The captain nodded and the hose came sliding down the wire jackstay, the male connecting probe slamming home into the female cone at Icarus' RAS-point.
'Start pumping.'
Hob glanced at the clock: 1039. The first lieutenant returned to the bridge and stood by the captain's chair: ' The Chief says about twenty minutes, sir, just a top-up.'
Hob saw the rubber pipe swell as the oil began pulsating through the hose which dangled from the stirrup slung from Oileus derrick heads.
At 1050 the RAS communication number shouted up to the first lieutenant who was back again in the starboard wing:
'Ten minutes to go, sir.'
Number One nodded to the buffer who was listening in on his walkie-talkie.
'Stand clear of the guard-rails…. Stand by to slip the hose,' the buffer holloaed.
Two seamen were bowlined to a safety-line: then they crawled on hands and knees beneath the hose, to squeeze themselves between the casing of the Exocet and the exposed ship's side. The seas snarled against the ship's side, while they prepared to knock off the slips.
Hob watched the buffer, his face red with anger beneath his beard, yelling at the awkward youngsters. The heaving line, which they were using as a lanyard for taking the weight while they undid the bottle-screws, had fouled round the guardrails. The first lieutenant was breathing down the buffer's neck from the starboard wing. Hob glanced at the bridge clock: 1052. The fuel tanks would be full at any minute.
'Three minutes to go for the next zig, sir,' Neame announced. ' Thirty degrees to port at 1055.'
The distance line was sagging between the ships — either Icarus or Oileus had taken a sheer…
'Watch your steering, Cox'n,' the captain commanded.' Nothing to port.'
Hob watched the two ships crashing through the seas. He heard a shout. He swung round to see Firebrace's face turned towards the captain with a look of total disbelief. Speechless, he pointed to the flashing red light in front of him.
L/MEM Fane worked for an hour, heaving and shoving, trying to reassemble the bits and pieces into No. 2 diesel generator. He felt better, wringing the resentment from his system after the captain's punishment. The Old Man had certainly weighed-off Ozzie and him — the seven days leave did not matter so much, as they would be worked out before they got home — but a thousand quid, five hundred each, to pay that bugger in The Bunch of Grapes….
He had not had a chance to talk to Oz, but they would meet at supper. The Old Man ran by the book, so the lads had better adjust their sights bloody quickly… Fane wiped the back of his neck with the cloth he kept in his hip pocket. He had dispatched the MEM for his cuppa when stand easy was piped. He'd be returning soon with a Coke, for Niv was too weary to traipse up a deck to the Naafi. Instead, he slumped down on the up turned bucket in the corner and lit a cigarette — against orders down here, but what did it matter with the risks he'd been running for so long?
His head jerked up as he heard the sharp hiss and the drop in revs from No. 1 diesel. He felt the thundering vibration, smelt the escaping fuel as the compartment was suddenly sprayed by the evil-smelling stuff — another shearing of the spill pipe. Jumping to his feet, he was blinded by a sheet of flame. The searing heat hit him in the face as he leaped for the emergency ' stop' button. There was an explosion, a white hot, blistering flash. He fell backwards as his existence disintegrated into a sheet of crimson flame and agonizing pain.
Icarus' junior MEM had been down to the engine room only once, when he had first joined the ship. He had spent two months watchkeeping in the boiler room, so was chuffed when the Chief MEM had told him to report to the engine room. That had been two days ago, but his new surroundings still awed him.
The boiler room, with its darting flames and the blazing furnace, was impressive enough: the superheated steam, harnessed in those writhing steam pipes always made him think… after listening to the Chief's description of a superheated steam blow-out, the sprog MEM remained apprehensive.
But he was more nervous of the engine room, because it was all so new — the gleaming machinery, the spotless footplates and the ladders running down to them; the shining paintwork and the stain of oil swilling in the white-painted bilges; the throttle valves which admitted superheated steam from the boiler rooms to the ahead turbines in their massive, snail-shell casings; the diminutive stern turbines and then the great cubes of the main gearing units. He was beginning to recognize it alclass="underline" but it was difficult to believe that he was really here, on watch and entrusted to looking after this machinery.… He kept the log book, watching the pressures and temperatures, and entering up the readings every hour. His main duty was watchkeeping on the auxiliaries and the turbo-generators, the high-revving, steam-driven turbines which supplied the ship's electricity. The high-pitched scream of the machines had unnerved him during his first watches, and even today he did not relish being too close to the turbo-generators. He felt a tap on his shoulder as the leading hand of the watch beckoned him to come over and operate the main engine throttles.
Those huge bulkhead stop-valves; the gleaming throttle wheels and the battery of gauges — the junior MEM breathed again when he was sent back to the turbos. He crossed to the starboard side, took the temperatures, watched the flickering needles on the pressure gauges. He dodged back to No. 2 on the port side, and stopped in front of the machine. Pressures?… okay. Temperatures? He squinted again, felt his heart jump… what was happening? Did the reading usually shoot up like this? He could see the column rising well into the red now. He turned, his face white. But his yell for help was drowned by a mounting scream as No. 2 turbo ran wild.
Even Hob Gamble had to admit that sometimes things moved fast on the bridge. It was 1053 when Neame shouted:
'Monitor's showing fire in the DG room, sir.'
Keeping his eyes firmly on the ship's head, Captain Trevellion rose from his chair.
'Take over from the Officer of the Watch, Pilot,' he snapped. ' Sub., go down and find out what's happening.'
The second hand on the bridge clock was ticking to 1054 when Neame said:
'One minute to go for the zig to port, sir.'
'Ten degree steps?'
'Yes, sir. On the siren.'
'What's the delay in slipping the hose?' This was the first instance in which Hob had heard the Old Man raise his voice. He was snapping through the intercom at the first lieutenant:
'Buck up and report when you're ready.'
Hob watched Neame concentrating on the ship's heading of 005° while he set the zigzag clock.
'Ten fifty-five, sir. Alter thirty degrees to port.'
Oileus' hooter boomed from somewhere above them.
'Port ten, Cox'n,' Trevellion ordered. 'Steer three-five-five.' He glanced at Neame: ' Pilot, reduce speed to fifteen knots.'
Hob felt the tension: hardly a propitious start for Trevellion's induction — being on the inside of the turn, Icarus must also knock down her speed or she would leap ahead and ram the oiler amidships.