grip. Occasionally a wave which wouldn’t be smothered by its presence broke through, throwing congealed lumps of semi-solid into the air.
Breaking it up took about an hour and a half. First they came in close and used a sampling can on a line. That was for later, when Department chemists would analyse the sample and try to trace its origin. If the ship concerned could be traced the owners were liable to find themselves on the heavy end of considerable penalties.
Then it was the turn of the hose-booms. Keeping the slick to leeward, Marlin swept systematically up and down its length with the detergent sprays operating. Gradually the slick lost its form and shape and began to lump, disintegrate, and gradually sink.
At last Shannon was satisfied. The hose-booms secured, Marlin ’s siren blew a farewell blast as they swung away from the lighthouse, and Carrick had a dog-leg course ready which would take them back to Portcoig.
Pettigrew changed that within minutes when he brought along another message from the radio room. One glance at it and Shannon stiffened in his command chair.
‘Starboard helm, bring her round to 035 degrees,’ he ordered sharply. ‘Full power.’
As the helmsman brought the Fishery cruiser curving on her new course and the engine-room telegraphclanged, Shannon crumpled the radio message into a tight ball and turned to Carrick.
‘Rother again, mister. There’s a Mallaig skipper on the air howling that the Seapearl is trying to sink him. Then some jabber about nets and sharks.’ He threw the crumpled paper across the bridge and scowled. ‘God knows what’s going on, but we’ll get there and knock their heads together.’
The sky had cleared and the sun was breaking through, highlighting the scene, when they saw the two boats almost dead ahead. Using the bridge glasses, Carrick whistled softly between his teeth.
Seapearl and a big, yellow-hulled drifter were stationary in the water, rolling in the swell with less than a stone’s-throw distance between them. Figures were running about on both boats – and the shark-catcher’s harpoon gun was pointed squarely at the drifter’s wheelhouse!
Behind him, Shannon had seen it too. The little hunched figure in the command chair swore crudely.
‘Let them know we’re here, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Then muster a boarding party. We’re going to need it.’
White wake foaming astern, Marlin raced on while her siren boomed a warning. The reaction on the two boats was identical: a momentary pause while the figures on deck turned to stare, then renewed activity. As the distance closed Carrick could see a steady rain of missiles going in both directions, from chunks of wood to tin cans. The harpoon gun on the sharkcatcher stayed trained as before, with Yogi Dunlop’s bulky shape crouching for shelter behind its mounting.
‘Boats approaching to port, sir,’ reported one of the lookouts.
Shannon checked and grunted. Rother’s two sister shark-catchers were plugging in the direction of the mêlée, still about a mile distant but coming on as fast as they could. He looked at the scene ahead then suddenly chuckled into his beard.
‘Get those hose-booms out again, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Keep them at a forty-five-degree lift. Helmsman, fancy playing thread the needle?’
The helmsman blinked then grinned his understanding and nursed the wheel round a fraction.
‘Maintain speed, sir?’ queried Carrick in a deadpan voice, reaching for the intercom phone.
‘Maintain speed,’ confirmed Shannon. ‘Stand by detergent sprays. Tell them to jump to it, mister.’
The hose-booms were angled out and ready when the distance was down to less than a cable’s length. Marlin ’s siren boomed again, but the battle ahead showed no sign of slacking.
‘In we go then,’ said Shannon softly, sliding down from his chair and balancing beside the helmsman. ‘Watch our paintwork, laddie. Mr Carrick, sprays ready?’
‘Standing by,’ confirmed Carrick,
Breaking it up took about an hour and a half. First they came in close and used a sampling can on a line. That was for later, when Department chemists would analyse the sample and try to trace its origin. If the ship concerned could be traced the owners were liable to find themselves on the heavy end of considerable penalties.
Then it was the turn of the hose-booms. Keeping the slick to leeward, Marlin swept systematically up and down its length with the detergent sprays operating. Gradually the slick lost its form and shape and began to lump, disintegrate, and gradually sink.
At last Shannon was satisfied. The hose-booms secured, Marlin ’s siren blew a farewell blast as they swung away from the lighthouse, and Carrick had a dog-leg course ready which would take them back to Portcoig.
Pettigrew changed that within minutes when he brought along another message from the radio room. One glance at it and Shannon stiffened in his command chair.
‘Starboard helm, bring her round to 035 degrees,’ he ordered sharply. ‘Full power.’
As the helmsman brought the Fishery cruiser curving on her new course and the engine-room telegraphclanged, Shannon crumpled the radio message into a tight ball and turned to Carrick.
‘Rother again, mister. There’s a Mallaig skipper on the air howling that the Seapearl is trying to sink him. Then some jabber about nets and sharks.’ He threw the crumpled paper across the bridge and scowled. ‘God knows what’s going on, but we’ll get there and knock their heads together.’
The sky had cleared and the sun was breaking through, highlighting the scene, when they saw the two boats almost dead ahead. Using the bridge glasses, Carrick whistled softly between his teeth.
Seapearl and a big, yellow-hulled drifter were stationary in the water, rolling in the swell with less than a stone’s-throw distance between them. Figures were running about on both boats – and the shark-catcher’s harpoon gun was pointed squarely at the drifter’s wheelhouse!
Behind him, Shannon had seen it too. The little hunched figure in the command chair swore crudely.
‘Let them know we’re here, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Then muster a boarding party. We’re going to need it.’
White wake foaming astern, Marlin raced on while her siren boomed a warning. The reaction on the two boats was identical: a momentary pause while the figures on deck turned to stare, then renewed activity. As the distance closed Carrick could see a steady rain of missiles going in both directions, from chunks of wood to tin cans. The harpoon gun on the sharkcatcher stayed trained as before, with Yogi Dunlop’s bulky shape crouching for shelter behind its mounting.
‘Boats approaching to port, sir,’ reported one of the lookouts.
Shannon checked and grunted. Rother’s two sister shark-catchers were plugging in the direction of the mêlée, still about a mile distant but coming on as fast as they could. He looked at the scene ahead then suddenly chuckled into his beard.
‘Get those hose-booms out again, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Keep them at a forty-five-degree lift. Helmsman, fancy playing thread the needle?’
The helmsman blinked then grinned his understanding and nursed the wheel round a fraction.
‘Maintain speed, sir?’ queried Carrick in a deadpan voice, reaching for the intercom phone.
‘Maintain speed,’ confirmed Shannon. ‘Stand by detergent sprays. Tell them to jump to it, mister.’
The hose-booms were angled out and ready when the distance was down to less than a cable’s length. Marlin ’s siren boomed again, but the battle ahead showed no sign of slacking.
‘In we go then,’ said Shannon softly, sliding down from his chair and balancing beside the helmsman. ‘Watch our paintwork, laddie. Mr Carrick, sprays ready?’
‘Standing by,’ confirmed Carrick,
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