at the two
huge anchor winches; but he heard the rising sea starting to push and
stir the pack-ice, making it growl and whisper menacingly.

They catted the twin sea-anchors and with two men working over
Adventurer's side they secured collars of heavy chain to the crown of
each anchor. Warlock would now be able to drag those anchors out,
letting them bump along the - bottom, but in the opposite direction to
that in which they had been designed to drag, so that the pointed flukes
would not be able to dig in and hold.

Then, when the anchors were out to the full reach of their own chains,
Warlock would drop them, the flukes would dig in and hold. This was the
ground-tackle which might resist the efforts of even a force twelve wind
to throw Golden Adventurer further ashore.

When Baker had power on the ship, the anchor winches would be used to
kedge Golden Adventurer off the bank.
Nick placed much reliance on these enormously powerful winches to assist
Warlock's own engines, for even as they worked, he could feel through
the soles of his feet how heavily grounded the liner was.

It was a tense and heavy labour, for they were working with enormous
weights of dead-weight steel chain and shackles. The securing shackle,
which held the chain collar on the anchor crown, alone weighed three
hundred pounds and had to be manhandled by six men using complicated
tackle.

By the time they had the work finished, the wind was rising force six,
and wailing in the superstructure. The men were chilled and tired, and
tempers were flashing.

Nick led them back to the shelter of the main superstructure. His boots
seemed to be made of lead, and his lungs pumped for the solace of
cheroot smoke, and he realized irrelevantly that he had not slept now
for over fifty hours since he had fished that disturbing little girl
from the water. Quickly he pushed the thought of her aside, for it
distracted him from his purpose, and, as he stepped over the door-sill
into the liner's cold but wind-protected accommodation, he reached for
his cheroot-case.

Then he arrested the movement and blinked with surprise as suddenly
garish light blazed throughout the ship deck lights and internal lights,
so that instantly a festival air enveloped her and from the loudspeakers
on the deck above Nicholas
’
head wafted soft music as the broadcasting
equipment switched itself in. It was the voice of Donna Summer, as
limpid and ringing clear as fine-leaded crystal.
T
he sound was utterly incongruous in this place and in these
circumstances.

‘
Power is on!
’

Nick let out a whoop and ran through to B deck. Beauty
Baker was standing beside his roaring alternator and hugging himself
with glee.

‘
Howzat, sport?
’
he demanded. Nick punched his shoulder.

‘
Right on, Beauty.
’
He wasted a few moments and a cheroot by placing one
of the precious black tubes between Baker's lips and flashing his
lighter. The two of them smoked for twenty seconds in close and
companionable silence.

‘
Okay!
’
Nick ended it.
‘
Pumps and winches.
’

‘
The two emergency portables
are ready to start, and I'm on my way to check the ship's main pumps.
’

‘
The only thing left is to get the collision mat into place.
’

‘
That is
your trick
,’
Baker told him flatly. You're not getting me into the water
again, ever. I've even given up bathing.
’

‘
Yeah, did you notice I'm
standing upwind?
’
Nick told him.
‘
But somebody has got to go down again
to pass the line.
’

‘
Why don't you send Angel?
’
Baker grinned evilly.
‘
Excuse me, cobber - I've got work to do.
’
He inspected the cheroot.
‘
After we've pulled this dog off the ground, I hope you will be able to
afford decent gaspers.
’
And he was gone into the depths of the liner,
leaving Nick with the one task he had been avoiding even thinking about.
Somebody had to go down into that engine room. He could call for
volunteers, of course, but then it was another of his own rules to never
ask another man to do what you are afraid to do yourself.

‘
I can leave David to lay out the ground-tackle, but I can't let anybody
else put the collision mat in.
’
He faced it now. He would have to go
down again, into the cold and darkness and mortal danger of the flooded
engine room.

The ground-tackle that David Allen had laid was holding Golden
Adventurer handsomely, even in the aggravated swell which was by now
pouring into the open mouth of the bay, driven on by the rising wind
that was inciting it to wilder abandon.

David had justified Nick's confidence in the seamanlike manner in which
he had taken the Golden Adventurer's twin anchors out and dropped them a
cable's length offshore, at a finely judged angle to give the best
purchase and hold.

Beauty Baker had installed and test-run the two big centrifugals and he
had even resuscitated two of the liner's own forward pump assemblies
which had been protected by the watertight bulkhead from the sea
break-in. He was ready now to throw the switch on this considerable
arsenal of pumps, and he had calculated that if Nick could close that
gaping rent in the hull, he would be able to pump the liner's hull dry
and clean in just under four hours.

Nick was in full immersion kit again, but this time he had opted for a
single bottle Drager diving-set; he was off oxygen sets for life, he
decided wryly.

Before going down, he paused on the open deck with the diving helmet
under his
arm. The wind must be rising seven now, he decided, for it
was kicking off the tops of the waves in bursts of spray and a low
scudding sky of dirty grey cloud had blotted out the rising sun and the
peaks of Cape Alarm. It was a cold dark dawn, with the promise of a
wilder day to follow.