Tug Mottram had ordered the ship battened down two days ago. All watertight doors were closed and clipped. Fan intakes were shut off. No one was permitted on the upper deck aft of the bridge. And now the Captain gazed out ahead, through snow which suddenly became sleet, slashing sideways across his already small horizon. The wipers on the big wheelhouse windows could cope. Just. But astern the situation was deteriorating, as the huge seas from the northwest were made more menacing by the violent cross-seas from the beam, and now seemed intent on hunting down and engulfing the 279-foot steel-hulled research ship from Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

‘Decrease speed to 12 knots,’ he said. ‘We don’t wanna run even one knot faster than the sea. Not with the rear-end design of this bastard.’

‘You ever broached, sir?’ asked the young navigation officer, Kit Berens, his dark, handsome features set in a deep frown.

‘Damn right. In a sea like this. Going just too fast.’

‘Christ. Did the wave break right over you?’

‘Sure did. Pooped her right out. About a billion tons of green water crashed over the stern, buried the rear gun deck and the flight deck, and then flooded down the starboard side. Swung us right around, with the rudders clear out of the water. Next wave hit us amidships. I thought we were gone.’

‘Jesus. What kind of a ship was it?’

‘US Navy destroyer. Spruance. Eight thousand tons. And yes, Kit, I was driving her. Matter of fact it makes me downright nervous even to think about it. Twelve years later.’

‘Was it down here in the Antarctic, sir? Like us?’

‘Uh-uh. We were in the Pacific. Far south. But not this far.’

‘How the hell did she survive it?’

‘Oh, those Navy warships are unbelievably stable. She heeled right over, plowed forward and came up again right way. Not like this baby. She’ll go straight to the bottom if we fuck it up.’

‘Jesus,’ said Kit Berens, gazing with awe at the giant wall of water which now seemed to tower permanently above Cuttyhunk’s highly vulnerable, low-slung aft section. ‘We’re just like a cork compared to a destroyer. What d’we do?’

‘We just keep running. A coupla knots slower than the sea. Stay in tight control of the rudders. Keep ’em under. Hold her course stern on to the bigger swells. Look for shelter in the lee of the islands.’

Outside the wind was gusting violently up to 70 knots as the deep low-pressure area, sweeping eastward around the Antarctic, continued to cause the day-long almost friendly northwester to back around, first to the west, and now, in the last five minutes, to the cold southwest.

The sea was at once huge and confused, the prevailing ocean swells from the northwest colliding with the rising storm conditions from the southwest. The area of these fiercely rough seas was relatively small given the vastness of the Southern Ocean, but that was little comfort to Tug Mottram and his men as they climbed 80-foot waves. Because Cuttyhunk was right in the middle of it, and she was taking a serious pounding.

The sleet changed back to snow, and within moments the gunwales on the starboard bow were gathering small white drifts. But they were only fleeting because the great sea kept hurling tons of frigid water onto the foredeck. In the split second it took for the ocean spray to fly against the for’ard bulkhead, it turned to ice, and Tug Mottram, peering through the window, could see the tiny bright particles ricochet off the portside winch. He guessed the still-air temperature on deck had dropped to about minus five degrees centigrade – with the wind-chill of a force-10 storm, the real temperature out there was probably 15 below zero.

Again, Cuttyhunk pitched slowly forward into the receding slope of a swell, and Tug could see Kit Berens in the doorway to the communications room, stating their precise position: ‘Right now, 48 South, 67 East . . . heading southeast . . . just about 100 miles northwest Kerguelen Island . . .’

He watched his 23-year-old navigator, sensed his uneasiness, and muttered to no one in particular, ‘This thing is built for a head sea. If we have a problem, it’s right back there over the stern . . .’ Then, louder and clearer now, ‘Watch those new swells coming in from the beam, Bob. I’d hate to have one of them slew us around.’

‘Aye, sir,’ replied Bob Lander, who was, like Tug himself, a former US Navy lieutenant commander. The main difference between them was that the Captain had been coaxed out of the Navy at the age of 38 to become the senior commanding officer at the great Oceanographic Institute in Woods Hole. Whereas Bob, 10 years older, had merely run out his time in dark blue, retiring as a lieutenant commander, and was now second-in-command of Cuttyhunk.

They were both big, powerful men, natives of Cape Cod, lifelong seamen, lifelong friends. Cuttyhunk, named after the most westerly of the Elizabeth Islands, was in safe hands, despite the terrifying claws of the gale which was currently howling out of the Antarctic.

‘Kinda breezy out there now,’ said Lander. ‘You want me to nip down and offer a few encouraging words to the boffins?’

‘Good call,’ said Mottram. ‘Tell ’em we’re fine. Cuttyhunk’s made for this weather. Don’t for Christ’s sake tell ’em we could roll over any minute if we don’t watch ourselves. This goddamned cross-sea is the worst I’ve seen in quite a while . . . there ain’t a good course we can heave-to on. Tell ’em I expect to be behind the islands before long . . .’

Down below, the scientists had ceased work. The slightly built, bespectacled Professor Henry Townsend and his team were sitting together in the spacious guest lounge, which had been deliberately constructed in the middle of the ship to minimize the rise-and-fall effect of a big sea. His senior oceanographer, Roger Deakins, was already feeling a bit queasy, which was hardly surprising for a man more accustomed to operating in a deep-diving research submarine.

But the sudden change in weather had taken them all by surprise. And now, Kate Goodwin, a tall, thoughtful, blonde scientist with a doctorate from the joint MIT/Woods Hole Oceanography Program, was belatedly dispensing seasick tablets for those in need.

‘I’ll take a half-pound of ’em,’ said Deakins.

‘You only need one,’ said Kate, laughing.

‘You don’t know how I feel,’ he replied.

‘No. Thank God . . .’ she said wryly. But their banter was interrupted by an icy blast through the aft door and the dramatic appearance of a snowman wearing Bob Lander’s cheerful face.

‘Nothing to worry about, guys,’ he said, shaking snow all over the carpet. ‘Just one of those sudden storms you get down here, but we should find shelter tonight. Best stay below right now, till the motion eases . . . and don’t worry about the banging and thumping you can hear up front – that’s just because we’re in a very uneven sea, waves hitting us from different directions. Just remember this thing’s an ice-breaker. She’ll bust her way through anything.’

‘Thanks, Bob,’ said Kate. ‘Want some coffee?’

‘Christ, that’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Black with sugar, if it’s no trouble. Can I take one up to the Captain, same way?’

‘Yessir,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I give you a pot of it? I’ll clip it down. Save you throwing it all over the deck.’

Bob Lander chatted to Professor Townsend for a few minutes while he waited, but his mind was not locked into the words of the acknowledged American expert on the unstable southern ozone layer. It was preoccupied with the thumps against the bow, the dull, shuddering thud of big waves, which have a kind of rhythm, even in a grim Antarctic storm such as this.

Right now there were too many of them. And a couple of times Bob sensed a more hollow clang, although the sound was muffled in this part of the ship. It was, however, the pattern, not the noise, which bothered him. He excused himself quickly, told Kate he’d be right back, and stepped out once more into the gale, making his way up the companionway toward the bridge.

Out here he could really hear the shriek of the storm: the wind slicing through the upperworks, moaning across the great expanse of the water, then rising to a ghastly higher pitch with each thunderous gust. The sound of Cuttyhunk lurching forward into the waves held an eerie beat of its own, the big thump of the bow, followed by the slash of the spray across the ship: all of it broken only by the staccato clatter-clatter-clatter of a steel hawser from a topping lift whacking against the after mast. Bob Lander could see also ice forming along the tops of the rails and on the winch covers. If this had been winter it would soon have required men with axes to hack it off, before it became too heavy for the plunging foredeck. But at this time of year the temperature would rise when the storm passed.

‘I guess you’d have to describe this as one heck of a summer day,’ muttered Bob as he shoved his way through the bridge door, listening again for the offending noise he had observed below.

Inside, it was less obvious, because of the height above the deck. Nonetheless Tug Mottram had also heard something. He turned to face Bob Lander, and words were not required. He spoke in the terse language of the US Navy. ‘Go and check that out will you, Bob? It’s for’ard, I think. And for Christ’s sake be careful. Take a coupla guys with you.’

Bob Lander made his way down to the rolling deck and rounded up a couple of seamen from the crew dormitory. All three of them changed into wet-suits and then pulled on special combination fur-lined Arctic oilskins, seaboots and safety harnesses. They clipped onto the steel safety lines and fought their way out, across the foredeck, where the now-louder noise was obvious. Every time the ship rode up, there was a mighty thump against the bow.

‘FUCK IT!’ roared Bob Lander above the wind. ‘It’s that FUCKING anchor again. Worked loose just like it did in that sea off Cape Town.’ And now he yelled across to Billy Wrightson and Brad Arnold, ‘WE’LL TIGHTEN UP ON THAT BOTTLE-SCREW STOPPER AGAIN. THEN LET’S GET DOWN INTO THE PAINT SHOP AND CHECK FOR DAMAGE.’

Just then a huge wave broke almost lazily over the bow. All three of the men were waist-deep in the freezing water, saved from going over the side only by the harnesses which held them to the safety lines. For the next five minutes they heaved and tugged at the crowbar tightening the stopper. Then they struggled back to the bulkhead door, and bumped and lurched their way to the paint shop, Bob Lander secredy dreading what damage had been done by the swinging half-ton anchor crashing against the hull.

He needed only to open the door to the forepeak area. Tons of seawater surged out from the shop, knocking all three men flying as it rushed through the lower deck. Lander, back on his feet, ordered Wrightson back to the engineer’s office to tell him to activate the pumps. Then he moved forward into the paint shop.

The gaping hole on the starboard side, two feet above the deck, told him all he needed to know. The huge anchor had worked its way loose and had bashed a jagged rip into the steel-plating of the hull. Worse yet, the seam between two plates had given way. God knows how far down that rip might travel in a sea like this.

Bob Lander knew two things had to be done. Fast. The hole had to be temporarily patched, and Cuttyhunk now had no choice but to run for cover, out of this dangerous weather to the nearest safe anchorage, and make a proper repair.

Meanwhile he told Brad Arnold to get together a group of six men, including the engineer, to go for’ard and shore up the bow inside the paint room, and shut it off securely. ‘The anchor’s secure for the moment, so get to it, Brad. I don’t want that split to get one inch bigger, and I want the water confined to the one compartment. When you’ve done, set a watch-keeper at the bulkhead door.’

Bob Lander returned to the bridge and told Tug Mottram what he had already guessed. ‘Bottle screw again, Bob?’

‘Yessir. We have the anchor back tight on the screw and properly wired down. But we have to find some good shelter. There’s a lot of water getting into the paint shop. You can see daylight through a big crack in the hull . . . Brad’s shoring up around the hole, but we need to weld it, real soon, otherwise I’m afraid it’ll run right down the seam. We can’t do that kinda job out here.’

‘Okay . . . KIT! How far to Kerguelen?’

‘Just about 80 miles, sir. At this speed we ought to be in there sometime around 0400.’

‘Okay, check the course.’

‘Present course is okay . . . we’ll come in past Rendezvous Rock, 12 miles north, then we can run down the leeward side into Choiseul Bay and hopefully get out of this goddamned weather.’

‘This ain’t gonna get any better for a day or two. I guess we’ll have to cope with a beam sea, Kit, but if we stay to the east side of the Ridge, it should be a bit calmer. I don’t suppose the boffins will be too happy altering course away from their precious research area.’

‘Guess not, sir. But they’d probably be a lot less happy if the bow split and we went to the bottom.’

‘This is not a life-threatening situation, Kit,’ said Bob Lander quietly. ‘Just a darn nuisance which we don’t want to get any worse . . . Sir, I’ll go below and check the patch-up operation in the paint shop.’

At 1957 Tug Mottram ordered a short satellite communication to the command center at Woods Hole: ‘Position 48.25S, 67.25E. Intended movement 117 – 12 knots. Going inshore. Proceeding to inspect and repair minor bow damage caused by heavy weather.’

At 1958 he adjusted course for the northwestern headland of the island of Kerguelen, which sits, essentially, at the end of the earth, virtually uninhabited, its snow- and icebound terrain untrampled by the feet of man, save for a few Frenchmen at their weather station at Port-aux-Français way down in the southeast. No ships pass by this godforsaken rocky wasteland for months on end. No commercial airlines fly overhead. No known military power has even the remotest interest in checking the place out.

So far as anyone knows, no marauding submarine has passed this way in more than half a century. Not even the all-seeing American satellites bother to cast an eye upon this craggy wilderness, which measures 80 miles long from west to east, and 55 miles north–south. Save for the huge rookeries of king penguins, and an unreasonable plague of rabbits, Kerguelen might as well be on the moon. It is a huddle of frozen rocks rising out of the Southern Ocean, perhaps the loneliest place on this planet. It stands stark on the 69-degree easterly line of longitude, latitude 49.30S. Gale-swept almost nonstop for all 12 months of the year, Kerguelen is geographical proof that the Roaring Forties are really the Roaring Fifties.

It is, in fact, an archipelago of much smaller islands inset into a great uneven L-shaped mainland, and represents only the tip of a vast underwater range of mountains which stretches for 1,900 miles roughly due southeast from latitude 47.00S right down to the eastern end of the Shackleton Ice Shelf. To the west of this colossal ridge, the ocean is more than three miles deep. On the other side it falls away to more than four miles beneath the keel.

The whole concept of the place made Tug Mottram shudder. But he knew his job, and he knew also the importance the Woods Hole scientists with whom he traveled placed upon that unseen range of subsurface mountains – known formally as the Kerguelen–Gaussberg Ridge.

For, above those craggy underwater peaks, swim literally vast clouds of tiny shrimp-like creatures known as krill, a critical ingredient of the Antarctic food chain – so critical the entire ecosystem would collapse without them. For the krill are devoured by a large network of deep-sea creatures – fish, squid, seals and several species of whale, including the humpback. In turn the killer whale eats other whales and seals. Penguins feed on the small fish and squid which eat the krill. Flying birds also eat the krill, the fish and the squid.

And the Woods Hole scientific teams had discerned for several years a sharp reduction in the krill population. Professor Townsend had made himself world famous by announcing that as a result of a long research program he now believed that the krill were being wiped out by the ultraviolet rays streaming through the hole in the ozone layer which appears over the Antarctic in the September of the year. Furthermore, his studies suggested that the problem was worsening, and he now believed the ozone hole was growing steadily larger, much like the one in Cuttyhunk’s paint shop.

His pronouncement had lent a new urgency to this expedition. He planned to take samples of the krill off the Ridge for about six days, and then proceed on down to the US Antarctic Research Station on McMurdo Sound for another month. The questions were, are the phytoplankton, on which the krill feed, being harmed by the radiation, and is this in turn endangering entire species of sea creatures? Another sharp increase would signify to Professor Townsend that the ozone hole was increasing. The New York Times had run an entire section on this latest threat, and now the eyes of the world’s environmental agencies were fixed firmly upon the Cuttyhunk scientists.

Tug Mottram’s eyes were fixed on the raging sea now rolling in across his starboard beam, white foam being whipped off the wavetops by the gale, making grotesque lacy patterns in the troughs.

The anchor was secure enough right now, but the men in the forepeak were having a hell of a time trying to stop the sea coming in. They had two big mattresses jammed over the hole, and held in place by heavy timbers cut especially to length for such an emergency. Three young crewmen, almost waist-deep in the freezing water, were trying to wedge the beams into place with sledgehammers, but it was so cold they could manage only three minutes at a time. And when the ship pitched forward the water rose right over them. It would have taken 10 minutes in calm waters, but it ended up more than an hour before the ship was more or less watertight. Another 10 minutes to pump the water out. Two hours to thaw out the shivering seamen.

At midnight they changed the watch. Bob Lander came on the bridge, and the Captain, who had ridden out the worst of the storm, headed exhausted to his bunk. At 48 years old Tug was beginning to feel not quite so indestructible as he had been at 25. And he missed his stunningly pretty second wife Jane, who awaited him now in the Cape Cod seaport of Truro. In the small hours of an Antarctic morning he found it difficult to sleep, and often spent much time reflecting, guiltily, on his divorce from Annie, and the terrible, cruel half-truths he had stated in order to break free and marry a much younger woman. But when he thought of Jane he usually persuaded himself that it had, on reflection, probably been worth it.

Outside, the weather was brightening a little now, and although the wind still howled at around 50 knots, the snow had stopped falling, and there were occasional breaks in the cloud. The worst of the cold front was through.

On the bridge, Bob Lander sometimes caught a glimpse of the sun, a fireball on the horizon as Cuttyhunk shouldered her way forward, making 17 knots now on her southeasterly course one-three-five. Soon they would be in sight of the great rock of Ilot Rendezvous, which rises 230 feet out of the sea, a rounded granite centurion guarding the northwestern seaway to Kerguelen. It is sometimes known as Bligh’s Cap, so named by Captain Cook in 1776 in honor of his sailing master in Resolution on his fourth and final voyage – William Bligh, later of the Bounty. But maritime law decrees the French somehow named it first, and the official charts reflect this.

Bob Lander spotted it first shortly before 0300, almost a half-mile off his patched-up starboard bow. He called through to Kit Berens, who had returned to the navigation office at 0200. ‘Aye, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have a good radar picture. Stay on one-three-five and look for the point of Cap D’Estaing dead ahead 40 minutes from now. There’s deep water right in close, we can get round a half-mile off the headland. No sweat.’

‘Thanks, Kit. How ’bout some coffee?’

‘Okay, sir. Lemme just finish plotting us into Choiseul. I’ll be right there. But the chart is showing there’s a few kelp-beds in the bay and I think we ought to give ’em a damned wide berth. I hate that stuff.’

‘So do I, Kit. You better keep at it for a bit. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just stand here and die of thirst.’

Kit Berens chuckled. He was loving his first great ocean voyage, and was deeply grateful to Tug Mottram for giving him a chance. Tug reminded him of his own father. They were both around 6 ft 3 ins tall, both easy-going men with a lot of dark curly hair and deeply tanned outdoor faces. Tug’s had been forged out on the world’s oceans, Kit’s dad’s was the result of a lifetime in south Texas oil fields working as a driller. In Kit’s opinion they were both guys you could really count on, just so long as they thought they could count on you. He liked that.

The young navigator pressed his dividers onto the chart against a steel ruler. ‘There’s a damn great flat-topped mountain on the headland,’ he called to Bob. ‘It’s marked right here as the Bird Table. It’s probably the first thing we’ll see. We’ll change course a few degrees southerly right there. That way we’ll see straight up into Christmas Harbor. But I don’t think it’ll give us enough shelter from the wind. We’ll have to run on a bit further.’

‘What the hell’s Christmas Harbor? I thought the whole place was French. Why isn’t it called Baie Noel or something?’

‘My notes say it was named by Captain Cook because he pulled in there on Christmas Day 1776. The French named it Baie de l’Oiseau around that same time. Shouldn’t be surprised if no one’s been there since. I’m telling you, this place is des-o-late.’

At 0337 Bob Lander steered Cuttyhunk around Cap D’Estaing. They were in daylight now, but the wind was still hooting out of the Antarctic and it swept around the great northwestern headland of Kerguelen. Fifteen minutes later Kit Berens was gazing up at the turmoil of white-capped ocean swirling through Christmas Harbor.

‘Forget that,’ he said. ‘I’d say the wind was blowing right around D’Estaing but somehow it’s also sweeping round that damn great mountain and into the harbor from the other direction. It’s like a wind tunnel in there. The katabatics are gonna give us a problem. We’re gonna have to run right up into one of the fjords.’

‘Fjords?’ said Bob. ‘I thought they were more or less a northern thing.’

‘According to this chart, Kerguelen’s got more fjords than Norway,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve been studying it for hours now. The whole place must have been a succession of glaciers once. The fjords here cut so deep back into the land I can’t find one spot on the whole island more than about 11 miles from salt water. I bet if you measured every inch of the coastline it’d be about as long as Africa’s!’

Lander laughed. He liked the adventurous young Texan. And he liked the way he always knew a lot about where they were. Not just the position, course, speed and distances. But it was typical of Kit to know that Captain James Cook and William Bligh had sailed through these waters a couple of hundred years ago.

Right then Tug Mottram returned to the bridge, bang on time as he always was. ‘Morning, men,’ he said. ‘Is this goddamned wind ever gonna ease up?’

‘Not yet, anyways,’ said Lander. ‘The cold front is still right here. I guess we should just be thankful the darned blizzard’s gone through. Wind’s still sou’westerly, and it’s freezing out there.’

‘Kit, you picked a spot for us?’ asked the Captain.

The Texan stared at his chart. Without looking up, he said slowly, ‘Kind of. About another eight miles southwest there’s a deep inlet called Baie Blanche – a fjord really, 10 miles long. A mile wide and deep, up to 400 feet. At the end it forks left into Baie des Français, which I think will be sheltered. But it also turns right into another fjord, Baie du Repos. This one’s about eight miles long, narrow but very deep. The mountain range on the western side should give some shelter. The swells shouldn’t come in too bad, not that far up, and I don’t see any kelp marked. I’m recommending we get in there.’

‘Sounds good to me. Oh, Bob, on your way to your bunk, tell the engineers to be ready to start work on the hull at around 0800, will you?’

‘Okay, sir. I’m just gonna catch an hour’s sleep. Then I’ll be right back for a bit of sightseeing.’

Kit Berens finally looked up and informed the Captain he was about to put a message on the satellite stating their position and describing the minor repairs, which would delay them for less than a day.

In the communications room, positioned on the port side of the wide bridge, the former Boston television repair man Dick Elkins was talking to a weather station when Kit Berens dropped his message on the desk: ‘Intercontinental – direct to Woods Hole.’

And now, at last, they were getting a lee. The water was flatter, and Cuttyhunk steadied, sheltered now by the rising foothills on the starboard side as they ran down to Baie Blanche.

Kit Berens was back hunched over his charts, his steel ruler sweeping across the white, blue and yellow sheets. Finally he spoke. ‘Sir, I wanna give you three facts . . .’

‘Shoot,’ said the Captain.

‘Right. If you left this island and headed due north, you would not hit land for 8,500 miles and it would be the south coast of Pakistan. If you went due west you’d go another 8,500 miles to the southern coastline of Argentina. And if you went east, you’d go 6,000 miles, passing to the south of New Zealand and then 6,500 more to the coast of Chile. My assessment is therefore that right now we’re at the ass-end of the goddamned earth.’

Tug Mottram laughed loudly. ‘How about south?’

‘That, sir, is a total fucking nightmare – 500 miles into the West Ice Shelf which guards the Astrid Coast. That’s the true Antarctic coastline. Colder and more windswept even than here. But they do have something else in common, Kerguelen and the Antarctic.’

‘They do? What’s that?’

‘No human being has ever been born in either place.’

‘Jesus.’

At 0600 they swung into the first wide fjord, Baie Blanche, and immediately became almost unaware of the wind; the water was calm and seemed tideless. There were 400 feet below the keel. Tug Mottram cut the speed right back, because in these very cold, deep Antarctic bays, you could blunder into the most dangerous kind of small iceberg – the ones formed of transparent meltwater ice which float heavily below the surface, absorbing the somber, morose shades of the surrounding seas. To the eye they thus look bluish-black in color, and, unlike white glacier ice, are almost impossible to see.

After four miles, Bob Lander took the wheel while the skipper went outside into the freezing but clear air, and gazed up at the rugged sides of the waterway. Up ahead he could see the lowish headland of Pointe Bras where the fjord split. Beyond that, rising to a height of 1,000 feet, was the snow-covered peak of Mount Richards. Through his binoculars Tug could see gales of snow being whipped from the heights by the still blasting wind.

This lee would be fine for a while, but should a gale swing suddenly out of the north it would blast straight down Baie Blanche. That was why Kit Berens had advised running right down into the deeply sheltered Baie du Repos before they brought out the welding kit.