Geoffrey Jenkins: A Ravel of Waters

The split second more he needed to get his left round to heft up the UZI to fire was too long. I threw the knife. It stuck out from his Adam's apple.

He just knelt there with the UZI raised to blast me, with that obscene brass haft projecting from his throat. Then he pitched forward through the ladder gap.

I heard the body hit the bottom of the mast and the single shot that went off. He must have hung on to the trigger, even in death. I crouched on the cat-walk, gulping air. I seemed to be swimming inside a suit of sweat. My muscles kicked from reaction. Time! The ring charges! Twenty-one metres, seventy feet to go!

I threw myself at the rungs. The anti-blast cap! I stopped, jerked cap and visor over my head and face. Securing the sealing zipper with my outsize fingers seemed to take a year. Up!

I was still scrambling feverishly, blindly, in darkness on the upper mast-head side of the top-gallant bay, heading for the crow's nest, when the charges blew.

My first thought from the concussion's hammer-blow was that I had slipped and fallen the entire length of the mast.

Pilots who eject to safety are heroes; circus human cannons have a soft ride compared to mine from Jetwind.

The cap and visor saved my ear-dreams from blast, my eyes from flash, and my lungs from compression. All I knew was that one moment I was battling upwards and the next I felt a vertebrae-ripping punch in the back. The detonation pinned me like a fly against the steel rungs. The detached mast cartwheeled high into the air.

The water was to be my cushion on splash-down; I will never believe it provides cosmonauts with a soft landing. The jar when the tube of light alloy hit the sea was certainly almost as bad as take-off. Between the two, there was a merciful time-warp of oblivion.

I became aware of water glinting inside the floating mast. A circle of light showed at the severed end. It was filling fast. I knew I had to get out — faster — before it sank.

I crept towards the opening on all fours through icy water which deepened at every pace. Then-I was out.

There was no horizon. Everything was a neutral white. 1 panicked. I thought irrationally that I had been blinded by the mast charges.

Then I realized the reason for my white-out vision: ahead and above me towered a skyscraper of ice five hundred metres high.

I had been catapulted so near Trolltunga that I had to turn on my side to get a view of the top.

I trod water, got my bearings. The lighted fleet was to my right, Jetwind at my back. Ahead was the pinnace, perhaps a hundred metres away — an easy swim. The water was icier than a mortuary slab. Without the survival suit, I would have been gasping my last.

I started for the pinnace. I had gone only a few clumsy dog-paddle strokes towards my objective when a searchlight stabbed out from the Sposobny towards Jetwind. The bulk of the Berezina sprang into silhouette in front of the light. The searchlight, inhibited in range because of the fogginess, picked out a splash near Jetwind's bows — the anchor had gone!

Tideman was wasting no time. I almost ceased paddling, the sight of the sail-setting was so beautiful. An ethereal quintuple bank of white mounted up on Jetwind’s foremast, clean as a swan's breast against the blue-white night. Sail on four other masts followed — not on the ship's full number. Tideman wasn't risking the structure of Number Two after the ring charges blast.

Then — the fore-yards went aback: Tideman was emulating the manoeuvre I had used to spin Jetwind round in Port Stanley.

Like an angry hornets' nest coming alive, beam after beam leapt out from the fleet, spotlighting the lovely fabric of the sailer. They had heard the concussion of the ring charges — what now?

I propelled myself towards the pinnace. The whole anchorage was ablaze with hostile light. I felt sure someone would spot my give-away splashing.

My hand grabbed the pinnace's gunnel. I yanked my clumsy body aboard and my head came up. On the summit of Trolltunga a group of men were gesticulating and yelling, although I could not hear the sound. It wasn't at the searchlights; it was at me.

How long would the fastest of them take to race down the cliff? Would he have a gun?

The thought goaded me. I crawled on all fours to a locker in the bows. I fumbled at the latch — I was about as nimble as a whale stranded on a reef. I finally managed to open it.

There it was! There was no mistaking the characteristic box-explosives!

Time fuses were already mounted in the heads of the charges. These were about the size of half a brick. Each fuse setting had a pointer, a gnarled rotatable screw, and numbers punched at intervals. I read: FUMS. ASXX. 01. 02. 00 (03). 10’9. What the devil did it mean?

I dragged out the box. The Trolltunga men were slipping and sliding down the cliff like cross-country runners.

I took a blind guess as to how to set the fuses on six charges I set aside. On two of them I would set the firing pointer to the first digit; on the next two to the second, and on the final pair to the third. What if I blew myself up?

I set my teeth, turned the first pointer to 01. Nothing happened. I fused its twin charge. Rapidly I followed with the other four. Now!

I yanked the starting-cord of the engine. It was an inboard type. I prayed that it wasn't too cold. It fired first time.

I unmoored the pinnace and motored clear of the cliff at low throttle.

Jetwind had almost completed her turn and her bows now pointed slightly at an angle to the fleet. That was our escape direction — northeast!

I manoeuvred the pinnace to aim at a gap between the Berezina and Sposobny. I hauled the explosives box well into the open to ensure maximum flash effect. I stopped in my tracks.

A boat was being lowered from the enclosed stern section of the Berezina. I caught the reflection of gun barrels as a party of men jumped from the deck overhang into the boat.

Would the cutting-out party reach Jetwind before my fire-craft slipped in among the fleet?

I jammed the pinnace's throttle wide and threw myself into the sea. I paddled frantically for Jetwind. I willed Tideman to break out without waiting for me — he could not have failed to see the boarding-party. As if in response, Jetwind's after yards also were backed in order to mark time waiting for me.

I thrashed and flailed onwards. Then I was against Jetwind’s side and a rope was in the water beside me. I snatched it up, snicked the loop under my arms. On the rail above, Jim Yell was grinning and gesturing. Once he was certain I was secure, he raised an arm to the bridge. That was the signal Tideman had been waiting for.

Even before Yell had dragged me inboard and freed me of my suit I could feel the sternway come off the ship and the beginning of headway take its place. 'You were great, sir!' Yell burst out. 'We'll lick 'em yet!'

I ran to the rail. Without the suit, I felt as light as a disembodied ghost. 'Where's their boat?'

It was there, all right. But it was not coming at Jetwind. It was heading towards the pinnace!

I stared in disbelief and anguish. I was brought to earth by a muffled tat-tat from Jetwind’s stern.

Yell spun on his heel. 'The gang is still fighting it out aft — I've got to help.'

I sprinted up a bridge ladder. I saw Kay first. For the eternity of one second our eyes locked. Neither of us said anything. There was no need.

Tideman stood at the control consoles. The bloodied mess that had been the bridge guard lay in one corner.

'Course as ordered, Peter? Same route?' Tideman asked without any show of agitation. 'Aye. Get the sails on the damaged mast also.' 'Think it will take it?' 'We need all the speed we can get. You've seen the boat party?' 'I have.'