Hungry as the Sea by Wilbur Smith Page B

arbitration of the committee of Lloyd’s in London under the principles of international maritime law, and would be a percentage of the salved value of the vessel. The percentage decided upon by the arbitrator would depend upon the difficulties and dangers that the salvor had overcome. A clever salvor in an arbitration court could paint a picture of such daring and ingenuity that the award would be in millions of dollars.
    Christy Marine had been desperately trying to avoid a no cure no pay contract. They had been trying to wheedle Levoisin into a daily hire and bonus contract, since this would limit the total cost of the operation, but they had been met by a Gallic acquisitiveness — right up to the moment when it became clear that Golden Adventurer had gone aground.
    When that happened, the roles were completely reversed. Jules Levoisin, with a note of panic in his transmission, had immediately withdrawn his offer to go Lloyd’s Open Form. For now the cure was far from certain, and the Adventurer might already be a total wreck, beaten to death on the rocks of Cape Alarm, in which case there would be no pay.
    Now Levoisin was desperately eager to strike a daily hire contract, including the ran from South America and the ferrying of survivors back to civilization. He was offering his services at $10,000 a day, plus a bonus of 2½% of any salved value of the vessel. They were fair terms, for Jules Levoisin had given up the shining dream of millions and he had returned to reality.
    However, Christy Marine, who had previously been offering a princely sum for daily hire, had just as rapidly with drawn that offer.
    “We will accept Lloyd’s Open Form, including ferrying of survivors,” they declared on Channel 16.
    “Conditions on site have changed,” Jules Levoisin sent back, and the Trog got another good fix on him.
    “We are head-reaching on him handsomely,” he announced with satisfaction, blinking his pink eyes rapidly while Nick marked the new relative positions on the chart.
    The bridge of  Warlock  was once again crowded with every officer who had an excuse to be there. They were all in their working thick blue boiler suits and heavy sea boots, bulked up with jerseys and balaclava helmets, and they watched the plot with total fascination, arguing quietly among themselves.
    David Allen came in carrying a bundle of clothing. “I’ve working rig for you, sir. I borrowed it from the Chief Engineer. You are about the same size.”
    “Does the Chief know?” Nick asked.
    “Not exactly, I just borrowed it from his cabin.”
    “Well done, David,” Nick chuckled. “Please put it in my day cabin.” He felt himself warming more and more to the younger Captain.
    “Sir,” the Trog sang out suddenly. I’m getting another transmission. It’s only strength one, and it’s on 121.5 Mega Hertz.
    “Oh, shit!” David Allen paused in the entrance to the captain’s day cabin.” Oh, shit!” he repeated, and his expression was stricken. “It’s that bloody missing life-raft.”
    “Relative bearing!” snapped Nick angrily.
    “She bears 2800 relative and 045 magnetic,” the Trog answered instantly, and Nick felt his anger flare again. The life-raft was somewhere out on their port beam, eighty degrees off their direct course to the Golden Adventurer .
    The consternation on the bridge was carried in a babble of voices, that Nick silenced with a single black glance and they stared at the plot in dismayed hush. The position of each of the tugs was flagged with a coloured pin and there was another, a red flag, for the position of the Golden Adventurer . It was so close ahead of them now, and their lead over La Mouette so slender, that one of the younger officers could not remain silent.
    “If we go to the raft, we’ll be handing it to the bloody frog on a plate.”
    The words ended the restraint and they began to argue again, but in soft controlled tones. Nick Berg did not look up at them, but remained bowed over