'Ambassador, you say? She was a Lund ship, wasn't she?'
'It's generations since that line went out of business, Sir James.'
'Ship-owning is an ongoing business,' he retorted saltily. 'Ships driven by fossil fuels such as oil are on their way out, in the same way that coal killed the windjammer. The next phase is the genuine sail-driven, aerodynamic cargo carrier. That's why I became interested in Jetwind.’ 'I hope you still are interested,'
He seemed to dance up and down with excitement. 'Drive her, man! Show the world! Drive this bloody ship under! What's she logging at this moment?' 'Twenty knots – but she can do better.' 'Then why aren't you doing better? How much better?'
'Three, maybe a maximum of four, if the gale rises above Force Ten. And if I'm given the opportunity to get on my own bridge.'
For a second I thought he would explode, then he grinned. 'I don't like anyone brushing me off, but this once I'll take it.'
I didn't leave immediately; I paused for a diplomatic minute or two to tell the irascible little so and so about the ship-owners' rendezvous Thomsen had arranged at Gough. He appeared wary of my softer approach. Perhaps he thought I was trying to con him. I added Weather Routing's warning about Trolltunga.
He considered me shrewdly. 'Why don't you deviate to miss the ice?'
'If I could sail Albatros that way by my own devices, then I can manage it with a ship full of electronic gadgetry.'
'I really believe you mean what you say, Rainier. But that first officer of yours will let you down – Grohman.' 'He won't. He's suspended.'
'That's what I like to hear. If a man can't go along with your ideas, there's only thing.' He gave one hand a mini karate chop with his other. 'The axe.'
He seemed a man of unpredictable switches of mood. Grohman having been disposed of, so to speak, his interest returned to the old bell.
'Have it for yourself,' I offered. 'Anything aboard this ship which hasn't got a computer attached belongs to the Dark Ages.'
'I'll keep it in my quarters for good luck,' he said. He hefted it up to go. I was surprised at his strength. He reminded me again of a Cock Robin boxer. 'One always needs the luck at sea, especially in a sailer.'
I hurried up to the bridge. The sea was a wild scene. My instinct told me even before I consulted the anenometer that the wind speed was over fifty knots. It was shearing off the overhanging crests of the rollers – about ten metres high and throwing the foam and spray in streaks like a giant fireman's hose. The rollers themselves had a thudding, killer punch to them, each one a threat to the fleeing ship.
In the bows there was enough water and spray over Jetwind's deck to match an anti-nuclear washdown system. The ship was steady, but lying over far – almost to her full count of nine degrees. If she were ambushed by a sudden gust she would go over on her beam-ends and never come up again.
Kay was standing with Tideman at the control consoles. He had taken the royals off her; she was down to top gallants. Kay looked worried. As I joined them, Jetwind put her bows far down; hundreds of tons of sea came sweeping along the deserted decks.
Kay gave me a brief smile of welcome and said, 'Peter, the slamming is slowing her down. The resistance component of the sea-way is getting bigger all the time. In spite of the wind she's not travelling faster.' Tideman added grimly, gesturing for'ard, 'Look at that!'
The next blow against the ship's bow was like hitting a solid wall.
Sweat poured down the helmsman's face. He wore only a shirt and jeans; they had big wet patches. He compensated heavily on the wheel as the bows tried to break away.
'She's very hard to hold any more,' he panted. 'I can't keep her steady, sir. If any of the rudder controls go, the ship's had it.' Tideman gave me an inquiring look. 'Kay,' I asked, 'what sort of thrust is there on the sails?'
'I made the calculation about five minutes ago – roughly, about forty thousand horse-power.' 'But she's not getting the full benefit of that?'
'No, she's not. She's actually losing speed instead of picking it up. If we could stop the slamming it would raise the speed. I know theoretically what's happening, but I don't know what the practical answer is.'
'What – in theory – is happening?' I questioned her with my eyes fixed on Jetwind's sails. 'A converter of solar energy into thrust,' Thomsen had termed them. Here then was that process – the sea white with fury, the tearing overcast black with rage, stooping so low at times that Jetwind's royal masts were lost to sight, the ocean itself raging uncontrollably. I formulated orders – radical, unheard-of orders.
'Jetwind is plunging violently in a pitching plane,' she was explaining. 'That's the problem. The movement is playing havoc with the aerodynamics. As the bow falls into the trough of a wave, there is an upward component of span-wise flow on all her foresails. Then as the bow hits the solid water of the next wave, that flow, is ended abruptly and replaced by a sudden downward component as her bow rises to that wave. And so on. Jetwind could experience a stall like an aircraft – brought about by the span-wise flow if this continues.'
I interrupted her, noting how the lower part of the fore-course was blanketed and went slack as Jetwind dived deep into the troughs. 'Where is the main driving force centred?'
Kay answered unhesitatingly. 'About fifteen to twenty metres above the deck.'
Jetwind crashed into a bigger roller. It felt as unyielding as the Berlin Wall.
'She can't take this sort of punishment very long,' Tideman cautioned. 'Something must go.'
'Stand by,' I ordered. 'Stand by to slack off the fore-course.' Kay looked startled.
'No way,' answered Tideman. 'You can't slack off Jetwind's type of sails. They're fitted to form a single aerodynamic unit from truck to deck.'
'The thrust of the wind so high above the deck is ramming her bows down’ I said; 'Plus the fact that there's no lift for'ard.' 'Plus no stay-sails,' added Tideman. 'What's the size of the fore-course?' I asked Kay. 'About two hundred square metres.'
'That's a lot of sail,' I said. 'It's the sail for the job of lifting her bows if we can get the wind under it and balloon it out.' 'You can't do anything with it…' began Tideman.
'Raise the lower yard ten degrees port and starboard as for cargo loading,' I ordered. 'There's only one way then the sail can go – out like a balloon.'
'My oath!' exclaimed Tideman. 'Whoever would have thought of that!'
Kay grabbed my arm in protest. 'You can't do it, Peter! It'll wreck the effect of aerodynamic efficiency!'
I looked into her eyes. 'There are times at sea when you have to do what the sea calls for, not the wind- tunnel,' I said gently.
I turned away from her puzzled, resentful gaze. 'Carry on,' I told Tideman.
His fingers manipulated the controls. The great yard folded upwards, halted. The heavy dacron billowed. The wind started to get underneath it. 'Give it another five degrees,' I said.
Up went the yard again. Out ballooned the great sail. The next wave rushed at Jetwind with the solidity of a concrete tank-trap. Her bows rose, shouldered aside the water. There was no sickening slam.
Tideman exclaimed, 'You've lifted her bows two feet out of the water!'
The quartermaster was grinning. 'That's done it, sir! She steers like an angel now!'
Kay came close and took me impulsively by the upper arms. Her laugh had some tears in it. 'You're… you're a magician, Peter! You're the best afloat since Woodget skippered the Cutty Sark!' I wanted to kiss her, but a ship's bridge isn't the place.
I tried to laugh off her praise. 'It's just one of those things one learns at sea.'
But she wouldn't have it and pointed to the speed reading. 'She's making twenty-one knots already!'
Jetwind did better during the day. At times she nudged twenty-three knots, surfing, I suspect, a little on some of the biggest rollers. She remained dry and safe, tearing along as the wind reached Force 12, or nearly seventy knots. The earlier sickening cork-screwing was gone now that the fore-course held her bows high.
There was no sun. The twilight greyness of the storm was illuminated in a curious unreal way by the sea's surface which the harrowing of the gale had seared white. If there was growler ice about, we would never have spotted it in that streaming whiteness before it ripped open Jetwind's hull. I didn't think about ice; I kept her going; and in the next twelve hours Jetwind had put 480 kilometres between herself and the last land. Ahead lay nothing but Gough. And Trolltunga.
