again.
When his eyes cleared, he saw the monstrous tracks leading straight to the broken rail and understood at once the story they told of the third mate. Badly disoriented by the sand, he had stumbled forward into the rail which, like the Sat Nav, had not been all it seemed. Silently cursing the lackadaisical workmanship that had simply added another coat of varnish without checking the wood beneath, he shambled forward. There could be no mistake. “Man overboard! Stop engines! Man overboard!”
A second later, the whooping of the foghorn became the howl of the emergency siren. The throb of the engines stopped.
Richard was still by the broken rail, peering down into the red murk. Because of the sand he saw little. Because of the siren he heard nothing. Not the opening of the door behind him. Not the sand-muffled footsteps. Why he turned he would never know.
He saw Martyr’s face locked in a strange rictus: rage—horror—surprise. He could not tell. The man might simply have been going to sneeze, his face, like Richard’s face a minute before, unexpectedly full of sand.
Then their shoulders collided and Richard stepped back. Automatically, he caught the broken end of the rail. A substantial section of it filled his grasp, but then it simply crumbled as his full weight came upon it. Broke away and went to dust in his fist. One more step was enough and he was falling.
His mind spun as wildly as his body for a second. Images whirled like his arms and legs while the R/T sailed uselessly away. It occurred to him that Martyr might well have pushed Slope overboard in retaliation for this morning’s prank. Or he might be trying to revenge on Richard himself the humiliation of last night’s defeat in the Officers’ Lounge. He did not yet know the man well enough to make any sensible guess. Or of course John might be right. Maybe
Prometheus
was trying to get rid of her second crew that week.
He jerked in a desperate lungful of air.
Then the water exploded around him and he was, abruptly, thinking with absolute clarity.
He landed upright, facing in, ten feet from the tanker’s side. He plunged deep beneath the swirling surface, and was immediately sucked toward the huge metal wall. Theblack hull plunged down and down before him, curving away toward the keel. And that keel seemed to call to him, pulling him deeper and deeper still.
At the final end of his endurance, just as his lungs began to empty of their own accord, he felt the downward motion slow. He crossed his arms before his face and smashed into the unforgiving steel as he started up.
He exploded back into the air a bare few feet from the hull, still facing in. Immediately, even as he fought for the first, life-giving breath, he was half thrown, half sucked toward
Prometheus
as a wave worked with the ship’s movement.
He brought his feet up just in time, pushing his sodden desert boots against the slippery metal and kicking. His feet were snatched to the left. He wrenched shoulders and upper arms, paddling wildly to keep his feet between himself and his ship, choking in great ragged breaths as he did so. Much less than a quarter of the hull to go, he thought. And as the engine stopped, so the great propeller stilled. If he kept agile and lucky, he might get past the end of the ship alive.
Then there would only be the Gulf to contend with.
He could imagine Ben on the bridge, bringing
Prometheus
round in a Williamson turn. Probably swearing like a trooper. The thought made him smile.
He slid down another hugely buoyant, incredibly salty wave and kicked back, legs and belly smarting with the strain, water rushing in over his head and shoulders, exploding against the steel, foaming back to bury him.
Damn! The stuff even tasted of oil!
Abruptly, the most unexpected thing happened. The white bow of a lifeboat grazed down his left side and collided with
Prometheus.
There was a sound like thebiggest gong in the world. Richard watched, overcome by it all.
Then
When his eyes cleared, he saw the monstrous tracks leading straight to the broken rail and understood at once the story they told of the third mate. Badly disoriented by the sand, he had stumbled forward into the rail which, like the Sat Nav, had not been all it seemed. Silently cursing the lackadaisical workmanship that had simply added another coat of varnish without checking the wood beneath, he shambled forward. There could be no mistake. “Man overboard! Stop engines! Man overboard!”
A second later, the whooping of the foghorn became the howl of the emergency siren. The throb of the engines stopped.
Richard was still by the broken rail, peering down into the red murk. Because of the sand he saw little. Because of the siren he heard nothing. Not the opening of the door behind him. Not the sand-muffled footsteps. Why he turned he would never know.
He saw Martyr’s face locked in a strange rictus: rage—horror—surprise. He could not tell. The man might simply have been going to sneeze, his face, like Richard’s face a minute before, unexpectedly full of sand.
Then their shoulders collided and Richard stepped back. Automatically, he caught the broken end of the rail. A substantial section of it filled his grasp, but then it simply crumbled as his full weight came upon it. Broke away and went to dust in his fist. One more step was enough and he was falling.
His mind spun as wildly as his body for a second. Images whirled like his arms and legs while the R/T sailed uselessly away. It occurred to him that Martyr might well have pushed Slope overboard in retaliation for this morning’s prank. Or he might be trying to revenge on Richard himself the humiliation of last night’s defeat in the Officers’ Lounge. He did not yet know the man well enough to make any sensible guess. Or of course John might be right. Maybe
Prometheus
was trying to get rid of her second crew that week.
He jerked in a desperate lungful of air.
Then the water exploded around him and he was, abruptly, thinking with absolute clarity.
He landed upright, facing in, ten feet from the tanker’s side. He plunged deep beneath the swirling surface, and was immediately sucked toward the huge metal wall. Theblack hull plunged down and down before him, curving away toward the keel. And that keel seemed to call to him, pulling him deeper and deeper still.
At the final end of his endurance, just as his lungs began to empty of their own accord, he felt the downward motion slow. He crossed his arms before his face and smashed into the unforgiving steel as he started up.
He exploded back into the air a bare few feet from the hull, still facing in. Immediately, even as he fought for the first, life-giving breath, he was half thrown, half sucked toward
Prometheus
as a wave worked with the ship’s movement.
He brought his feet up just in time, pushing his sodden desert boots against the slippery metal and kicking. His feet were snatched to the left. He wrenched shoulders and upper arms, paddling wildly to keep his feet between himself and his ship, choking in great ragged breaths as he did so. Much less than a quarter of the hull to go, he thought. And as the engine stopped, so the great propeller stilled. If he kept agile and lucky, he might get past the end of the ship alive.
Then there would only be the Gulf to contend with.
He could imagine Ben on the bridge, bringing
Prometheus
round in a Williamson turn. Probably swearing like a trooper. The thought made him smile.
He slid down another hugely buoyant, incredibly salty wave and kicked back, legs and belly smarting with the strain, water rushing in over his head and shoulders, exploding against the steel, foaming back to bury him.
Damn! The stuff even tasted of oil!
Abruptly, the most unexpected thing happened. The white bow of a lifeboat grazed down his left side and collided with
Prometheus.
There was a sound like thebiggest gong in the world. Richard watched, overcome by it all.
Then
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