Geoffrey Jenkins - Hunter Killer

Peace said, That axe, John; we may have to cut the cutter clear if we strike. Boz, slack off that wire cable round Little Bear. I'll be here at the wheel with Andre. As soon as we get inside the lagoon, get up for'ard with Pete Allingham and knock the shackle out of the anchor cable. I want everyone else in the cutter, ready. Then get below and open the sea-cocks with Mac. Adele, I want you with me.'

She hesitated and looked deep into my eyes. Hers told me all I wanted to know.

I went for'ard with the big Texan. The unnatural quiet persisted. Twice I was thrown to the deck as the cross-sea dealt the old tramp a quick left-right to the jaw and water swept across the deck.

The bows swung high. I looked down into the entrance race.

I saw the coral-head too late.

Andre's course was slightly off centre in the reef passage. I yelled frantically, gesturing. The bow paused-plunged down-on to the dagger of coral.

The crash and scream of metal threw me hard against the deck. Up she came to impale herself again, but the bow swung away and the second strike was only glancing. She limped clear, tired to death, her head starting to droop. Then the sea quietened-we were through!

Pete and I clouted the inch-thick anchor shackle. Once twice. It gave and the anchor fell in a shower of sparks.

I ran for the engine-room while Pete made for the cutter. '

Mac!'

It was as quiet as a cathedral, except for the ominous sound of water flooding in.

' Mac!'

' Here!'

I dropped into the shaft, up to my knees in sea-water. Mac fought to open the rusty sea-cock. We threw our combined weight on the heavy wrench and it gave, water spurting over us. We raced on deck, making for the boat. Andre was speaking rapidly, pointing seawards. Semittante was settling at an awkward angle, making the launching of the cutter difficult. She could not be cut clear now-she would simply smash herself against the steel side.

I jumped into the boat. An icy spear of fear went through me. Adele was missing!

I clutched the fall and swung myself back on deck.

' For Christ's sake!' yelled Peace. ' She's going down like a stone-'

Semittante gave a lurch.

' Adele!' I screamed above the din. I sprinted up the sloping planks, hauled myself bodily up a steel ladder, and propelled myself to the radio shack by hauling myself along the ropes of the lifeline I had rigged. I kicked once, twice, at the shack's door, which had jammed from the angle of the sinking ship.

' Adele!'

She sat at the radio, headphones on, and stared unseeingly. For a moment, I thought she was dead.

' The ship's sinking-any moment-come, for God's sake!'

She seemed to come back from a great distance. Silently she pushed across the transcript of a newscast. It was headed Voice of America.

It read: Flash. The White House announces that the Pre- sident has suffered a severe stroke. His condition gives rise to the gravest anxiety.

A violent lurch, accompanied by an ominous rumble from below, jerked me out of my stunned reaction.

I crammed the transcript into my pocket, tore the headphones off Adele's head, picked her up and staggered out. The wild motion of the dying ship ripped the flesh from my hand as I hung on to the lifeline rope. Then, as she steadied, I made a half-sprint down the ladder and deck to the boat.

Peace had already eased it down about ten feet, but shouted to the others to stop when he saw me.

Semittante lurched again.

Keeping Adele over my shoulder, I grabbed a loose fall with one hand and wound my knees and ankles round it.

Faces in the boat, so small below, were turned towards me.

Underneath lay a maelstrom of death.

The rope burned hot on my torn palm. Eager hands reached up and pulled us into the cutter.

Semittante gave another wild lurch.

' Forward bulkhead gone!' shouted Peace. ' Pay off those falls-handsomely! We don't want to go down with her!'

Andre gestured seawards. I saw the cause of his alarm.

Half a mile away loomed a threatening bank of grey. There was a steady roaring like an express train. Sweating and cursing, we lowered the cutter, fending her off the rusty side while the angle steepened as Semittante went to her grave. We clawed and shoved. Now the boat hung a foot or two above the sea. I grabbed an oar and swung round. I felt I had been struck in the face by a grey fist. The cyclone hit us anew, throwing the cutter against the steel side. Above its scream was another noise-the frightening snap of planking.

Ragged rivets ripped the oilskin at my shoulder. Semittante rolled, towered above our stricken craft. I reversed my oar. It slipped helplessly and then lodged against a buckled plate. Peace knelt in the bows with another oar. I saw his muscles bulge. Simultaneously, I threw all my weight against the rough wood.

We were clear!

The wind snatched the cutter away like a feather. Water poured through her broken planking. I whipped off my sou'wester and baled. The others did the same. Andre snatched Peace's oar and used it to steer-the tiller was useless, she lay so far over on her beam ends. It was impossible to breathe facing the wind and speech was out of the question. We all baled frantically. Despite our efforts, the water rose.

Then suddenly the cutter slewed, stayed in mid-course, bumped, crashed-and we were thrown in a heap on to sand!

Peace picked himself up and gestured, ' Get her clear of the breakers!' His mouth formed the words, but I heard nothing in the gale. Adele raced forward and looped the bow painter over her shoulder. She, too, realized the danger of another sea hurling the boat on to the iron sand. Peace and MKG, Andre, Mac, Boz Blair's men, Trevor-Davis and I all threw our weight against the cutter. A long splinter ripped my torn hand, but I was unaware of the pain. MKG stumbled and fell, but he was up in a moment with Pete's help, hanging on to a rowlock.

The cutter slid forward. Andre shouted, pointing. Up a shallow gradient, I saw the stone structure I had spotted from the sea. Dragging, heaving, our backs breaking while the wind thundered and tore at our clothes and the sea at our feet, we inched the boat out of the breakers towards the hut. It seemed to be made of heavy squared coral blocks. We headed for a ruined doorway.

The cyclone's howl took on a new note, and I saw, outside the hut, a twisted metal grille, capped by two handcuffs like rowlocks. The lattice made the cyclone scream like the slaves who were lashed to death on it. This was the flogging-grating which gave the place its name, Vingt-Cinq Coups-Twentyfive Lashes. We manhandled the boat through the doorway, into shelter, away from the mad wind. As we up-ended the shattered hull and crept in under it, I pressed the crumpled Voice of America paper into Peace's hand. For four days the cyclone turned the sea to frenetic fermentation and the wind to a maniac which screamed its torment through the flogging-grating. Surf boiled like thunder against the reef. The high recurring note of the wind reminded me of the uninhibited keen which breaks into a shanty to cry the sailor's death-fear of the sea. It made speech impossible and sleep, exhausted though we all were, a nightmare. My dozing moments were punctuated by jerks into dazed wakefulness, as though I were goaded by the thought of the message I had given Peace. It seemed scarcely possible that the man who lay as if dead under the boat with us might by now be President of the greatest nation in the world.

And he did not know!

I salved my conscience by telling myself that it was impossible to communicate at all in the din of the cyclone and 190 that the whole question would have to be solved when it was over. Four days! What was happening constitutionally during those four critical days in the United States, where the highest office of the nation might by now be left unfilled? The searchers, like us, would be stormbound. I simply could not face up to it. Peace had taken up a position on one side of Adele and me, and Mac on the other. I sensed, though conversation was impossible, that we were under guard.