He crashed forward onto the helm and thought it was a fluke in the wind — but no, it was Hood hammering at his numb back, moving up to replace Weary at his side. Then Robin was there, too, wedging herself between Hood and himself, hot as fire against his windchilled side. He glanced down to see Weary, crouched in the lee of their bodies, calculating the finest points of how to sail them out of this.
But even as he did so, the stresses on Katapult began to go beyond her limits. Inch by inch, against the dictates of helm and outriggers both, her mast came past the vertical and began to lean in. And slowly, inexorably, moved by a power beyond that of the four arms at the helm, her head started to come round. The port outrigger sank deeper beneath the streaming, windtorn surface. The other threatened to break free of the surface and hurl them all to destruction. They began to climb up the hill of water toward the lethal heart of the thing. Richard closed his eyes, his concentration absolute, moving as one with Hood, never giving an inch, fighting the good fight. Robin was yelling something to him, lips hot against his ear, breath sweet on the thick salt air. Her meaning clear but her words gone in that awesome, overwhelming noise.
Then Weary was there, at their left, his hands closing over their left hands, forcing upward with all their combined might.
And the helm spun over. Hard. So hard they lost control of it and let it whirl like a Catherine wheel, hands clear, before they caught it again, the four of them, moving as one; caught it and held it and prayed.
As the blade of the mast, socketed in its mast-foot a yard above the deck, turned, turning the long line of the fore and after booms, turning the close-hauled blades of the straining sails against it, turning the whole screaming construction across the howling wind, and Katapult came round on the opposite tack, her head swinging right as though she had been punched, using the massive momentum the wind had given her to break free of its grip and mash through to the far side, away from the thing.
For that one split second they grazed the foot of the spray wall itself; then it was gone. The hurricane that had been roaring into their backs blasted into their faces, tearing their eyes, bulging their cheeks, filling their lungs like balloons. But Katapult’s sails were closehauled now, giving no surface for the air to catch, and she continued to beat across the wind straight and free while the waterspout diminished astern.
How long the four of them stood in that closely entwined knot at the helm they would never know. It was not something to be measured by clocks or chronometers. The moderation of the wind, the calming of the sea, the passing of the clouds, the rebirth of the sun. These things measured that time on a scale beyond mere minutes.
And when they came back down to earth from the almost mystical plane of their concentration, they found themselves in the heart of a crystal afternoon, fresh and bracing. Long blue seas ran down calmly toward Africa. The heart of the whispering breeze smelled of salt and ozone. The light was dazzling in its purity, glancing off a million mirror surfaces all around them from the rime of salt crystals caking everything on Katapult like ice.
But before they took even the first step toward cleaning down and tidying up their brave, strong vessel, they had one overwhelming duty to perform. Richard ripped the plastic sheeting off the radio, turned it on, and pressed TRANSMIT.
“Hello, hello, Dubai…Damn! I hope this thing is working after all this…Hello, Dubai. This is Richard Mariner reporting from yacht Katapult. Can you hear me, Dubai…”
And the radio suddenly crackled into life. “…Heritage Mariner office, Dubai. Angus El Kebir reporting…Hear you strength four, Katapult, over…”
“This is Richard Mariner reporting from yacht Katapult, Indian Ocean. Uncertain of our position at this time. All well. Please inform Sir William Heritage Richard and Robin both well, over.”
“This is Angus El Kebir at head office in Dubai, Richard. I’m afraid I have some extremely bad news…”
Chapter Five
Angus El Kebir sat back from the radio at last and switched the power to OFF. In spite of the efficiency of his air-conditioning, he was running with sweat. In spite of its airy brightness, his Dubai office felt dark and cramped. It perched like an aerie atop one of those new dark-glass skyscrapers, towering against the hard blue Gulf sky, which overlooked the frenetic activity of the Creek. Part boatyard, part port, part market, the Creek was the heart of the city and the state. Heritage Mariner had offices here as inevitably as they kept their head office on Leadenhall in London, close to Lloyd’s at the heart of the Western world’s shipping industry.
Angus shook his great lion’s head, all russet beard and ruddy curls, and brought his clenched fist down on his desktop. Never had he heard Robin so upset or Richard so enraged. He had known them both for many years — he had been at school with Richard at Fettes College in Edinburgh — and not once before had he heard such anger, such desolation, in their voices.
Rising, he strode across to the long window of his office and looked down across the busy maritime spectacle of the Creek, but for once the lively view failed to thrill him; the bustle of commerce failed to bring elation to his part-Arab and part-Scottish soul. Here was a bad situation brewing, showing every sign of growing worse — and here were his oldest and dearest friends trapped and raging like bears at a stake in the midst of it.
And himself, powerless to help more than he had done, feeling all that baseless burden of guilt belonging to the bearer of such bad news. His breath hissed between his tight-clenched teeth as he shared the overwhelming rage of his employers and friends, so far away, so helpless. If only he could have between his powerful hands something — or someone — whose destruction could ease his rage.
A timid tapping at the door intruded itself into his dark brooding. “Enter,” he snapped.
The quiet youth who was his assistant down here appeared, clutching a bundle of files. Angus thrust his hand out and the young man surrendered his bundle and fled. Still lost in rage, Angus crossed to his desk, threw them down, and hurled himself into his chair.
He had been dreading this moment almost as much as he had been dreading having to break the news to Richard and Robin. It was cruel that, after so many hours of waiting, the two moments should have come so close together. That now, while he was still gripped by the feelings arising out of talking to Katapult, these files should have arrived, giving full details of all the men and women he had just been discussing, lost on Prometheus.
The force with which he had thrown them down had caused the top few to spill their contents, and it was in many ways apt that he should spend the next few minutes disentangling the lives of John Higgins, Asha Quartermaine, and Bob Stark.
They were the three on Prometheus to whom he was closest. He and John were old friends. They had first met many years ago in the wake of the affair that had overtaken the first Prometheus. Looking at the photograph of the solid, dependable Manxman, Angus was forcibly reminded of his modest charm, his open friendliness. The black hair, neatly parted; the level, intelligent gaze from those calm brown eyes. The pipe, inevitably, at its jaunty angle, emphasizing the strength of the jaw. Little John, they called him, like Robin Hood’s Little John.