Southtrap

Persson whispered to me, 'She should be much clearer than she is, sir. Those batteries are packing up fast.'

'Kearnay,' I said, 'hold it. Save what power you've got for later. Just answer briefly. Are you still afloat?'

The reply was just audible. 'Not afloat… on the ice 'The ship!' I repeated. 'Is she afloat or has she sunk?'

I caught a word of the reply clearly and Persson and Linn both nodded confirmation as I repeated it.

'Iceport.'

The rest was lost in a surge of sferics.

The weather, Kearnay — what's your weather?'

Persson strained and repeated the fragmentary answer. 'Calm in here. Outside…'

'Outside?' I echoed. 'Outside where, Kearnay?'

The answer was as faint and indistinct as a dying man's whisper.

'Kearnay. Listen. I reckon I'm ninety, maybe one hundred and ten kilometres north-east of you. I'm using a searchlight. Watch out for it. Start firing those flares from three o'clock onwards. I'll be up with you thereabouts, depending on the weather.'

It was, in fact, nearer four o'clock when the phone from the crow's nest cut through the long tense silence on the bridge.

I snatched it up.

It was the look-out. 'Distress flares, sir! Fine on the starboard bow!'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

'Bearing? Distance?' I snapped.

'Bearing two-two-zero, distance approximately fifteen kilometres.'

'Good. Keep a sharp look-out. Keep me informed.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

I touched the mouthpiece down for a moment, lifted it after the cut-off. I glanced at Wegger. There was no sign of the exhaustion which I had hoped would dull his vigilance. His stubble-coated face seemed to tauten and become youthful at the news from the look-out.

'Bo'sun?' I enquired. 'Rescue team to emergency stations amidships. Everyone to wear survival kit — parkas, overpants, rubber thermal boots, gloves. I want scrambling nets rigged both port and starboard sides below the lifeboat-deck.'

'Hands to emergency stations — aye, aye, sir.'

Wegger still wasn't interfering. However, Botany Bay was in sight and that was what mattered — for the moment.

I made another call. 'Persson? Botany Bay's in sight. See what you can manage with the R/T, will you? Tell him we've sighted his flares. I'm going up aloft to assess the situation for myself.'

I worked the engine-room pointer to 'slow ahead'.

Then I said briefly to Wegger, 'I'll be on the flying bridge.'

He nodded to Ullmann without speaking. He uncurled himself from a high stool on which he'd spent most of the night like a sleepless tiger. I was uneasy. The entire rescue procedure was too normal, as if they hadn't hijacked the ship at all. McKinley was on watch. He looked like a playboy deprived of his playthings.

I caught my breath as he swung on to the outer companionway with Ullmann behind. The wind was backing west from the north-west. As it did so the snow squalls would come, just as surely as the northwester had brought the rain. It shoved a frozen fist into my face and icy fingers lanced through the gaps in my parka hood and blew the nylon securing cords against my mouth. The flying bridge's deck was slippery with accumulated spume; below me the winches, hatches and rigging were all white, like a snowstorm.

I tried to forget Ullmann's presence and my glance sought the south-west quadrant where the look-out had seen the flares. The light had an out-of-this-world quality, as unreal and insubstantial as a dream. It wasn't Captain Prestrud's blue mystical light. It was like seeing things through a stage curtain of grey. The horizon and sky were like a vast inverted bowl which was lighted round the rim where it met the ocean; overhead it was almost black from the overcast, plus a curious touch of blue depth. The eastern rim of the sky-bowl was light with the new sun, but the southwest was lighter — a wide band of strange, hard, white light which illuminated ten degrees from the horizon upwards into the overcast. Ice blink! That was ice ahead!

At first I couldn't distinguish anything against the line of white which might be a ship.

I found my Bausch and Lomb G-15 sunglasses which, with their Eskimo slit-goggle principle, improve light-shadow discrimination.

Immediately a row of table-topped objects like castle battlements showed up against the flat white line.

Icebergs!

The crow's nest must have seen me on the flying bridge. The man called through a megaphone.

'Icebergs, sir. Five — no, six…'

I cupped my hands and shouted back, 'Where's the windjammer?'

'No ship in sight, sir. Nothing on the bearing of the rockets.'

Had Botany Bay indeed sunk? How then could she be signalling? The rockets were too big for boat flares.

The Quest rattled and vibrated as the way fell off her. She was dipping and sliding into the deep troughs and then lifting with a protesting groaning. She wasn't throwing water all over herself as she'd done during the night. Her well-modelled bow lifted over all but the biggest rollers now that she had slowed down.

Three red rockets rose against the white horizon like stripes across a top secret file. I trained my binoculars on the spot.

The masts and spars which would be a windjammer's tracery against the backdrop were missing. There was nothing.

I shouted to the crow's nest. 'Where is that ship?'

'No ship, sir. Those rockets came from an iceberg.'

I headed for the radio shack. Persson held up his hand for silence when I entered.

'Botany Bay says, "I can't see you from inside,"' he reported.

'Inside! What the devil is he talking about? Why is the R/T so faint — we're within a few kilometres of her.'

I took the microphone impatiently. 'Kearnay! Shot-ton here. I've sighted your rockets. But where in hell are you? Is your ship afloat?'

'… inside an iceberg,' said Kearnay's remote voice. '… Fast… on the ice… not afloat…'

'For crying in a bucket!' I rejoined. 'You're inside an iceberg?'

'… Iceport… watch out for grease ice…'

I passed the instrument back to Persson. 'One of us is nuts. I'm going in close to that berg to find out what the position is. If Botany Bay makes sense, call me. I'll be on the bridge.'

When I got there with my gun-toting shadow Wegger said, 'What's the delay, Shotton?'

I didn't care for his tense, hectoring tone. There's no ship. It's as simple as that.'

'Don't give me that sort of double-talk,' he snapped. 'I saw the rockets myself.'

'The flares came from an iceberg,' I replied.

'There has got to be a ship! Do you hear! There has got to be a ship!'

As if in answer, another trio of rockets fanned upwards from one of the bergs near the windward edge of the line. The bergs looked like old-time men-o'-war formed up in battle line ahead. The red flares cast an unearthly glow over the steely turquoise hue of the ice. It wasn't the usual plaster-of-Paris colour of the flattop which is common to Antarctica: I could distinguish an irregular outline against the skyline, which meant that the berg was old and weathered. We were still too far away to make out detail.

It also showed me something which made me reach for the engine-room intercom. Despite the swell, the sea in the vicinity of the berg had an odd matt appearance — it was thick and soupy.

'Mac,' I said, 'we're running into grease ice. Watch those engine suction strainers. I don't want 'em fouled.'

'I'll watch 'em all the way,' Mac replied.

The Quest tiptoed through the turgid sea towards the group of bergs. Small lumps of ice thumped against her hull.

I kept my binoculars on the rocket-berg. From our angle of approach, the lee or port side of it consisted of a weathered pinnacle fronted by two lower flat-topped pieces of ice each a couple of hundred metres long. It was impossible to tell whether or not they were attached to the main berg. The right-hand slope of the peak fell away sharply. Because of shadow (it was on the side away from the sun) I could not make out detail at water-level. The extreme windward bulk of the berg consisted of a solid flat-top at least 300 metres long and 30 high.