Hungry as the Sea (13 page)

Under no circumstances will Lloyd’s Open Form be acceptable. Emphasize importance of beginning salvage work immediately. Stop. Worsening weather and sea conditions. My final hire offer of $8000 per day them plus 2½% of salvaged value open until 1435 GMT. Standing by.

Nick lit one of his cheroots and irrelevantly decided he must conserve them in future. He had opened his last box that morning. He frowned through the blue smoke and pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders.

Jules Levoisin was playing it touch and hard now. He was dictating terms and setting ultimatums. Nick’s own policy of silence was paying off . Probably by now, Jules felt completely safe that he was the only salvage tug within two thousand miles, and he was holding a big-calibre gun to Christy Marine’s head.

Jules had seen the situation of the
Golden Adventurer’s
hull. If he had been certain of effecting salvage — no, even if there had been a fifty-fifty chance of a good salvage, Jules would have gone Open Form. So Jules was not happy with his chances, and he had the shrewdest and most appraising eye in the salvage business.

It was a tough one then.
Golden Adventurer
was probably held fast by the quicksand effect of beach and ice, and
La Mouette
could build up a mere nine thousand horse-power. It would mean throwing out ground-tackle, putting power on
Adventurer’s
pumps — the problems and solutions passed in review through Nick’s mind.

It was going to be a tough one, but
Warlock
had twenty-two thousand rated horse-power and a dozen other high cards.

He glanced at his gold Rolex Oyster, and he saw that Jules had set a two-hour ultimatum.

“Radio Officer,” he said quietly, and every man on the bridge stiffened and swayed closer, so as not to miss a word. “Open the telex line direct to Christy Marine, London, and send quote

Personal for Duncan Alexander from Nicholas Berg Master of Warlock. 
Stop. I will be alongside
Golden Adventurer
in one hour forty minutes. Stop. I make firm offer Lloyd’s Open Form Contract Salvage. Stop. 
Offer closes 1300 GMT.

The Trog looked up at him startled, and blinked his pink eyes swiftly.

“Read it back,” snapped Nick, and the Trog did it in a high penetrating voice and when he finished, waited quizzically, as if expecting Nick to cancel.

“Send it,” said Nick, and rose to his feet. “Mr. Allen,” he turned to David, I want you and the Chief Engineer in my day cabin right away.” The buzz of excitement and speculation began before Nick had closed the door behind him.

David knocked and followed him three minutes later, and Nick looked up from the notes he was making.

“What are they saying?” Nick asked. “That I am crazy?”

“They’re just kids,” shrugged David. “What do they know?”

“They know plenty, and they’re right. I am crazy to go Open Form on a site unseen! But it’s the craziness of a man with no other option. Sit down, David.

“When I made the decision to leave Cape Town on the chance of this job — that was when I did the crazy thing.” Nick could no longer keep the steely silence. He had to say it, to talk it out. “I was throwing dice for my whole bundle. When I turned down the Esso tow, that was when I went on the line for the whole company. 
Warlock
and her sister the whole thing depended on the cash from the Esso tow.”

“I see,” muttered David, and his colour was pink and high, embarrassed by this confidence from Nick Berg.

“What I am doing now is risking nothing. If I lose now, if I fail to pull
Golden Adventurer
out of there, I have lost nothing that is not already forfeit.”

“We could have offered daily hire at a better rate than
La Mouette
,” David suggested.

“No. Duncan Alexander is my enemy. The only way I can get the contract is to make it so attractive, that he has no alternative. If he refuses my offer of Open Form, I will take him up before Lloyd’s Committee and his own shareholders. I will make a rope of his own guts and hoist it around his neck. He has to go with me — whereas, if I had offered daily hire at a few thousand dollars less than
La Mouette
—” Nick broke off, reached for the box of cheroots on the corner of his desk, then arrested the gesture and swivelled in his chair at the heavy knock on the cabin door.

“Come!” Vin Baker’s overalls were pristine blue, but the bandage around his head was smeared with engine grease, and he had recovered all the bounce and swagger that Nick had banged out of him against the engine-room windows.

“Jesus!” he said. “I hear you just flipped. I hear you blew your mind and jumped overboard — and when they fished you out, you up and went open Form on a bomber that’s beating herself to death on Cape Alarm.”

“I’d explain it to you,” offered Nick solemnly, only I don’t know enough words of one syllable. The Chief Engineer grinned wickedly at that and Nick went on quickly, “just believe me when I tell you that I’m playing with someone else’s chips. I’m not risking anything I haven’t lost already.”

“That’s good business, the Australian agreed handsomely,” and helped himself to one of Nick’s precious cheroots.

“Your share of 2½% of daily hire is peanuts and apple jelly,” Nick went on.

“Too right,” Vin Baker agreed, and hoisted at his waistline with his elbows. “But if we snatch
Golden Adventurer
and if we can plug her and pump her out, and if we can keep her afloat for three thousand miles, there will be a couple of big lim’sil and that’s beef and potatoes.

“You know something,” Vin Baker grunted. “For a Pommy, I’m beginning to like the sound of your voice.” He said it reluctantly and shook his head, as if he didn’t really believe it.

“All I want from you now,” Nick told him, “are your plans for getting power on to
Golden Adventurer’s
pumps and anchor-winch. If she’s up on the beach, we will have to kedge her off and we won’t have much time.”

Kedging off was the technique of using a ship’s own anchor and power winch to assist the pull of the tug dragging her off a stranding.

Vin Baker waved the cheroot airily.” Don’t worry about that, I’m here.”

And at that moment the Trog put his head through the doorway again, this time without knocking. “I have an urgent and personal for you, Skipper.” He brandished the telex flimsy like a royal flush in spades.

Nick glanced through it once, then read it aloud:

Master of Warlock from Christy Marine. Your offer Lloyd’s Open Form ‘No cure no pay’ accepted. Stop. You are hereby appointed main salvage contractor for wreck of Golden Adventurer. ENDS. 

Nick grinned with that rare wide irresistible flash of very white teeth. “And so, gentlemen, it looks as though we are still in business - but the devil knows for just how much longer.”

 
Warlock
rounded the headland, where the three black pillars of serpentine rock stood into a lazy green sea, across which low oily swells marched in orderly ranks to push in gently against the black cliffs. They came round to the sudden vista of the wide, ice choked bay.

The abandoned hulk of
Golden Adventurer
was so majestic, so tall and beautiful that not even the savage mountains could belittle her. She looked like an illustration from a child’s book of fairy tales, a lovely ice ship, glistening and glittering in the yellow sunlight.

“She’s a beauty,” whispered the Chief Engineer, and his voice captured the sorrow they all felt for a great ship in mortal distress. To every single man on the bridge of
Warlock
, a ship was a living thing for which at best they could feel love and admiration; even the dirtiest old tramp roused a grudging affection. But
Golden Adventurer
was like a lovely woman. She was something rare and special, and all of them felt it.

For Nick Berg, the bond was much more deeply felt. She was child of his inspiration, he had watched her lines take shape on the naval architect’s drawing-board, he had seen her keel laid and her bare skeleton fleshed out with lovingly worked steel, and he had watched the woman who had once been his wife speak the blessing and then smash the bottle against her bows, laughing in the sunlight while the wine spurted and frothed.

She was his ship, and now, as he would never have believed possible, his destiny depended upon her.

He looked away from her at last to where
La Mouette
waited in the mouth of the bay at the edge of the ice. In contrast to the liner, she was small and squat and ugly, like a wrestler with all the weight in his shoulders. Greasy black smoke rose straight into the pale sky from her single stack, and her hull seemed to be painted the same greasy black, Through his glasses, Nick saw the sudden bustle of activity on her bridge as
Warlock
burst into view. The headland would have blanketed
La Mouette
‘s radar and, with Nick’s strict radio silence this would be the first time Jules Levoisin knew of
Warlock
‘s presence. Nick could imagine the consternation on her navigation bridge, and he noted wryly that Jules Levoisin had not even gone through the motions of putting a line on to
Golden Adventurer
. He must have been completely sure of himself, of his unopposed presence. In maritime law, a line on to a prize’s hull bestowed certain rights, and Jules should have made the gesture.

“Get
La Mouette
in clear,” he instructed, and picked up the hand microphone as the Trog nodded to him.

“Salut Jules, Sa va? You pot-bellied little pirate, haven’t they caught and hung you yet?” Nick asked kindly in French, and there was a long disbelieving silence on Channel 16 before the fruity Gallic tones boomed from the overhead speaker.

“Admiral James Bond, I think?” and Jules chuckled, but unconvincingly. “Is that a battle-ship or a floating whorehouse? You always were a fancy boy, Nicholas, but what kept you so long? I expected to get a better run for my money.”

“Three things you taught me, mon brave: the first was to take nothing for granted; the second was to keep your big yap shut tight when running for a prize; and the third was to put a line on it when you got there — you’ve broken your own rules, Jules.”

“The line is nothing. I am arrived.”

“And I old friend, am arrived also. But the difference is that I am Christy Marine’s contractor.”

“Goles! You are joking!” Jules was shocked. “I heard nothing of this!”

“I am not joking!” Nick told him. “My James Bond equipment lets me talk in private. But go ahead, call Christy Marine and ask them - and while you are doing it, move that dirty old greaser of yours out the way. I’ve got work to do.”

Nick tossed the microphone back to the Trog. Tape everything he sends, he instructed, and then to David Allen, “We are going to smash up that ice before it grabs too tight a hold on
Golden Adventurer
. Put your best man on the wheel.”

Nick was a man transformed, no longer the brooding, moody recluse, agonizing over each decision, uncertain of himself and reacting to each check with frustrated and undirected anger.

When he starts moving - he really burns it up, thought David Allen, as he listened to Nick on the engine-room intercom.

“I want flank power on both,” Chief. We are going to break ice. “Then I want you in full immersion with helmet, we are going on board her to take a peek at her engine room.”

He swung back to David Allen. “Number One, you can stand by to take command.”

The man of action glorying in he end to inactivity, he almost seemed to dance upon his two feet, like a fighter at the first bell. “Tell Angel I want a hot meal for us before we go into the cold, plenty of sugar in it.”

“I’ll ask the steward,” said David, “Angel is no good at the moment. He’s playing dolls with the lass you pulled out the water. God, he’ll be dressing her up and wheeling her around in a pram.”

“You tell Angel, I want food and good food,” growled Nick, and turned away to the window to study the ice that blocked the bay,” or I’ll go down personally and kick his backside.”

“He’d probably enjoy that,” muttered David, and Nick rounded on him.

“How many times have you checked out the salvage gear since we left Cape town?”

“Four times. Make it five.”

“Do it again. I want all the diesel auxiliaries started and run up, then shut down for freezing and rigged to be swung out. I want to have power on Adventurer by noon tomorrow.”

“Sir.”

But before he could go, Nick asked, “What is the barometric reading?”

“I don’t know.”

“From now until the end of this salvage, you will know, at any given moment, the exact pressure and you will inform me immediately of any variation over one millibar.”

“Reading is 8.” David checked hastily.

“It’s too high,” said Nick. “And it’s too bloody calm. Watch it. We are going to have a pressure bounce. Watch it like an eagle scout. I thought I asked you to check the gear.”

The Trog called out, “Christy Marine has just called
La Mouette
and confirmed that we are the main contractor but Levoisin has accepted daily hire to pick up a full load of survivors from Shackleton Bay and ferry them to Cape Town. Now he wants to speak to you again.”

“Tell him I’m busy.” Nick did not take his attention from the ice-packed bay, then he changed his mind. “No, I’ll talk to him.” He took the hand microphone. Jules?

“You don’t play fair, Nicholas. You go behind the back of an old friend, a man who loves you like a brother. I’m a busy man.”

“Did you truly call to tell me that?”

“I think you made a mistake, Nicholas. I think you crazy to go Lloyd’s Open on this one. That ship is stuck fast and the weather! Did you read the met from Gough Island?

“You got yourself a screaming bastard there, Nicholas. You listen to an old man.”

“Jules, I’ve got twenty-two thousand horses running for me.”

“I still think you made a mistake, Nicholas. I think you’re going to burn more than just your fingers.”