The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos Page A

berg; Dawe considered this the minimum distance for safe towing.

    “I’ll let you take over from here,” Austin said.

    He knew that this was no place for an amateur. Towed bergs have been known to turn over, and there was always the danger of the towline being tangled in the propellers.

    Under the captain’s direction, the ship increased power. The towline went taut. The water behind the boat boiled in a white, foamy patch. The berg reluctantly overcame the inertia holding it in place. The huge ice mountain became unstuck from the sea, and they began to make slow headway. It might take hours to reach a speed of a single knot.

    With the iceberg under tow, Austin excused himself and came back from his cabin a few minutes later. He presented a cardboard box to the captain. Dawe opened the box and his mouth widened in a grin. He lifted a broad-brimmed Stetson from the box and placed the cowboy hat on his head.

    “A little large, but I can stuff newspaper inside to make it fit. Thanks, guys.”

    “Consider it a small token of appreciation for having us on board,” Austin said.

    Zavala was staring at the iceberg, which dwarfed the ship. “What are we going to do with that thing?”

    “We’ll tow it to a current that will take it away from the oil rig. It could take a few days.”

    “Captain—”
The radarman called Dawe over to the radar monitor. “I’ve been tracking a target. Looks like it’s heading toward the Great Northern.”

    The radar man had drawn three Xs with a grease pencil on a transparent plastic overlay and connected them to show the object’s course and time. The captain took a straightedge and lined it up with the markings.

    “This isn’t good,” he murmured. “We’ve got a ship on a straight-line course for the oil rig. Moving fast, too.”

    He radioed the Great Northern platform. The oil rig’s radar operator had spotted the oncoming ship and had tried to contact it. No one answered. He was about to call the
Leif Eriksson
when Dawe hailed him.

    “We’re getting a little worried,” the radarman said. “She’s headed right down our throat.”

    “That’s what it looks like,” Dawe said. “I figure she’s about ten miles out.”

    “Too damn close.”

    “We’ll dump the berg we’re towing and try to make an intercept. How long will it take to move the rig off the wellhead?”

    “We’ve already started, but that ship could get here first if it stays at its present speed.”

    “Keep trying to make radio contact. We’ll wave her off.” He turned to Austin and Zavala.

    “Sorry, guys, but we’ll have to cut your berg loose.”

    Austin had been listening to the radio exchange. He pulled on his foul weather top and clamped the cap down on his head. Zavala followed suit.

    The release procedure was the reverse of the lassoing. The deck team detached the buoyed end of the rope to let it float free. Dawe maneuvered the ship back around the iceberg, and the crew reeled in the thousands of feet of line. When the last foot of line was on deck and pulled safely away from the propellers, the captain gave the order to move out at full speed.

    Zavala stayed on deck wrapping up and Austin returned to the bridge. The microphone was clutched in the captain’s hand. “Still no luck?” Austin said.

    Dawe shook his head. He looked worried, and he had clearly lost his patience. “We should be alongside those idiots before long.”

    The captain went over to the radar screen. Another X had been drawn and connected to the previous course line. A second, intercepting course line had been drawn for the
Eriksson
.

    “What are the chances the rig could sustain a direct hit?” Austin said.

    “Not good. Great Northern is a semisubmersible rig. The legs offer some protection but nothing like the Hibernia platform, which is anchored in the bottom and protected by a thick concrete barrier.”

    Austin was familiar with drilling platforms from his North Sea days. He knew that a