silence, before Larsen turned to Johnny.
“Well, Lance, thank you for an interesting day. Very interesting.
I’ll be watching your progress with attention close attention.“And he turned away and strode to where a subdued and demure Fifi was waiting with a group of the other wives.
“Thanks.“Johnny gave Benedict a bleak grin.
“Don’t mention it.” Benedict smiled that charming boyish smile.
“At the end of this week I’ll take that little speech of yours, roll it into a ball and ram it down your throat,” Johnny promised him softly, and Benedict’s expression changed. His eyes slitted and his grin showed his teeth and tightened the soft line of his jaw.
“You’re pretty slick with your mouth, Lance.” They glared at each other, the antagonism so apparent, as elemental as a pair of rutting stags, that they were suddenly the centre of all attention. The guests stared curiously, aware of the drama but not understanding it.
Ruby started forward quickly to intervene, taking Johnny’s elbow, her voice sugary.
“Oh, Benedict, do you mind if I talk to Johnny a moment?
I have to know if he’s returning to Cape Town with me this evening She led him away, and the tension dissolved. The disappointed guests began drifting to the gangplank and filing down on to the jetty.
In the confusion of embarkation aboard the two Dakotas, Johnny managed to exchange a last word with Tracey.
“You’ll stay here until you know?” she asked. He nodded.
“Good luck, Johnny. I’ll pray for you,” she whispered, then followed Ruby Lance up into the fuselage of the Dakota.
Johnny watched the two big aircraft taxi down to the end of the strip, turn in succession and roar away into the purple and red sky of evening.
After they had gone it was very still, and the silence of the desert was complete. Johnny sat in the open Landrover and smoked a cigarette while the night came down around him.
He was uneasy, aware of a deep-down tickle of apprehension and foreboding which he could not pin down.
The last glow of sunset faded from the western sky, and the desert stars were bright and hard and close to the earth, silvering the dome of space with the splendour that the city-dweller would never guess at.
Still Johnny hunched in the seat of the open Land-Rover trying to explore the source of his uneasiness, but with so little success that at last he must attribute it to the strain and fatigue of the last few months, his involvement with Tracey, his steadily worsening relationship with Ruby - and the latest clash with Benedict.
He flicked the stub of his cigarette away, watching morosely the explosion of red sparks as it struck the earth, then he started the
Land-Rover and drove slowly down towards the jetty.
Kingfisher’s lights were smeared in paths of yellow and silver across the still waters of the bay. Every porthole was lit brightly, giving her the festive air of a cruise ship.
Johnny left the Land-Rover at the head of the jetty, and walked out to her. The muted throb of her engines cheered him a little, the knowledge that the vessel was preparing for the morrow.
On deck he paused beside the gigantic compressed air tanks, each the size of a steam locomotive, and checked the pressure gauges. The needles were moving perceptibly around the dials, and his mood lightened a little.
He went up the ladder to the bridge, and into the chartroom where
Sergio and Hugo were drinking coffee.
“Not my fault, Mr. Lance,” Sergio began defensively. “I am a gentleman - I cannot refuse a lady.”
“You’ll dig your own grave with that spade of yours one day,” Johnny warned him grimly, as he went to the chart table and hung over it.
“Now let’s get cracking.” Johnny’s sense of dread lifted completely as he looked down at the large-scale Admiralty chart. The twin humps of Thunderbolt and Suicide were clearly marked. “Hugo, have you got the prospecting schedules?”
“There, on the table.” Hugo and
Sergio came to stand on each side of Johnny while he opened the bound file of typewritten sheets.
“The soundings we made differ from the Admiralty chart.
We’ll put in our figures, before we plot the dredging pattern.”
The three of them settled over the chart with dividers and parallels to begin marking in the path that Kingfisher would follow through the maze of reefs and gullies.
It was long after midnight before Johnny made his way wearily to the guest cabin below the bridge. He kicked off his shoes, lay on the bunk to rest a moment before undressing and fell into a deathlike sleep of exhaustion.
He was awakened by one of the crew with a mug of coffee and he pulled on a windbreaker before hurrying on to the bridge.
Kingfisher was just passing out through the channel of Cartridge
Bay into the open sea, and Sergio grinned at him from where he stood beside the helm.
Dawn was only a lemon-coloured promise over the desert behind them, and the sea was black as washed anthracite, kicked into a chop by the small morning wind. They stood on the darkened bridge and sipped steaming coffee, cupping their hands around the enamel mugs.
Then they turned and ran south, parallel to the desert which was now touched with hot orange and violet. The seabirds were up, a flight of malgas turned to glowing darts of fire by the early sun as they winged swiftly across the bows.
With a dramatic suddenness the sun came up over the horizon, and highlighted the chalk-white cliffs of Thunderbolt and Suicide far ahead so that they shone like beacons on the cold green sea. The curtains of spray that burst on the islands flashed and faded as they shot into the sky and fell again.
Wild Goose was waiting for them lying under the tee of the islands, but she came out to meet them, staggering and plunging theatrically over the short uneasy sea that hooked around the islands or boiled through the gap between them.
The radio telephone began crackling and squawking as the sighting reports from Johnny’s watchtowers on the shore started coming in, cross-referencing to give Kingfisher her position over the ground.
There were short exchanges between Sergio and Hugo on Wild Goose as they came together, and the little trawler worked in close, ready to give assistance with the laying of the cables if she were needed.
But standing in the angle of the bridge, Sergio Caporetti had the situation under his control. The grubby marine cap pushed to the back of his head and a long black cheroot stuck in the side of his mouth, he stood balanced on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting from judging the set of the sea surf to the repeater of the computer which was feeding him his soundings and position - yet attentive to the RIT
reports from shore and from Wild Goose.
Johnny was contented with his choice of man as he watched Sergio at work. Kingfisher crept slowly up into the lee of Suicide Island, half a mile from the pearly white cliffs, then she hung there a moment before Sergio punched one of the buttons on her control panel.
From forward there was the harsh metallic roar of an anchor cable running out, and as Kingfisher backed away leaving a yellow-painted buoy the size of a barrage balloon bobbing under the cliffs of Suicide so one of the massive deck winches began automatically paying out its six-inch steel cable.
Kingfisher backed and crept forward, drifted down on the current or butted up against it while she went through the laborious but delicate operation of laying her four anchors at each point of the compass. Chained above each anchor floated the huge yellow buoys, and from each buoy the steel cables led to the winches on Kingfisher’s deck. On instructions from the computer the winches on each quarter would pay out or reel in the cable to hold Kingfisher steady over the ground while she worked.
It was midafternoon before Kingfisher was ready, pinned down like an insect to a board, and the computer reported that she was directly over the gully that Johnny had selected as the starting point. She had twenty-five fathoms of water under her - and then the thick bank of gravel.
“All is ready.” Sergio turned to Johnny, who had stood by quietly all this time - not interfering in the task of positioning. “You will begin the programme now?”
