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.
