The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  ‘And what does Faisel say?’ Choukri said.

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ Snoop said, crossing his eyes.

  ‘He’ll need his anorak.’ Assam grinned, poking his tongue out and shaking it about.

  Choukri looked up to the bridge where Mubarak was leaning on the wing rails, gazing down sceptically.

  ‘Don’t get arrested,’ Choukri said, wagging his bandaged finger at them before turning to the gangway and calling out. ‘No, don’t get him arrested.’

  He made his way up to Mubarak. They exchanged knowing looks as a couple of others joined Snoop and Assam on the quay. There were footsteps on the stairs below and Faisel appeared on the gangway.

  ‘So,’ Mubarak said. ‘Fujairah on Wednesday morning, six o’clock on the berth. Is he still a virgin?’

  ‘Probably. Four rotations, seven-eight days each, thirty in total,’ Choukri said, his head rocking as he made the rough calculation.

  Mubarak turned, eyeing the quay sceptically. ‘I hope his anorak is waterproof … What’s an onion?’

  Twenty

  Bulent heard shouting through the open door to his office. He could see the far side of the open-plan main room but not the reception. The words were confused, different voices, all of them competing with the mobile phone at his ear and the dirty joke a broker was telling him. ‘Call you back,’ he snapped, tossing the phone on the desk.

  He took it in at a glance. The uniforms were black, paramilitary, fatigue trousers tucked in boots. Belts were festooned with guns, radios and various items jangling on chains. There were more than a dozen men. All of them were carrying riot sticks. His eyes flashed around the room, seeing three distinct sets of insignia. He recognised the Sharjah police badges but not the others.

  Uniforms moved from room to room. One guarded the entrance. OceanBird’s staff were at their desks, sitting back and touching nothing, their arms folded across their chests as men reached across them to switch phones off and shut down computers. The bookkeeper screamed when a baton crashed down on her desk and a man barked, ‘Sit still.’

  ‘What the f—’ Bulent started to say as a piece of paper was thrust at him. He glanced down. The national crest was familiar. The signatures, each obscured with official stamps, were not. The word ‘warrant’ was clear enough.

  ‘Quiet,’ a man shouted, before reading from a laminated card. ‘When you are told to, you will place all mobile phones, tablets, laptops or other devices on your desk, either owned by you or by the company. And then when you are told, you will file out to the corridor where you will wait for further instructions. You may not speak to each other.’

  Bulent drew breath and started up again, waving his arms about. A tall man turned, his polo shirt filled mainly with muscle. A large gold tooth flashed in his mouth. Bulent didn’t see him raise his hand but he plainly felt the jab of strong fingers in his chest. He sensed gold-tooth was in charge. The uniformed men frequently looked in his direction, seeking a nod or the signal from a finger. But, across the room was another standout character, observing with an air of detachment.

  He was dressed in a traditional robe, his head covered with a keffiyeh, his eyes concealed behind dark glasses. Standing no more than five feet six in his sandals, he was in his early thirties. Bulent recognised the Gucci logo on the frame of his sunglasses, and that the length of his robe indicated a family of prestige, no doubt with connections to the royal household.

  The sunglasses dipped towards an open door. ‘Your office?’

  Bulent nodded. He turned to the uniform at his side and, receiving a gesture to proceed, followed the robes swishing across the floor, the sandals squeaking.

  The robes folded themselves comfortably into Bulent’s chair and a hand gestured to the guest seats at the front of the desk.

  ‘Your company, Mr Erkan, is being investigated for tax irregularities.’

  ‘We’re clean,’ Bulent said, incredulous. ‘Always on time and—’

  A pair of small hands rose soothingly. ‘I’m sure that is the case so there will be nothing to worry about.’ The dark glasses cast around the office and a finger flicked the chromium click-clack balls on the desk. ‘It’s just routine.’

  ‘Routine? I’ve got ships to run …’

  ‘It’s only a matter of a few days,’ the man said lightly.

  ‘With no communications?’

  ‘In an hour you can go downtown and pick up some more computers and phones.’

  ‘Great.’ Bulent huffed.

  ‘The building has Wi-Fi and I understand IT prices are more than reasonable at the moment. And then there are very good bargains to be had in the souk.’

  ‘Yeah, brilliant.’

  ‘It’s all there,’ the man said, gesturing to the piece of paper that Bulent realised with surprise he still had in his hand. ‘And please don’t leave town other than in exceptional circumstances, for which you may apply for permission through the appropriate channels. How is the shipping business now?’

  ‘Bad. And getting worse by the day.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. But this will all be over soon,’ the man said, rising from Bulent’s chair. ‘Shall we,’ he added, indicating the door.

  Bulent stood by the window in the main office. Below him, in the car park, a hire truck’s tail lift loaded with stacker crates started to rise. The office shelves were clear of files. Fluff lay in uniform squares on the carpet and climbed the walls where filing cabinets had stood. Screens and keyboards sat on desks, the cables strewn haphazardly, connected to nothing. The men in uniform watched on, leaving the way clear for others. Noting the open attaché cases with foam pockets for screwdrivers, wire trimmers and aerosol sprays, Bulent assumed they were mostly IT technicians. Through the main door he could see his staff lined up along the corridor, their restless eyes avoiding contact with both their colleagues and the security officers.

  As the bookkeeper dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief, the man with the gold tooth handed him another piece of paper, a receipt for OceanBird’s records and equipment.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bulent said through gritted teeth, putting it down on an empty desk with barely a glance.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ came the reply. ‘Have a nice day.’

  ~

  The hire truck pulled out of the car park first, followed by a pair of minibuses. The man in the robes and the one with the gold tooth were the last to leave. The robes settled into the back of a Mercedes, a phone at his ear, the door held open for him by gold-tooth before he got in the front with the driver.

  ‘We’ll be back at the depot in twenty minutes,’ the robed man said, continuing his phone conversation. ‘The guys will drain the computers first and the transfer will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual?’ the caller asked.

  ‘No …’ The robed man pondered. ‘I don’t think so – but let me just check.’

  He leant forward and exchanged a few words with gold-tooth before sitting back.

  ‘No, nothing,’ he said. ‘My men have done this often enough to know when people have something to hide.’

  ‘Understood. Was Bulent Erkan there?’ the caller said.

  ‘Yes. But he didn’t say much apart from having to send instructions to ships and other operational stuff – the usual complaining …’

  ‘Okay. I’m looking forward to seeing the results, and thank you for everything.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr LaSalle. It’s my pleasure.’

  ~

  Jawad was up from his desk the moment he saw Bulent step through STC’s door. He hurried across and shepherded him back to his office.

  ‘I came up,’ he said, ‘but some big fucker with a gold tooth told me to piss off.’

  ‘Yeah, he was in charge. And some guy in a high-status dishdash. Did you see him?’

  Jawad shook his head.

  ‘Tax,’ Bulent said, handing the warrant to him. ‘That’s what they said and that’s how they acted.’

  Jawad
sucked through his teeth and scanned the document. ‘You remember what Choukri said about some security guy asking around in Pakistan?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember, but that’s Pakistan. And weren’t we going to feed him what he wanted to hear?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jawad said. ‘Maybe he didn’t like it.’

  ‘Maybe. Look, they emptied the safe and I’ve got to go downtown and get some computers and shit – you got five thousand?’ He paused. ‘Then I’ll have to tell Choukri.’

  Twenty-one

  ‘We go now,’ Choukri said, pushing Mubarak’s crossword to the side of the chart table. He smoothed a calendar down and rapped it with a stiff finger.

  Mubarak looked at the date, at Choukri, before nodding his head.

  The Ocean Dove had been sitting off Fujairah for six days and despite Bulent’s efforts there was no prospect of a cargo or employment. It had reached the point where, if he had fixed something, the ship would be delayed for fitting out at Bar Mhar.

  Choukri stabbed the date again. ‘It gives us a few days to play with for bad weather or problems. We must go now.’

  He counted out the days and looked round over his shoulder. Faisel and Assam, Cookie and Snoop, were standing expectantly on the bridge in an arc. Each of them met his eye with a solemn blink or a pursing of lips. Snoop turned to Assam, failing to catch his attention as he stared ahead, his jaw muscles flexing on a wad of khat.

  Today was Sunday, 17 April. Bar Mhar was less than a day away. If they allowed ten days in the yard they would be on schedule, with something in hand for delays or bad weather. They could time their run to arrive on the dot, on the particular Friday. And it had to be a Friday, the equivalent of Sunday in the Gulf.

  Returning his attention to the calendar, his hands spread on the table, he stared at the date and quietly repeated the word ‘ten’ to himself.

  ‘Faisel,’ he said, glancing round. ‘Send this to Bulent: “for sake of schedule we should leave now for repairs in Bar Mhar.”’

  More of the crew had gathered on the bridge. They stood in silence, nodding to themselves and looking around for confirmation. Faisel sat at the communications desk and keyed the message. They all wanted activity. It meant the end of the build-up. Sitting off Fujairah was just compounding the frustration. If Bulent had fixed a quick cargo or some kind of short employment for the ship, it would have been a disappointment, another delay to the inevitable.

  Choukri drummed his fingers, glancing up every few seconds, his impatience rewarded when Faisel turned sharply, his eyes wide.

  ‘Well, read it out,’ Choukri urged.

  Faisel peered at the screen and read: ‘I was thinking the same thing. Please go ahead.’

  Within minutes the funnel was coughing darkly and the throb of the main engine could be felt through the bridge floor. From the bows came the clanking sound of the anchor chain, the capstan heaving it through the guides.

  Mubarak adjusted the helm and pointed the bows east as Faisel radioed the traffic control centre in Fujairah. It was merely a courtesy – outward clearance formalities had already been carried out and the ship was free to go whenever it wished. Gulls on the crane masts squawked their protests and took to the air as the ship got under way, circling the wake for scraps.

  Choukri switched the light off in his cabin at three o’clock in the morning. Until midnight it had been his shift on the bridge, a busy shift. His eyes had tired, his mind slowed, but he had still managed to find three hours for the wish list.

  He slept late into the morning. It was gone nine o’clock when Cookie brought a plate of waffles and eggs and the maple syrup bottle to the bridge. Iran’s southern shoreline had slipped by in the small hours, merging seamlessly into the Makran coast. They were out of the main shipping lanes, with just minor coastal traffic and the odd fishing boat to deal with, which was no more than routine on a clear morning.

  ‘How are we doing?’ Choukri said, pushing his plate aside at the chart table.

  ‘We’re doing well,’ Mubarak said. ‘Two hours to Bar Mhar.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Choukri said, sitting back and taking a sip of coffee, content that all was well, content the ship was in good hands and keeping to his schedule.

  Tariq had the helm. Mubarak was perched on a stool at the side of the console with coffee and his crossword.

  ‘Echelon?’ he said. ‘Tariq, is echelon an English word?’

  Tariq’s eyes searched around and he shook his head. ‘Esherlong? I didn’t hear it.’

  Mubarak chewed the end of his pencil. ‘Never mind. It’s French – the rung of a ladder. A hierarchy? It fits, and it must be. I’ll look it up.’

  Just before noon, the main engine slowed for the turn into the bay and the approach to the shipyard. Linesmen were on the jetty to meet them, Snoop and Assam at the rail waiting to throw ropes. Mubarak observed from the wings, calling out instructions through the bridge door.

  ‘Hotter than before,’ Choukri said, his hands resting on the wing rail, looking down as men hooked mooring ropes over bollards.

  ‘It is,’ Mubarak agreed, running a finger through his glistening eyebrows.

  ‘I checked the forecast. It’s good for the next week and there’s no sign of the south-west,’ Choukri said, referring to the south-west monsoon, the tropical storms that sweep the Arabian sea and northern Indian Ocean from June to September.

  ‘By the way,’ Mubarak said. ‘There’s a message from Bulent. He’s delayed on the road but should be here by six o’clock.’

  Ten minutes later, Choukri walked across the yard towards the main building. The door to the office opened and Khan came down the steps, pointing to the main workshop. Choukri turned towards it, meeting him a minute later.

  ‘All is good?’ Khan said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Choukri smiled, shaking Khan’s hand. ‘We’re ready.’

  There was a fresh glint in Khan’s eyes. It suggested he shared his eagerness and wanted to seal their commitment.

  ‘My guys are going to make a scale mock-up of Moritz over there,’ Choukri said, nodding across the yard. ‘No problem? They need to practise the drill.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Khan said. ‘And there’s plenty of room,’ he added, sliding the workshop door open and ushering Choukri in.

  They made their way through to the back, to a wall of containers. Khan opened the doors of one of the containers and stepped inside, walking to the end and out through a secondary door cut into the steel. It opened out into a chamber, a replica of the Ocean Dove’s hold.

  Choukri stood at the doorway, looking down the workshop – the hold – taking in the scale and the detail. At the far end was a single Bofors gun, mounted on its plinth across a web of steel beams, with a walkway above. Ducting was laid across the floor connecting the gun to power and water supplies. At its side was a huge revolving carousel. On the floor were chalk marks in a variety of colours, denoting different materials and functions.

  After a while, Choukri stepped forward, his eyes switching left and right.

  Khan beckoned. ‘Let me show you,’ he said, leading Choukri around the gun for a full turn.

  ‘See these,’ he said, tapping a foot on some heavy I-beams. ‘These go across the width of the hold, and I’ve increased the size of the rubber mountings. A cargo ship is not built the same as a warship. The vibrations and stresses, the fatigue, are greater. And these,’ he added, ‘are my shell cassettes. Designed them myself and made them here. They work just like a spring-clip in a handgun, though the spring is electrically powered. Here, give me a hand.’

  Choukri found a good grip on the carousel and put his weight to it, looking up as it towered over him. Between them they managed to do no more than rock it a little on its well-greased bearings.

  ‘Sixty tonnes of shells when it’s full,’ Khan said. ‘I’ve stress-tested it for wear and metal fatigue. Taken it to bits, put it back together again. There’s no sign of weakness at all. Same goes for all the guns,’ he said, turning and looking back
down the workshop. ‘Each of them was unpacked, put on their mounts, tested, and then dismantled and repacked again. Do you want to see it working?’

  Choukri’s eyes widened. ‘It’s possible?’

  ‘Sure,’ Khan said, stepping across to a laptop and plugging a lead into the back of the gun. On the side wall was an electrical control box. He pulled the lever down. A low hum came from the gun.

  ‘The programme is a dummy, fifty imaginary targets split into five groups of ten, each shell to be placed a hundred metres apart. Here,’ he added, ‘you do it, but keep your eye on the barrel.’

  Choukri stood at his side looking down at the screen. Khan pressed a key to disable the ammunition feed, then another which brought up the target list. He hovered his finger above a key and nodded to Choukri.

  ‘The Russians did this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Khan said, looking questioningly at him.

  ‘It’s all done?’

  ‘It’s all done. It’s perfect.’

  ‘Okay,’ Choukri said, pressing the key.

  The background hum increased. There was a high-pitched whine and a hiss of hydraulics as the gun swung around. The barrel came up a few degrees, depressing like a piston with each of the ten rapid but more or less silent shots. Then it swung in another direction, the barrel dipping this time, followed by another ten fast pumps. Again, it switched its aim and repeated the process until all five targets and all fifty – dummy – shells had been launched. Each target had used up three seconds. The entire process was over in fifteen.

  ‘My God,’ Choukri said, standing back and staring.

  ‘Did you see it,’ Khan said, ‘the way the barrel makes a minute adjustment for the hundred-metre spread? You can just see, you really can.’

  ‘I couldn’t make it out,’ Choukri said, shaking his head.

  ‘No, neither could I at the beginning. At twenty-five-metres spread you can’t see it. Not at fifty, not at seventy-five, but at a hundred you can, just. It’s so fast.’