was kicking off the tops of the waves in bursts of spray and a low
scudding sky of dirty grey cloud had blotted out the rising sun and the
peaks of Cape Alarm. It was a cold dark dawn, with the promise of a
wilder day to follow.
Nick took one glance across at Warlock. David Allen was holding her
nicely in position, and his own team was ready, grouped around that ugly
black freshly burned opening in Adventurer's stack. He lifted the
helmet on to his head, and while his helpers closed the fastenings and
screwed down the hose connections, he checked the radio.
Warlock, do you read me? Allen's voice came back immediately,
acknowledging and confirming his readiness, then he went on, The glass
just went through the floor, Skipper, she's 996 and going down. Wind's
force six rising seven and backing. It looks like we are fair in the
dangerous quadrant of whatever is coming. Thank you, David! Nick
replied. You warm my heart. He stepped forward, and they helped him
into the canvas bosun's chair. Nick checked the tackle and rigging,
that once-more-for-luck check, and then he nodded.
The interior of the engine room was no longer dark, for Baker had rigged
floodlights high above in the ventilation shaft, but the water was black
with engine oil, and as Nick was lowered slowly down, with legs dangling
from the bosun's chair, it surged furiously back and across like some
panic-stricken monster trying to break out of its steel cage.
That wind-driven swell was crashing into Golden Adventurer's side and
boiling in through the opening, setting up its own wave action, forming
its own currents and eddies which broke and leaped angrily against the
steel bulkheads.
Slower, Nick spoke into the microphone. Stop! His downward progress
was halted ten feet above the starboard main engine block, but the
confined surge of water broke over the engine as though it were a coral
reef, covering it entirely at one instant, and then sucking back and
exposing it again at the next.
The rush of water could throw a man against that machinery with force
enough to break every bone in his body, and Nick hung above it and
studied the purchases for his blocks.
Send down the main block/ he ordered, and the huge steel block came down
out of the shadows and dangled in the floodlights.
Stop. Nick began directing the block into position.
Down two feet. Stop! Now waist-deep in the oily, churning water, he
struggled to drive the shackle pin and secure the block to one of the
main frames of the hull. Every few minutes a stronger surge would hurl
the water over his head, forcing him to cling helplessly, until it
relinquished its grip, and his visor cleared sufficiently to allow him
to continue his task.
He had to pull out and rest after forty minutes of it.
He sat as close as he could to the heat-exchangers of the running diesel
engine of the alternator, taking warmth from them and drinking Angel's
strong sweet Thermos coffee. He felt like a fighter between rounds, his
body aching, every muscle strained and chilled by the efforts of
fighting that filthy churned emulsion of sea water and oil, his flanks
