surface of the wind-tortured sea.
The entire mass began to move faster, back towards the east, in a
directly contrary direction to the usual track of the gentle trade
winds. Spinning and roaring upon itself, devouring everything in its
path, the she-devil called Lorna launched itself across the Caribbean
Sea.
Nicholas Berg turned his head to look down upon the impressive skyline
of Miami Beach. The rampart of tall elegant hotel buildings followed
the curve of the beach into the north, and behind it lay the ugly
sprawled tangle of urban development and snarled highways.
The Eastern Airlines direct flight from Bermuda turned on to its base
leg and then on to final approach, losing height over the beach and
Biscayne Bay, Nicholas felt uncomfortable, the nagging of guilt and
uncertainty. His guilt was of two kinds. He felt guilty that he had
deserted his post at the moment when he was likely to be desperately
needed.
Ocean Salvage's two vessels were out there somewhere in the Atlantic,
Warlock running hard up the length of the Atlantic in a desperate
attempt to catch up with Golden Dawn, while Jules Levoisin in Sea Witch
was now approaching the eastern seaboard of America where he would
refuel before going on to his assignment as standby tug on the
exploration field in the Gulf of Mexico. At any moment, the Master of
either vessel might urgently need to have his instructions.
Then there was Golden Dawn. She had rounded the Cape of Good Hope
almost three weeks ago. Since then, even Bernard Wackie had been unable
to fix her position.
She had not been reported by other craft, and any communications she had
made with Christy Main must have been by satellite telex, for she had
maintained strict silence on the radio channels. However, she must
rapidly be nearing the most critical part of her voyage when she turned
west and began her approach to the continental shelf of North America
and the passage of the islands into the Gulf - Peter Berg was on board
that monster, and Nicholas felt the chill of guilt. His place was at
the centre, in the control room of Bach Wackie on the top floor of the
Bank of Bermuda building in Hamilton town. His post was there where he
could assess changing conditions and issue instant commands to
coordinate his salvage tugs.
Now he had deserted his post, and even though he had made arrangements
to maintain contact with Bernard Wackie, still it would take him hours,
perhaps even days, to get back to where he was needed, if there was an
emergency.
But then there was Samantha. His instincts warned him that every day,
every hour he delayed in going to her would reduce his chances of having
her again.
There was more guilt there, the guilt of betrayal. It was no help to
tell himself that he had made no marriage vows to Samantha Silver, that
his night of weakness with Chantelle had been forced upon him in
circumstances almost impossible to resist, that any other man in his
position would have done the same, and that in the end the episode had
