Crude Carrier

by Rex Burns

  A guard wearing a checkered headdress and carrying an automatic weapon—it looked suspiciously like an Uzi—read over Raiford’s letter of appointment and studied his passport photograph. Then, expressionless, he raised the gate, let the taxi pull to the front of one of the squat buildings, and disappeared back into his air-conditioned sentry box.

  The driver lifted Raiford’s two canvas suitcases from the trunk. “Please to wait here for boat,” he said and held out a chit to be signed and a hand to be filled. As the taxi’s diesel engine pinged up mottled sand and wind-scoured rock, Raiford began to feel isolated.

  The sun pressed on his head and shoulders, but the sense of real heat came from the close, woolly air. It withered his nose and throat into scratchy flesh, and he could feel sweat running like ants down his back and under his arms. From the sand, additional pulses of heat rose up through his shoes to make him shift from one burning foot to the other.

  “Here, mate—come inside before you’re toast.” A bony splinter of man wearing a brightly flowered shirt opened the door of a long, almost windowless building and leaned out into the glare. “You’re the new man for the Aurora Victorious, right? I’ve called her for you. The launch’ll be here in a bit.”

  Raiford breathed with relief in the air-conditioned half-light of the large, barrackslike room.

  “Bleedin’ hot, ’specially if you ain’t used to it. And this is the beginning of the cool season. This here’s the landing lounge—welcome to use it whenever you come through. No whiskey, though. Arabs don’t like it. Have to bring your own, and a lot of them likes that well enough. Been aboard the Victorious before?”

  “No.” Raiford looked around the stark room with its low ceiling and gritty concrete floor spotted with old stains. A vacant bar held empty stools and a television set chattering in Arabic. Four men sat in beat-up lounge chairs reading or smoking and sipping coffee. They glanced at him without expression before turning back to their silence. Near a computer bearing a sign reading “2US$ per kilobyte,” a smeary chalkboard listed a dozen ships’ names followed by dates. Among them was the Aurora Victorious, and the dates for yesterday and today. “They part of the Victorious’s crew?” asked Raiford.

  “No, a BP tanker. Contracts are up and they’re being repatted. Waiting for their bus to Doha. Yank, are you? What’s your rating?”

  “Third mate. Electronics.”

  “Ah—tech-o. Given how big you are, I’d’ve thought you were navigation. Alec’s the name—everybody calls me Lexie. I’m the landing manager. Something cold to drink?” He limped toward the bar. “There’s the list chalked up. Prices are in dollars and Qatari riyals. But we’ll take any hard currency. Daily exchange rates are over there.” He pointed at a second television screen that scrolled silently through the world’s currencies measured against the dollar, the yen, the pound, the euro, and the riyal.

  The constantly moving numbers focused an odd feeling for Raiford: despite the solidity of the large and ugly room, it had a quality of impermanence. The barren sand and rock, the waiting men, and his own disorientation gave a sense of being in the aura of something just out of sight, something vast and fluid and continuously changing. It was a something that had created this mirage of installation and humanity. Served by the building, the armed guard, the gabbling manager, the men waiting in silence, that vague something became embodied in the numbers on the screen. And it did not distinguish between the humans and the buildings and the equipment that served it. They were equally interchangeable, equally replaceable. And Raiford was now one of those numbers.

  Lexie talked as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone for a month—and perhaps he hadn’t. Not in English, anyway. “Not many come ashore at the landing here—mostly supernumerary arrivals and departures like yourself. Not a damn thing to do and even less to see. Tankers aren’t tied up long enough for a proper shore leave, so mostly the crews stay aboard and work or sleep. This lot, they don’t speak English—Pakistani, I think they are. Most of the bloody crews anymore are our little brown brothers. Can’t speak English worth a damn. Rossi? Third mate? Never met him, as I know of. Tankers come and go, sometime two or three a day, and like I say, who in his right mind wants to set foot here? Though some of ’em get a little crazy being on ship all the time and they’ll take even this place for a change of scenery. It’s an okay place if you like sand—underfoot, in your clothes, in your teeth. Sand and wind, wind and sand, and mind you the heat never leaves even at night. Golden Dawn? Never heard of her, and if she’s a small one she wouldn’t come here anyway. What part of the States you from? Colorado? Never been there. Florida, once—Jacksonville. Norfolk, New Orleans, Baltimore. Ports of call, you know. I was in the black gang, back when ships had a black gang. The Victorious? Two or three times a year she ties up, which ain’t bad for a tub as old as she is. Another drink? Right you are—can’t get enough liquids, can you? Tell you, confidential-like, she ain’t a happy ship. Tough on her crew. Hard work, long hours, and low pay. Every time I see a hand get repatted from her, they’re glad to go. Don’t mean you, of course. You’ll get treated right as an officer and a white man should. Repatted? Repatriated—paid off and sent home. Works her hands hard, her master does, and the first mate’s a regular bulldog, they say.”

  When two Chinese wearing dark blue coveralls and oil-stained canvas shoes carried Raiford’s suitcases out of the lounge, Lexie followed, still talking. The crewmen led Raiford down the narrow pier to a small launch. Under its bleached canvas awning, an officer in a glaringly white uniform with narrow epaulets welcomed him in basic English: “Mr. Raiford? I am Third Officer Suk Wan Li. You come please, we go ship.” A clatter of Chinese ordered the hands to stow the luggage.

  With a quiver of noisy engines, the boat settled its stern as it cut through the still water. The huddled buildings of the landing, the pier, the mottled shore vanished into heat haze as the minutes passed. Raiford stared across the iridescent streaks and boils of passing oil slicks. Gradually, out of the blur of horizon, a long, low streak emerged. At one end of the streak, a gleaming island of white superstructure rose. A single stack, squat and straight, trailed a lazy brown smudge to one side. As the tanker grew nearer, he could make out heavy ropes holding her blunt bow to a large float. Bright orange hoses rose out of the water to stubby booms amidships. Beyond and perched on a low smear, a few small, boxy buildings and a complex of silver-painted pipes and valves were mirrored in the sea. The launch slowed; the massive rust-streaked black-and-red steel wall towered like a cliff. An accommodation ladder, tiny against the gigantic hull, dangled down to a platform just above the water. Although Raiford had a vague understanding of the behemoth’s dimensions, he could not help asking, “How big is that thing?”

  “Three hundred fifty-four meters in length. Fifty-eight meters at beam. Twenty meters draft. Three hundred twenty-six deadweight tons maximum load—maybe more than two million barrels. Twenty-nine thousand horsepower.” The answers were chanted like a familiar chorus by the white-jacketed officer.

  Raiford translated the figures roughly into feet: just over eleven hundred feet long, two hundred feet wide, and—when loaded—sixty plus feet below the water’s surface. Another class, the ultra large crude carrier (ULCC), was even bigger­. But at a fifth of a mile long, the Victorious was colossal enough, and he understood why his would be the first question of any newcomer.

  One of the sailors grappled the platform with a boat hook; the other hopped out to tie the launch to a cleat. High above, up the long spidery-looking ladder, a tiny human stared down, its face shadowed by the white dot of an officer’s cap.

  “Captain Boggs,” said the third officer. “He waits. You go quick.”

  V

  Julie’s computer displayed “1 New Message.” Time stamped 6:03 A.M., it read “R. aboard AV. Mack,” and a FedEx package from the same source arrived just after noon. Julie glanced through the thick file of documents and placed a call
to New York. “Have you heard any more from my father?”

  “Nothing since his e-mail from the shore facility,” said Mack. “We probably won’t hear much. Not until he has something to report and a chance to do it.” His voice warmed a bit. “He’s probably lounging around the ship’s swimming pool, drinking beer.”

  She smiled at that thought. “He said you promised him a vacation cruise.”

  “I’m sure that’s what it will be.”

  She hoped so. Her dad had operated undercover a lot more than she had. On this job, however, he was violating the procedures, as she had reminded him. Granted, they went where the job called, and they both agreed that people shouldn’t get into this business unless they were willing to take chances. But chance had a matter of degree, and that degree should always be minimized. This time, it had not been.

  She focused on the Herberling documents as a means of shoving away nagging thoughts.

  The Golden Dawn file opened with a black-and-white photo­graph of the ship at sea. Six hatches ran from its stubby bow to the rear island. Outside the hatches and tucked inside the ship’s rails were pipes for oil. Three short masts, one at the bow and two behind the third hatch, provided cargo-handling­ booms. A longer pair of booms folded inboard between the sixth hatch and the ship’s island. A raked smokestack rose above the topmost bridge—the navigation level—whose open wings protruded as far as the sides of the ship below. An accompanying page described a single-screw, diesel-powered motor ship of 40,377 tons deadweight, built in 1979 to carry ore, bulk freight, or oil; speed rated at 15.5 knots.

  The history of the ship’s last voyage listed its owners—Hercules Maritime—and flag—Cyprus. Departed Fremantle, Australia, 17:00 (GMT) 6 November, last year; cargo, bauxite; destination, Abu Dhabi, Arab Emirates. Master, Capt. Kenneth Minkey. She dropped her pilot at 17:56 off Rottnest Island. Made routine Telex reports to the Hercules home office at noon (local time) over the following eight days. Average sailing speed: 14 knots. At 11:53 (GMT) 15 November, she reported that she was in heavy seas and her cargo had shifted. At 14:40 a severe list to starboard brought water through number three hatch. At 17:54 water entered the fuel bunkers. The engines failed at 18:17. That was the last transmission. At 06:00 (GMT) 16 November, Hercules Maritime notified Marine Carriers Worldwide underwriters and asked all ships in that area of the Indian Ocean to report any sighting­ of the MV Golden Dawn. At 12:00 (GMT) Hercules­ Maritime called for a search. No contact with vessel or survivors. Assumed lost with all hands. Location of last transmission: Long. 83' 21" east, Lat. 9'14" south. Claim for lost vessel and cargo filed Friday, 23 November.

  Last was an abstract of the underwriter’s report. The ship’s documents as well as harbor and port authorities had noted several problems with the vessel: the condition of the ship’s pumps (low p.s.i.), the thickness of the plating on the starboard bow encompassing holds one and two (corroded and pitted sections), and the presence of hairline cracks in the forward collision bulkhead. She underwent repairs at the Malacca Dry-dock and Shipyards, Singapore. An invoice and diagrams detailed the hull samples and repairs, and a stamped document from a certified marine inspector in Singapore verified the repairs. A Marine Carriers Worldwide agent, Dorothy Fleenor, declared the vessel insurable on February 10, and coverage was issued beginning 00:01 (GMT) 11 February, last year. A final page in differing type noted that the bodies­ of two oriental males wearing life vests bearing the name Golden Dawn had been picked up at sea on 21 December by the MV Dirk Pitt at longitude 97'08" east, latitude 11'22" south. No identification. Buried at sea.

  Julie placed a call to Marine Carriers Worldwide and asked for Mrs. Fleenor.

  “Yes, I was the agent on that transaction.” Her voice was cautious.

  Julie explained her connection to Herberling and the Rossi case.

  “I don’t understand what that death has to do with the Golden Dawn claim.”

  “It’s hypothetical,” Julie admitted. “But Mr. Herberling was asking about the Rossi incident just before he was killed, and I’m picking up the pieces of his investigation. Can you tell me what kind of insurance the Golden Dawn had?”

  “Let me pull it up.” It took a minute or two, then the woman’s voice came back to tell Julie that the cargo insurance­ was for one voyage, which wasn’t too unusual because single-­voyage­ was the cheapest policy. However, and this was aberrant­, the hull was insured against total loss.

  “Why is that unusual?”

  “Most owners limit the liability to a partial value of the hull to lower costs. Since this policy had no deduction from the hull’s value, its rate was appreciably higher.” In fact, Mrs. Fleenor admitted, the coverage came to nine hundred US dollars a day. “But the Golden Dawn had recent dry-dock repairs and passed her safety survey, or we wouldn’t have insured her.”

  “Then why pay for full coverage?”

  A brief silence. “It does seem contradictory.”

  A contradiction like that would raise questions in Herberling’s mind just as it did in Julie’s. And should have in Mrs. Fleenor’s.

  The ship also had coverage on its anticipated freight. “If, for any reason, the cargo was not ready on time for shipping,” Mrs. Fleenor explained, “or could not be shipped in that vessel, the owners could file claim for the loss of that piece of business.”

  “How much?”

  “Seven hundred thousand US dollars.”

  “They’ll collect?”

  “The ship was unavailable, so, yes, that claim should be honored.”

  “Unless Mr. Herberling found evidence of insurance fraud?”

  “That would negate any and all payments, of course. But as far as I know, nothing like that has been found.”

  “But the owners could earn a great deal of money if their ship sank.”

  Her reply was less an answer than a slightly defensive explanation. “One of the challenges of maritime insurance is to balance sufficient coverage against making a loss enticing for an owner.” Her voice dropped. “It’s possible that balance may have been missed on this one.”

  Julie did not ask who was first in line for blame if that were so. “Has Hercules Maritime made other claims for lost ships?”

  “Not with us. Their insurance record in general is satisfactory. It’s one of the principal factors we consider before issuing a policy.”

  “Mrs. Fleenor, did Mr. Herberling have grounds for suspicion?”

  When the woman finally answered, it was with resignation. “Yes. Looking at the configuration of that policy now, I’m afraid so.”

  “But at the time, you recommended insuring the vessel.”

  “I … yes. It was a bad time for me personally. … Perhaps I wasn’t … Yes.”

  Julie waited, but the woman added no more. “How might I find out who insured the crew?”

  “Mr. Joseph Wood at Hercules Maritime. You could ask him.”

  “I’ve tried to reach him. I haven’t had any luck.”

  Another pause. “Maybe he’s too busy to reply. They have a small office and staff. Most tramp companies do.” Then, “You might try their broker in London—Braithwaite, I think. He might know who they used as recruiters for the Golden Dawn, and certainly the recruiter’s contract would detail any insurance for crew members.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fleenor.”

  Julie had her doubts about the sincerity of the woman’s “You’re welcome.” She had dumped a lot of worry on a person whose only consolation seemed to be that she wasn’t the first insurance agent to make a bad call.

  The final section of Mack’s package was Herberling’s case notes. Scraps of paper had been photocopied onto a single sheet. They showed a quick, nervous scrawl in half-completed phrases that indicated Herberling’s thoughts. One heavily wrinkled fold of envelope listed five names and addresses headed by the initials “A.V.” The first name was familiar: Bog
gs. Four more names—Bowman, Pierce, Shockley­, and Pressler—and accompanying addresses followed. The addresses were all in England. Pierce was the man her father was replacing. Assuming the other names were still aboard the Aurora Victorious, Julie could ask Mack who they were.

  Circles around the first three names could mean either a completed inquiry or a need for more detail. Another scrawl threw some light on a possible reason for Herberling’s interest: “crew certification??” Under that was Raiford’s name and telephone number and the phrase, “Rossi death—Aurora Victorious??” But nothing showed a clear connection between any of the names and the lost Golden Dawn.

  Other notes indicated other directions the dead man was considering. “Herc. Record safety violations/safety histories,” “financial history—current status,” “crew interviews.” Julie figured that Herberling had been hunting what any detective looked for first: the money. It was also apparent that he had not settled on a single direction, unless some papers were missing.

  Following in Herberling’s footsteps depressed Julie. The notes gave a glimpse into the dead man’s mind, and his investigative procedure was not all that different from her own. She could step in with little adjustment. But it brought the murdered man as close as an old, and now lost, acquaintance, and reminded her where her father was.

  Reformatting the information into her computer, she outlined possible approaches. She also added two headings not in the original file: “Fake Detective Kirby” and “Herberling’s murder.”

  VI

  Boat wasn’t the word for the Aurora Victorious. Even ship seemed too small. Raiford had read the figures describing the vessel, but he had not fully imagined it.

  There were no cramped passageways filled with conduits, banks of control wheels, gauges, and some maniac screaming “Dive! Dive! Dive!” Instead, the ship’s corridors were wide with carpeting laid down to prevent sparks and covered with a temporary canvas runner for protection against oil stains during loading. All was eerily silent. A plastic plate on the wall at the base of a stairway, also wide and carpeted, told Raiford that he was on the middle bridge deck. The door of his quarters opened to a short entry that led past a shower and toilet on one side and folding closet doors on the other to arrive at his so-called cabin. It was like a hotel that charged too much and used decor to make you think you were getting your money’s worth: fully carpeted, windows framed in drapes, air-conditioned, furnished with wood-laminated pieces showing wear from a lot of predecessors and constant cleaning.