I didn't say anything. I didn't know. Ed Wiseberg's burly figure appeared and stood there for a moment.
Then he, too, was galvanized into action. The rain slammed down, a sudden squall that blurred the scene. When it had passed I saw Ken Stewart there with a walkie-talkie to his mouth, while he struggled to get an oilskin on over his short-sleeved khaki shirt. I ducked inside the bridge, pushing Gertrude out of my way, and switched on the VHP. 'Barge to Duchess. Calling Duchess.' His voice was loud and clear above the noise of the wind. 'Do you read me?' And when I had switched to Receive and acknowledged, he said, 'Check No. 2 buoy. The cable's slack and we could be dragging. I repeat, check No. 2 buoy.'
'I already have,' I told him, bracing myself against the radar as a wave rolled under us.
'Well, check again. The tension gauge is right down and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference winding in on the winch.'
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I suspected an explosion, but I checked myself in time. This was not the moment. 'What about No. 1 cable?' I asked him.
'We're watching it. Stay out by those buoys and keep your radio on.'
'Roger.' I switched to loudspeaker and rang down for half ahead. We were bucking in to it then, the waves breaking against our bows and seething along the deck. It was almost dark, no twilight now, only the beam of the spotlight sweeping back and forth and showing the break of the waves as they swept down at us out of the night. And all the time my mind trying to sort out what had happened — the cable slack, but the buoy still in position. If No. 2 buoy was still on a line with No. 1, then the anchor couldn't have moved. That could only mean one thing — the cable itself had parted. I was thinking of the colossal strain it was under, a slender line of twisted steel, like an umbilical cord, snaking down in a long half-mile curve to act as a leash between the anchor a hundred fathoms deep on the seabed and that huge monster of a rig, and the gusts up to forty-five knots now, slamming against its superstructure.
I glanced at the bridge clock, which was on Greenwich Mean Time, the hands at 01.04. It must have happened about ten minutes ago and that slam against the hull, it could have been the tensioned cable parting and curling up to crack like a whip against our underwater plating. Convinced of my reasoning, I made the following entry in the log: 00.50–54 Tension on No. 2 winch cable gone — suspect cable parted deep underwater.
It took us longer this time to locate the buoy, and then it was more by luck than judgement, for the radar was virtually useless, the object so small and the seas breaking. We fell off the top of a wave and there was one of the buoys right alongside. We wriggled clear and held it in the spotlight till we could identify it as No. 1. Having found that one, it was much easier to locate No. 2, for both buoys were correctly positioned in relation to each other. I reported to the barge engineer, 'Both buoys in position and no indication that either of the anchors have dragged.'
But by then they knew what the trouble was. While we had been searching for the buoys, they had been winding in on No. 2 winch. 'We got most of the cable up now, but the end of it is in a hell of a mess and jammed in the tower block. Looks like it parted close by the anchor.'
'Wind's south-west,' I said, 'and gusting up to 8.'
But he knew that, knew the whole weight of the rig was now on a single windward anchor. His voice was high and anxious as he called to me, 'Stay out there by No. 1 buoy. No, patrol between 1 and 2. I must know any change of position. Ed's hauling up on the drilling string now, but if No. 1 parts, then he'll have to operate the pipe rams, hang off the drilling string at the BOP. So watch those buoys and warn me the instant No. 1 starts dragging. Got it?'
'Roger.'
The door to the gangway slammed and Johan was there, his yellow oilskins streaming water. 'There is a ship out there.' He rubbed a big paw over his wet face, peered at the compass and added, 'About west-northwest of us.'
I switched off the spotlight and peered through the clearview circle of revolving glass. 'I don't see any lights. Are you sure it was a ship?'
'Ja. She is without lights, but I see the break of a wave against her bows.' He lumbered across to the radar, switching to short range, his big frame very still now in concentration as he watched the sweep. 'There! To starboard.' He shifted to give me a clear view. The screen was flecked with breaking waves, blurred with the rain now sweeping across us again. But there, on our starboard beam, a brighter blip appeared below the sweep, gradually fading to brighten again as the sweep completed its circle. It was just over half a mile away and moving slowly in towards the rig.
I ordered starboard wheel and called down to Per to increase the revs. I had the blip right over the bows then and we were running downwind, the Duchess twisting and rolling in the quartering sea, closing the gap fast. But either she had picked us up on her own radar or she could see our steaming lights, for halfway in to the rig she suddenly turned north, and at the same moment Ken Stewart's voice came over the loudspeaker: 'Barge to Duchess. Tension gone on No. 1 cable. Report position of buoy. Over.'
The time was 01.27.1 picked up the phone. 'Duchess to barge. Have unknown vessel on my radar screen steaming without lights inside the line of buoys. Am closing to identify. Over.'
But when I switched to Receive it was to hear his voice on a note of panic shouting, 'I told you to stay on station by the buoys. Get back at once and report on No. 1. If it's dragging we may have to go to emergency disconnect. I must know — now.'
I started to argue with him, but I might just as well have been talking to myself, for I got no reply. Hardly surprising if the rig had started to drag. The anchors were his responsibility and I could imagine what Ed Wiseberg would be calling him if the rig was being driven out of position with the line of drilling string still in the hole.
I stood there with the phone in my hand and Johan staring at me, waiting for my order to head back to the buoys. Gertrude, too. They were all staring at me, waiting. But instead of giving the order to turn, I switched off the navigation and steaming lights, picked up the engine-room voice pipe and called for maximum revs. Gertrude was instantly beside me, her hand on my arm. 'What are you doing?'
'Going after her, of course.'
'But why?' And Johan's voice, as he stood over the radar, 'There is no need. She has seen us and is heading away from the rig.'
Henrik, too, was waiting for the order to turn, and I knew so little about drilling that I was blind to the problems of a man with 600 feet of twenty-inch casing stretching down to the seabed. I moved to the radar screen, estimated the intercept course and ordered him to steer it. I saw him hesitate, his eyes flickering from Gertrude to me and back again. 'Steer 40°,' I repeated.
'No.' Gertrude was beside me again, two angry spots of colour flaring in the pallor of her face. 'We must turn back to the buoys.'
'When we've got the number of that fishing boat.'
'No, now. You heard what the barge engineer said.'
A wave slammed against the port side. She clutched at me and I held her as the ship plunged. 'Watch your helm,' I told Henrik, letting go of her and moving to the wheel to check the compass as he slowly brought her on to course. 'Hold it at that.' The atmosphere in the bridge was tense. I had a feeling that if Gertrude had ordered him to steer back to the buoys, he would have obeyed her, and with Johan there, I would have been quite impotent, unable to enforce my orders against his massive bulk. But she just stood there, pale-faced and tense, her eyes staring at me with a sort of fascination.
It took us just over ten minutes to close the gap. Then suddenly we were right on top of her, the spotlight pinpointing her black hull rolling on the crest of a wave. She was a fishing boat all right, and I closed right in until I could read her number. I veered away then, steering past her stern, and as it lifted to the seas the spotlight picked out her name — island girl, and underneath the one word burra.