the intercom at his lips.
With little more than two hundred yards to go the fishermen ahead suddenly seemed to realize what was happening. The hail of missiles between the two boats died and faces stared open-mouthed at the Fishery cruiser’s apparent head-on rush.
‘Ease to starboard … back … that’s it,’ encouraged Shannon, eyes glued ahead. ‘Now damp them down, mister!’
‘Sprays on,’ ordered Carrick.
Detergent jetting from her angled booms, Marlin cut through between the two fishing boats with the gap on either side so narrow it seemed a man could havejumped across. As the detergent swept its path the fishermen scattered for cover, throwing up their hands to protect themselves, slipping and falling, shouting curses while Marlin rocketed through. Then her churning wake hit the smaller craft like a hammer-blow, throwing them around like corks in a bathtub and leaving their shattered crews clinging to any support they could find.
‘Reduce speed to half ahead,’ ordered Shannon happily. He slapped the helmsman on the back as the telegraph rang. ‘Nicely done, laddie. Bring her round.’
Engine revolutions falling, Marlin began a wide circle in answer to her helm. Both boats were wallowing in the continuing swell, all signs of fight gone from the figures still staggering on their detergentsoaked decks.
‘Secure hose-booms, sir?’ asked Carrick, feeling fairly shattered himself. One slip of judgement on Shannon’s part and the result could have been disaster.
‘Secure booms,’ confirmed Shannon, grinning. ‘Mister, I want both skippers brought aboard as soon as we’re alongside.’ The grin faded. ‘Then we’ll sort this little lot out, believe me.’
Chapter Five
Five minutes and a few loud-hailer exchanges later the two feuding boats were tied up one on either side of Marlin , fenders rubbing against the Fishery cruiser’s sides as they rolled with the swell. Beefy and red-faced, the skipper of the Mallaig drifter was first to climb aboard. He reached the fo’c’sle deck and stood belligerently, still drenched from head to foot in detergent spray. Then, as Dave Rother clambered over the starboard side and crossed the deck, the Mallaig man gave a deep-throated growl and seemed ready to start things all over again.
‘Cool it,’ said Carrick wearily, planting himself firmly between the two antagonists. ‘You’re in enough trouble and the Old Man’s on his way.’
Rother shrugged, unimpressed. But the drifter skipper subsided a little, muttering to himself. Glancing past them, Carrick wryly noted the support both men had waiting on the sidelines. Rother’s two sister shark-boats were hovering about two cable lengths astern. Over on the port side other company was arriving in the shape of a cluster of assorted seine-netters and line-boats, keeping their distance but hungry to know what was going on.
‘Base radioed me one of your men is dead,’ said Rother suddenly. He grimaced. ‘Hell, you don’t really think it could have been young Benson, do you?’
‘We’ll maybe know when we find him,’ said Carrick grimly, then eased back a fraction as Captain Shannon stumped along the deck towards them.
‘You,’ said Shannon curtly, pointing to the Mallaig man and ignoring Rother. ‘Who are you and what started this piece of idiocy?’
‘Name of Craig, skipper of the drifter Moonchild ,’ snarled the Mallaig man. ‘Captain, let’s see Fishery Protection earn its keep. This bloody maniac tried to ram us.’
‘Ask him why,’ suggested Rother coldly.
Shannon glanced at him briefly, then swung back to Skipper Craig. ‘Well?’
Craig licked his lips a fraction and looked uncomfortable. ‘Ach, one of his damned shark-markers got tangled in our nets. We were cutting it loose that’s all.’
‘Was it?’ demanded Shannon.
‘There happened to be thirty feet of dead shark on the end of the thing,’ answered Rother dryly, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his
With little more than two hundred yards to go the fishermen ahead suddenly seemed to realize what was happening. The hail of missiles between the two boats died and faces stared open-mouthed at the Fishery cruiser’s apparent head-on rush.
‘Ease to starboard … back … that’s it,’ encouraged Shannon, eyes glued ahead. ‘Now damp them down, mister!’
‘Sprays on,’ ordered Carrick.
Detergent jetting from her angled booms, Marlin cut through between the two fishing boats with the gap on either side so narrow it seemed a man could havejumped across. As the detergent swept its path the fishermen scattered for cover, throwing up their hands to protect themselves, slipping and falling, shouting curses while Marlin rocketed through. Then her churning wake hit the smaller craft like a hammer-blow, throwing them around like corks in a bathtub and leaving their shattered crews clinging to any support they could find.
‘Reduce speed to half ahead,’ ordered Shannon happily. He slapped the helmsman on the back as the telegraph rang. ‘Nicely done, laddie. Bring her round.’
Engine revolutions falling, Marlin began a wide circle in answer to her helm. Both boats were wallowing in the continuing swell, all signs of fight gone from the figures still staggering on their detergentsoaked decks.
‘Secure hose-booms, sir?’ asked Carrick, feeling fairly shattered himself. One slip of judgement on Shannon’s part and the result could have been disaster.
‘Secure booms,’ confirmed Shannon, grinning. ‘Mister, I want both skippers brought aboard as soon as we’re alongside.’ The grin faded. ‘Then we’ll sort this little lot out, believe me.’
Chapter Five
Five minutes and a few loud-hailer exchanges later the two feuding boats were tied up one on either side of Marlin , fenders rubbing against the Fishery cruiser’s sides as they rolled with the swell. Beefy and red-faced, the skipper of the Mallaig drifter was first to climb aboard. He reached the fo’c’sle deck and stood belligerently, still drenched from head to foot in detergent spray. Then, as Dave Rother clambered over the starboard side and crossed the deck, the Mallaig man gave a deep-throated growl and seemed ready to start things all over again.
‘Cool it,’ said Carrick wearily, planting himself firmly between the two antagonists. ‘You’re in enough trouble and the Old Man’s on his way.’
Rother shrugged, unimpressed. But the drifter skipper subsided a little, muttering to himself. Glancing past them, Carrick wryly noted the support both men had waiting on the sidelines. Rother’s two sister shark-boats were hovering about two cable lengths astern. Over on the port side other company was arriving in the shape of a cluster of assorted seine-netters and line-boats, keeping their distance but hungry to know what was going on.
‘Base radioed me one of your men is dead,’ said Rother suddenly. He grimaced. ‘Hell, you don’t really think it could have been young Benson, do you?’
‘We’ll maybe know when we find him,’ said Carrick grimly, then eased back a fraction as Captain Shannon stumped along the deck towards them.
‘You,’ said Shannon curtly, pointing to the Mallaig man and ignoring Rother. ‘Who are you and what started this piece of idiocy?’
‘Name of Craig, skipper of the drifter Moonchild ,’ snarled the Mallaig man. ‘Captain, let’s see Fishery Protection earn its keep. This bloody maniac tried to ram us.’
‘Ask him why,’ suggested Rother coldly.
Shannon glanced at him briefly, then swung back to Skipper Craig. ‘Well?’
Craig licked his lips a fraction and looked uncomfortable. ‘Ach, one of his damned shark-markers got tangled in our nets. We were cutting it loose that’s all.’
‘Was it?’ demanded Shannon.
‘There happened to be thirty feet of dead shark on the end of the thing,’ answered Rother dryly, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his
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