by Rex Burns
The crew’s entertainment area was below on the main deck—a combined games room and mess hall that ran the width of the ship. Its smaller windows, lacking drapes, looked aft to the stack housing and the fantail beyond. This one, too, had a television—large screen—and stereo sets, but the decor was more functional and easier to clean. Just below the main deck were the crew’s quarters. One- and two-man rooms lined a promenade of green asphalt tiles. It ran down both port and starboard sides of the hull and was lit by a band of twin portholes outboard, looking over the sea. Inboard, each room had a large square window that brought in light from those outboard portholes. Through them bunks, desks, washbasins, and padded chairs could be glimpsed. It was, Raiford thought, a long way from a ratty hammock, a hunk of hardtack, and a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“Did you know Third Officer Rossi, Johnny?”
“Yes, sah. Very bad he died.” Then, “You know him too?”
“I met his mother and father. They asked me to see if I could find anything of his they could have to remember him by. He was buried at sea, right?”
“Yes, sah. Buried at sea.”
“Did you clean out his room when he died? Gather up his things?”
“Officer do that, sah.”
“Do you know what they did with his stuff?”
“You ask officer about Mr. Rossi, sah.”
That was the answer to all other questions about Rossi: ask one of the officers.
Below the crew’s space were the decks and rooms that would be Raiford’s chief interest as electronics specialist: the operating panels for the engines, the communications center, the housing room for the navigational equipment and its related computers, the loading control room for the storage tanks. Clean and efficient, the sterile and fluorescent-lit space reminded him of any slightly outdated computer center ashore. Although he was continually bending his neck to pass under steel door frames, he was relieved to find plenty of headspace everywhere except in the engine room. There, his claustrophobia was stirred by the latticework of cramped ladders, railings, and platforms that made him duck and dodge. Narrow passages sliced between wheels and banks of dials and switches; speaker tubes and rows of levers reached to snag his shoulders. But for all the clutter of those manual controls, the space was void of life. It was as if here, in its heart, the ship was its own master and a human hand was both unnecessary and unwanted. It was Raiford’s job to ensure the computers kept it that way.
In the loading control room, they found a man in jeans and plimsoles. His black T-shirt bore a skull and the words GRATEFUL DEAD in silver ink. He was probably in his midthirties, but the casual dress made him seem younger. He stood tensely in front of a wall-mounted diagram dotted with red and green lights connected by varicolored lines. Beside the diagram was another panel filled with alert lights, green numbers changing regularly, control dials that he touched lightly now and then as if tuning an instrument. The man glanced at Raiford and then back quickly as a pair of red and green dots switched their colors.
“Mr. Shockley—Mr. Raifah. Temporary electronics officer, sah.” He explained to Raiford, “Mr. Shockley is second mate.”
“Pleased.” A quick handshake whose softness went with the small paunch swelling beneath the T-shirt. He turned quickly back to the illuminated diagram that made a large and intricate pattern in the center of the flickering lights. “Served much time aboard tankers?”
“First time ever. On any ship.”
“Oh?” The second mate pulled his eyes from the control board for an instant and he looked more closely at Raiford. “The owners must be getting desperate.”
Raiford shrugged. “They needed someone fast and my name was on the list. Regular replacement was sick or something.”
“Ah.” His eyes went to Raiford’s stocking feet. “Well, you’ll want a proper kit. Johnny’ll take you to the ship’s slop chest. Mind the prices—company sets them and they’re damned high, so buy only what you need.” Then, “I’m second deck officer. That means I supervise the loading. First officer’s duty, normally, but …” He ended with a lift of shoulders that said it didn’t make any difference as long as the job got done. “We’re a fully automated tanker. Automated navigation and steering, automated engine. Automated loading system. If something goes awry with the electronics, you’ll be kept damn busy I can promise you.” He spoke to Raiford, but his eyes stayed on the lights and the rows of dials labeled with pump and valve numbers and functions monitored: speed, suction pressures, quantities, ballast level, cargo level, ship’s trim. “You’ll be kept busy anyway, what with the maintenance and routine servicing. No pleasure cruise, this.”
“The electronics give you a lot of trouble?”
“Well, she’s old, the Aurora is. But the circuitry manages to hold up right well. Knock on wood—if you can find any. Sensors and switches are always the problem. Corrosion. Salt. That’s why I keep a close eye on the loading. That’s what this is, the loading control room. This computer here is the Lodicator. Tells the valve controls how to do the job. How much ballast out of which tank, how much oil into which tank, and when. Stuck valve, and everything becomes a hell of a mess. The diagrammatic tells me how well the ship’s answering. Sweding machine here”—he nodded at another console—“gives a projection of the ship’s stability based on the current loading pattern. These are the override switches for manual control. Ticklish time right now: getting up to ullage—full on the tanks. Load up to twenty thousand tons an hour of warm, light oil. Only twelve thousand of this stuff, though. Heavy. But the computer does it all: fills each tank to ninety-eight percent capacity, distributes the load so the ship stays trim and won’t go brittle or capsize, opens and closes valves to the center cargo tanks and the wing cargo tanks in the right order. That’s what these lights are on the diagrammatic—red open, green closed.”
Raiford had a chilling thought. “Who programs the computers?”
“Done ashore. Computer gurus ashore figure that out. Home office sends out the software and programs we need at each port. Don’t vary too much: the load’s always crude oil. But we do get different types of crude—we’ll be going up to Al Ju’aymah to complete loading, and that’s a different weight and type. Lighter. Have to keep that separate from the Halul crude—that’s one of the things that makes this part of the loading plan so ticklish. A tank of ballast beside one full of heavy crude puts a lot of shear strain on the old hull. Damn good thing the Gulf’s a calm sea.”
“You mean we could sink?”
“Happens. Don’t want to, of course.”
“Of course.”
Johnny had disappeared sometime during the second mate’s monologue, but Raiford stayed to watch Shockley fine-tune the pumps’ speed and press a macro on a keyboard that recorded tank numbers, load, and time completed. “How many tanks does the ship have?”
“Fifteen for cargo plus a bunker for ship’s fuel. Six center tanks, ten wing tanks. Full cargo capacity is 326,000 deadweight tons of crude.” He looked at Raiford. “Canadian, are you?”
“American.” The red and green lights flickered, numbers changed steadily, needles swung across dials or fell back as pumps adjusted to the valves, and the cargo compartments were filled in rotation to keep the ship level. Except for the steady murmur of the air conditioner and the occasional chatter of a printout from the Sweding machine, the room and the steel world surrounding it were silent.
“Have you been on the ship long?”
“Going on four years, now. Before that, was third mate on the SS Kuwait Champion.” Shockley eyed the green numerals. “Another couple of years and I’ll strike for first. Which is why I don’t mind filling in for Pressler—gives me a chance to learn the job, eh?”
“That’s moving up pretty fast, isn’t it?”
The face tried to hide its pleasure. “Oh, I suppose. But if it can be done, why not? Who knows how long the bloody shipping indust
ry’s going to need crews? SS Keymatic, that’s what will sail the seas before long. Got to build up my retirement while I’ve still got a job, right?” He laughed. “You, now, you might end up being the only soul aboard. No crew, no officers, just the bleeding electronics tech to keep the computers happy. You and that bleeding machine there”—he waved a hand at a keyboard and screen filling a metal drop leaf mounted on the bulkhead.
“That’s the main computer?”
“Not the main one, no. Some kind of slave terminal. Don’t know how it works. Don’t want to, either. Your job, not mine. You’ll be like the Ancient Mariner, eh? All alone and water, water everywhere, eh?”
“They can’t sail ships without people.”
“I used to think that too. Can’t sail ships without a black gang. But now there’s no more black gang, no more deckhands. It’s just ‘navigation.’ Question is, how many people will they need? You realize a ship this big carries only thirty-eight men? That’s full complement. Captain to mess boy—thirty-eight men. And mark my words, they’ll be cutting that back soon enough.”
Raiford let his silence indicate agreement. “Did you know Harold Rossi?”
In the silent room, Shockley’s pale blue eyes stared at Raiford long enough that he twitched when the Sweding machine chattered out more data. “What’s Rossi to you?”
“I met his parents in the States. They told me he had some bad luck.”
“Bad luck, all right. Terrible what happened to him. Nice chap.”
“How did he die?”
“Fell down something, I hear. Didn’t see it.” The pudgy face frowned at the consoles, and the faint fellowship that Raiford sensed as the two men stood together in the stark and plastic-smelling emptiness suddenly ebbed.
“Well, like I say, I didn’t know him. His parents called me just before I left and asked if I’d find out a little more about how and where he died. The letter they got from the owners didn’t tell them much.” Raiford added, “They wanted me to send on his personal effects, too.”
“I see.”
Raiford watched the man. Shockley watched the gauges. The consoles took all his attention and he didn’t offer any more commentary.
After a while, Raiford asked, “Do you know what might have happened to his gear?”
“No.”
“His parents wanted me to ask. Sentimental reasons. You understand.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’d better get unpacked.”
“Right.” The pale blue eyes shifted Raiford’s way for a second. “You’ll want to read up on the equipment manuals. Had a spot of trouble with one of the relay switches in tank five. We’ll want it looked at before we reach the next loading platform.”
IX
The broker who located cargo for Hercules Maritime’s ships said he would meet Miss Campbell when the Baltic Ship Exchange closed at five. “Can you find my office?”
Julie had circled Mr. Braithwaite’s address on her London A to Z map. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Excellent. I will look for you then and there.”
The circle on the map turned out to be more of a problem than she expected. Mitre Street, easy to miss, was one of those tiny avenues that bent between larger thoroughfares. It had originated, probably, as a medieval public path cut between land holdings. The address itself was tucked beyond a narrow vehicle tunnel leading to Mitre Mews. In fact, if her eye had not been caught by one of those pale blue historical markers—stating that the young journalist Charles Dickens often lunched on this site when it held the Pickwick House and Pub—Julie might have missed the alley. But Mr. Braithwaite waited patiently in his third-floor walk-up, cigarette smoke thick in the air and ragged stacks of paper and reference books contrasting with the tables full of up-to-date electronics. Each of two desks held sleek computer screens angled toward a comfortably padded swivel chair contoured like an astronaut’s. A long table against a wall held additional modems, two fax machines, telephone answerers, printers, and even something that looked suspiciously like a security scrambler and decoder. Each desk telephone had about twenty service buttons, and a telex machine filled another corner.
“Ah, you found me! I was growing a bit worried.” He hopped up, youthful in movement despite the deep wrinkles of a chain smoker and hair that showed gray turning white. He had a white, clipped mustache that was fringed with nicotine and spoke of colonial service. “Bit difficult to locate, being in the mews and all, but a quiet location—delighted, Miss Campbell.” He held her hand for an extra second as if feeling the warmth of her young flesh. “Delighted!”
“It’s kind of you to take time to see me, Mr. Braithwaite.”
“Not at all, dear girl. Not at all!” He pushed aside the book he was thumbing through—International Shipping and Ship Building Directory—and grabbed a dark blue blazer on a coatrack. “Let’s abandon ship before the blasted telephone rings. Sun’s below the yardarm here, but not in New York or San Francisco, eh?” He jabbed another long cigarette butt among others that filled his ashtray, tucked his striped tie behind a pewter button, and herded Julie out the door.
To Braithwaite, Julie was “dear girl”—possibly, she thought, because he could not remember her name. As he guided them to his favorite pub he rhapsodized about America and things American. “Love Florida, dear girl! And my cousin lives in Los Angeles. I visit quite often—travel’s the prerogative of a bachelor, isn’t it? And I’ve even been to your wonderful Colorado: the Grand Canyon. Magnificent!”
The Grand Canyon, created by the Colorado River, was in Arizona. But Julie was reluctant to correct such enthusiasm. And even if she wanted to, the man would have been difficult to interrupt. Maybe because he worked in the shipping industry, Braithwaite had caught the Ancient Mariner syndrome.
The pub—the New Roses—was a short two blocks away on Leadenhall Street, busy with afternoon traffic flowing out of the city. Etched glass, brass lamps, and dark oak. No ferns. Ashtrays on every table. Julie had a shandy, the older man a whiskey and side of water, no ice. They found a less crowded corner away from the squawk and roar of an electronic fruit machine—“Blasted things are everywhere now, even here!”—and Braithwaite lifted his glass eagerly. “Chin chin!”
Julie sipped her cool, light drink and spoke quickly while the man’s mouth savored his scotch. “Have you worked with Hercules Maritime very long?”
“Oh, yes. Since they began in, I believe, 1988. They’re one of our smaller clients, but steady. They’ve managed to stay afloat in these perilous times.”
“The industry is in difficulty?”
“Very much so. Even the bulk liquid fleets. As late as 1980, the British fleet had almost fourteen hundred vessels flying the red duster. The number now is less than three hundred. All the owners are moving to flags of convenience and crews of convenience—can’t afford not to. British Petroleum flagged out its entire fleet as early as 1986.” He lit a cigarette, the alcohol on his breath sending a tiny plume of flame off the end of the tobacco.
“But Hercules Maritime is in good financial shape?”
“I’m not privy to their accounting books, dear girl. I deal only with their freight contracts. However, their ships are seldom idle.”
“Did you arrange charter for the Golden Dawn?”
He nodded, pursed lips sending out a stream of smoke. “Bauxite out of Fremantle, aluminum ingots from Abu Dhabi to Seoul. I was seeking a cargo in the China Sea for her return to Fremantle when I heard of her loss. Terrible, of course—all hands. An all too familiar story, now. It’s these flags of convenience, dear girl. Crews aren’t trained as well as they used to be, equipment isn’t surveyed as rigorously. But the sea is as unforgiving as ever.”
“Accidents have increased?”
“Oh, yes! In my thirty-some years, we’ve had a growing number off the coast in our own waters. You’re much too young to r
emember the Torry Canyon going aground in 1967. Nothing like your Exxon Valdez, of course—only thirty thousand tons of oil spilled. But shocking at the time and a precursor of things to come: Liberian registry. In 1970, fourteen seamen died when the Pacific Glory and the Allegro collided off the Isle of Wight—both Liberian flag tankers. A year later, another Liberian tanker, the Amoco Cadiz, ran aground off Brittany with a large spill. In 1987, the Skyron—Liberian again—and the Hel—Polish—collided in the Channel off Folkston. Less than two years later, the Phillips Oklahoma and the Fiona—Liberian and Maltese flags of convenience—collided and created a twenty-mile oil slick off the Humber estuary.”
He wet his throat with a quick sip and started up again before Julie could slip in a question. “In 1991, the Zulfikar—Cypriot flag—was running in the Channel at speed without adequate radar, watches, or even lookouts, and sank a trawler. Killed six fishermen. Six months later, the trawler Ocean Hound went down in the Dover Straits, hit-and-run by a vessel that failed to render help or even report the collision. Most likely, it was a flag of convenience VLCC so large it didn’t even know it had run over the trawler. Killed all five lads, nevertheless. Two years later, the Braer grounded and broke up off Shetland: eighty-five thousand tons of crude spilled. You guessed it: Liberian flag. Then the Tharos collided with the Cam Sentinel at an oil platform off Scotland. And not two years after, the British Trent and the Western Winner collided. Both flags of convenience. And you of course know what happened recently off Spain’s Atlantic shore. Were any of those vessels insured by your company?”
“Not that I know of. But I wonder if—”