Hungry as the Sea by Wilbur Smith Page A

silent. Every officer concentrating on his appointed task, not one of them glancing at him as he paced once, slowly, across the wide bridge. It did not need a word to change the mood, and suddenly Nick felt guilty. it was too easy, too cheap.
    Carefully Nick steeled himself, shutting out the weakness, building up his resolve and determination, bringing all his concentration to bear on the Herculean task ahead of him, and he paused at the door of the radio room. The Trog looked up from his machines, and they exchanged a single glance of understanding. Two completely dedicated men, with no time for frivolity.
    Nick nodded and paced on, the strong handsome face stern and uncompromising his step firm and measured but when he stopped again by the side windows of the bridge and looked up at the magnificent cliff of ice, he felt the doubts surging up again within him.
    How much had he sacrificed for what he had gained, how much joy and laughter had he spurned to follow the high road of challenge, how much beauty had he passed along the way without seeing it in his haste, how much love and warmth and companionship? He thought with a fierce pang of the women who had been his wife, and who had gone now with the child who was his son. Why had they gone, and what had they left him with — after all his strivings?
    Behind him, the radio crackled and hummed as the carrier beam opened channel 16, then it pitched higher as a human voice came through in clear.
MAYDAY. MAYDAY. MAYDAY.
THIS IS THE GOLDEN ADVENTURER !
    Nick spun and ran to the radio room as the calm masculine voice read out the coordinates of the ship’s position.
WE ARE IN IMMINENT DANGER OF STRIKING. WE ARE PREPARING TO ABANDON SHIP. CAN ANY VESSEL RENDER ASSISTANCE?  REPEAT, CAN ANY VESSEL RENDER ASSISTANCE?
    “Good God,” David Allen’s voice was harsh with anxiety, “the current’s got them, they’re going down on Cape Alarm at nine knots — she’s only fifty miles offshore and we are still two hundred and twenty miles from that position.”
    “Where is La Mouette ?” growled Nick Berg. “Where the hell is she?”
    “We’ll have to open contact now, sir,” David Allen looked up from the chart. “You cannot let them go down into the boats — not in this weather, sir. It would be murder.”
    “Thank you, Number One,” said Nick quietly. “Your advice is always welcome.”
    David flushed, but there was anger and not embarrassment beneath the colour. Even in the stress of the moment, Nick noted that, and adjusted his opinion of his First officer. He had guts as well as brains.
    The Mate was right, of course. There was only one thing to consider now, the conservation of human life.
    Nick looked up at the top of the ice cliff and saw the low cloud tearing off it, rolling and swirling in the wind, pouring down over the edge like boiling milk frothing from the lip of a great pot.
    He had to send now. La Mouette had won the contest of silence. Nick stared up at the cloud and composed the message he would send. He must reassure the Master, urge him to delay his decision to abandon ship and give Warlock the time to close the gap, perhaps even reach her before she struck on Cape Alarm.
    The silence on the bridge was deepened by the absence of wind. They were all watching him now, waiting for the decision, and in that silence the carrier beam of Channel 16 hummed and throbbed.
    Then suddenly a rich Gallic accent poured into the silent bridge, a full fruity voice that Nick remembered so clearly, even after all the years. “Master of Golden Adventurer this is the Master of salvage tug La Mouette . I am proceeding at best speed your assistance. Do you accept ‘Lloyd’s Open Form?’
    “No cure no pay.” Nick kept his face from showing any emotion, but his heart barged wildly against his ribs. Jules Levoisin had broken silence. “Plot his position report,” he said quietly.
    “God! She’s inside us,” David Allen’s face was stricken as he marked La