He decided to stay aboard, at least until Asha gave him some idea of how the cadet was likely to progress. He hoped that someone would prove equally careful with the welfare of his son William or his daughter Mary if they fell into a similar situation in due time. He remembered all too clearly what his father-in-law had told him of a visit to a quiet terraced house in Portsmouth a year or two ago, when the old man had gone to tell a quiet pair of parents called Mr and Mrs Curtis how their only child Jamie, also a Heritage Mariner cadet, had died at the hand of a terrorist on a Heritage Mariner ship. Bill had talked it over time and again with Richard, trying to explain away the hurt he had felt at innocently inflicting so much pain. Richard would always remember that Bill had said he could actually see the joy die out of their life during the minutes he had sat and talked to them. He had destroyed their happiness for ever and they had given him chocolate biscuits and tea. Not long afterwards, Bill had succumbed to a colossal heart attack, and Richard could easily see why.
The murderous terrorist in question had been the associate and lover of the last man found frozen on Manhattan, the dead man lying stiffly in Titan’s cold storage, the thrice accursed Henri LeFever, long may he burn in hell.
Wally Gough had two brothers, so if he was infected with anything fatal, at least his poor parents would not have their lives utterly destroyed. In any case, it wouldn’t be Sir William bearing the news this time, because he was in New York. No, it would be Robin. She was the senior executive in place. She was den-mother to the Heritage Mariner cadets. She would have been the one to go to Portsmouth last time to break the tidings to Mr and Mrs Curtis, but she had been at sea when the boy was killed. Now, she would not hesitate. She would go and tell the Goughs herself. And Richard could not bear the thought of that.
Peter Walcott was on the bridge, staring moodily out into the sunset — though, to be fair, the sun was in fact going down well aft of his ship. Richard’s brief reconnaissance had been enough to tell him the lie of the land, so to speak, and the ships were now swinging round with Manhattan onto the due easterly setting which would bring them into Maui waters within the week, and into Mawanga harbour soon after that, if all went well. And at least Psyche had a sunset. Kraken on the far side of the ice mountain was well into evening shade already, for the shadow cast by Manhattan must stretch most of the way to the coast of Liberia now. But Richard had to admit once again that his gloomy colleague had good reason to worry. Looking out from the blood-red bridge, the light seemed to shimmer on the air as it reflected and multiplied between the scarlet sky and the blood-streaming flank of the iceberg against which they were moored. And the water all around, of course, thought Richard gloomily. It was as though they were sailing slowly through the handiwork of a giant Jack the Ripper. It would have been bad enough even had their ship not been loaded with dead bodies for a couple of weeks; even had their mess mates not been stricken by a mysterious, nameless, disfiguring disease.
Unconsciously, he began to scratch the back of his neck as though there might be some kind of rash there, spreading down and across his shoulder blades. Still rubbing, he crossed to stand beside Peter Walcott. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your officers again,’ he said quietly. ‘You have a good mess aboard. And an excellent galley, I think.’
Peter nodded curtly, just on the edge of being rudely dismissive. He was still caught up in directing the passage of his command as the whole mass of Manhattan, and all the ships propelling her, swung onto the new heading. Richard was silent, content to consider how lucky he was to spend most of his time on the bridge of Titan where his concentration could come and go depending on the dictates of his greater responsibilities. Titan was a forgiving ship and Sally Bell a rock-solid back-up to anything he wanted to achieve. And, of course, his situation in point position also gave him some latitude. How different was the grinding precision required here where one minute of inaccurate heading — one second, let alone one full degree — would ram the all too fragile bows against the unforgiving ice. And, as everyone else had no doubt calculated long ago, damage to the bow would lead to the whole vessel being pushed under by the unhesitating progress of the iceberg towering above them.
It was no wonder that Peter insisted that line watches should be mounted round the clock, no matter what the weather, no matter what the complaints he received as a result. Richard found that the atmosphere on the bridge was making him edgy so he walked out onto the port bridge wing. He chose this one on purpose, knowing it was closest to die ice, wanting to feel the full effect of the forces threatening to pull this particular command apart.
Even before he opened the door, he could hear the constant thundering of the water down onto the inner edge of the bridge-house. As soon as he walked outside, he found himself in a filthy, clinging mist made of a combination of spray and sand. He remembered at once the efforts to which Sally Bell had gone, restoring Titan’s cleanliness and dignity after the ravages of the sand-laden harmattan, and he paused, unconscious of the state he was getting into, while he thought about the effect this filthiness must be having on Peter Walcott’s command.
But what to do? He felt the steady, powerful throb of the diesel motor beneath his feet as it drove that one great screw though the eastward-flowing water. The power it was providing was too precious and too well paced; neither Psyche nor Kraken could be relieved of this duty, no matter how unpleasant it became. But was there any way of making it less unpleasant? Still completely disregarding the freezing, filthy spray, he strode forward to the rail and looked along the drizzle-soiled deck, then up at the cliff of the ice. Ahead, the overhang remained about the same: no relief there. What about behind? He strode back, moving out into the aft of the bridge wing. Yes. The cliff fell back here. If they pulled in the lines until they were as short as possible, all except die forecastle would be pulled free of the waterfall.
And, thinking about that waterfall…
Lost in thought, he walked back onto the bridge. Completely unconscious of the figure he presented, of the mess he was making or of the looks he was eliciting, he said, ‘Could I use your walkie-talkie, please, Captain Walcott?’
‘Well, yes of course, but—’
‘Thank you. I’ll just take it out here.’ He paused in the doorway and grinned. ‘Lucky they’re waterproof, isn’t it?’
‘Hai!’
‘Captain Odate, it’s Richard Mariner here. I’m speaking from Psyche. Can you hear me all right?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘I’m out on the bridge wing looking aft of the ship. The cliff immediately abaft Psyche seems to be free of overhang. It’s where the engineers placed the main body of their charges, I think. Have you got a similar clear area immediately aft of you?’
‘Please wait a moment, Captain. I am just going out onto the starboard bridge wing.’ The static on the line built up and Richard realised that the sound resembled a waterfall at the far end because that was exactly what it was.