But I wasn't interested. To hell with drill ships and technicalities. All I cared about in that moment was the Duchess and Gertrude. Myself, too. 'We've a contract,' I said. 'And provided we can keep on station-'
His fist came down, hammering at the desk. 'I don't give a damn about your contract. No doubt you'll get compensation, if that's what you're worrying about. George can sort that one out with the Petersen woman. Now get back to your ship and get it out of here. Okay? Rattler takes over from the Duchess as of now.'
I was so angry I had to push my hands down into my pockets to stop myself doing something stupid. 'Have you thought about how an explosive device could have been attached to the cables — close to the anchor stocks in 500 feet of water?' I was holding myself in, my voice tight and controlled. 'You think about that. A bomb slid down the pennant wire from buoy to anchor would cut the buoy adrift and mark the anchor when it exploded. I saw those anchors as Rattler hauled them up. They were undamaged. And the buoys didn't break adrift. Both pennant wires were intact. And if you think somebody could slide a device down the cable from the rig end of it on a snap block, then you just try it, see whether it gets anywhere near as close as the point of break on those two cables.'
I had his attention then. 'Okay. How do you think it was done then?'
It was a matter I had given some thought to, but I hesitated, suspecting a trap. When a man has virtually accused you of sabotaging his anchor cables, you don't expect him to enquire about the method used without some ulterior motive. But Ed Wiseberg wasn't built that way. He was a rugged, straightforward drill operator and there was no guile in the grey eyes waiting upon my answer. Their expression was one of puzzlement, and it came as a shock to realize that the man was out of his depth and profoundly worried. He really was seeking my advice. 'Christ! You expect me to tell you?'
'Not if you had a hand in it. No.' He shrugged, and then suddenly that craggy face broke into a smile. 'But I'm asking you all the same. You know about the sea. I don't.'
I laughed. I couldn't help myself. 'You asking me!' The bloody nerve of it! 'All right,' I said. 'I'll tell you.' And I cursed myself for a fool. But you couldn't help liking him, and he knew how to handle men. 'It could only have been done by a ship towing a grapnel. I can't think of any other way. If a grapnel were towed just the rig side of one of the anchor buoys it would be bound to grab hold of the cable. The device could then have been slipped down the grapnel line. A good lead weight on top of that, then cut the line adrift and let it sink.'
'And how do you set it off — delayed action?'
'Either that, or fasten a thin connecting wire to the side of the anchor buoy so that you can detonate by radio signal.' Even as I said it, thinking the method out as I went along, the real reason for the presence of that fishing boat flashed into my mind. 'Since they need a gale to make the operation worthwhile, radio signal would be the sensible method of triggering the bomb off.'
'So we inspect the buoys, a daily routine.' He nodded. 'Yeah. That's the answer.' He came round the edge of the desk. 'I guess you think I'm being pretty rough, hm? Well, nothing I can do about that. I got the rig to consider and the bloody Shetlanders on my back.' He held out his hand, the tough, leathery features lit by a smile of surprising charm. 'I hear the fishing's good now, so no hard feelings, eh?'
I shook his hand. What else? It wasn't his fault. And no good telling him that in getting rid of me he was losing the one person who knew enough to give the rig some protection. 'Good luck!' I said, and I meant it, remembering that paragraph in the Express underlined in red.
He nodded, reached for his safety helmet and gloves, and then he was gone, striding out on to the helicopter deck. I watched him through the window as he headed for the derrick floor, back to the world that was his life, the world he knew and understood.
I thought then, and still think, that the division between toolpushers and barge engineers is a dangerous one. How can you expect a man who has spent most of his life drilling on land to adapt himself to the sea in middle life? Ed Wiseberg at fifty-one couldn't be expected to think in terms of a real Shetland gale. He couldn't even conceive what it was like. Yet so long as North Star was drilling, he was in charge.
I went slowly out on the deck, pausing a moment to see his heavy figure climbing the long iron stairway at the base of the derrick that led from pipe deck to derrick floor, climbing with a sort of punchy swagger. He flung open the corrugated iron door and stood there for a moment surveying the scene, a lone figure standing right above the pipe skid, the noise of the draw-works blasting out and the men inside dancing a strange ballet around the kelly, the tongs in their hands and the winches screaming. Then he stepped forward into that hell's kitchen of machinery and closed the door behind him, safe now among the tools that were his trade.
God help him, I thought, as I turned away, wondering how he would measure up if he was caught in a real storm.
The Duchess was wallowing in the bright sunlight out by No. 7 buoy. I went down the stairway then to the waiting boat, and as the outboard pushed us clear of the cold cavern of the rig's undersection, I was considering how I would break it to the crew. They had been out here for over two months now, sacrificing shore time for the benefit of their ship. I wasn't angry.
I was past that. But the humiliation of it sickened me, knowing that they would have nobody to blame but myself. And later, when we reached Shetland, there would be Gertrude to tell.
I climbed on board and went straight to the bridge.
Lars was at the wheel and I told him to turn in towards Rattler. She was still moored stern-on to the rig unloading stores. I steamed close past her bows, hailing her skipper and telling him it was all his now. He wished us luck and I was thinking I could certainly do with some as I swung away to point our bows towards Mainland of Shetland. Then I called the crew to the bridge and told them why we were leaving.
I could see the shock and dismay in their faces and I didn't wait for the inevitable questions, but ducked into the chart recess to lose myself for a moment in the practicalities of working out the course for Scalloway. Johan followed me shortly afterwards. 'So we get compensation and Gertrude pays off the mortgage, then we go fishing, ja?' He was smiling and I guessed what he was thinking. That close positive relations between them would be resumed and everything would go on as it had before. He put a great paw on my arm. 'What will you do then?' To my surprise there was real concern in his voice.
'I haven't thought about that,' I said.
He nodded. 'Well, time you think about it.' He hesitated, his head turned away from me, staring out through the doorway as he said, 'You are a good captain, a good seaman, ja — but for you it is not enough to fish.' He spoke slowly, awkwardly, as though afraid of giving offence. 'Fishing is a good life. But not for you. You need something bigger. Politics per'aps, or oil.'
'You may be right,' I said and gave him the course. He didn't say anything after that. For him it had been a long speech. We had moved into the bridge and we were silent, both of us wrapped in our own thoughts, the only sounds the sounds of the sea and the hum of the engines.
The evening was deepening into twilight as we steamed through the Middle Channel into Scalloway, and we had barely dropped our anchor under the castle ruins when a boat put out from the shore and came alongside. The old man at the oars wore a fisherman's cap. He said his name was Mclver and that he had a note for me from Gertrude Petersen. All this in a high piping voice like the call of a curlew. I bent over the bulwarks and took the note from his outstretched hand, ripping open the envelope and reading it by the light of the deck light. It was dated 23rd June at 14.15: