by Rex Burns
He was finally nearing the top when he saw Hansford descending, tugging the emergency mask at the end of its long line.
“Can you put this on him?” Hansford’s voice was raw with the struggle of his own climb.
Raiford, breathless, shook his head, forcing the tearing muscles of his thighs to make the last 30 rungs … the last 15 … the final 10. … He spit out his mouthpiece and pumped air into his burning lungs and pushed his trembling legs up the last 5 rungs.
Hands clawed at Charley’s body and hauled the weight off Raiford as he shoved himself through the hatch. The groaning effort of his final few steps was loud in his ears, but he did not know that the rasping noise was his. He collapsed facedown on the green steel plates, no longer feeling the rip of his thigh muscles, no longer staring at the slap of his stiffened and aching fingers on the steel bars. Gradually, the heat of the deck burned through the numbness of his flesh and he rolled over, squinting and blinking against the hazy glare to suck hot air deeply into his chest as the tight overalls clamped against his heaving ribs.
“Raiford—you okay?” Hansford looked up from the prone Charley. “Any gas?”
He shook his head. The heat of the deck burned into his quivering and jumping muscles. It was hot—hot enough to sting even through the heavy rubber cloth—but it loosened his strained thighs and eased the pain of flesh that had been asked to do too much.
“He’s coming around. Charley’s coming around.”
Sam, eyes bulging with fear and shock, said something in Chinese to the sprawled man. Charley gave a faint groan.
“All right, Charley—you’re going to be all right. We’ll get you to hospital chop chop.”
Something weak and strangled in Chinese to the hovering Sam who answered.
Two small figures were running from the distant white tower. A collapsed stretcher bounced between them. Hansford was saying something else into his radio as Sam called in Chinese to the running figures. Charley grunted deeply, curled onto his side, and vomited onto the sun-baked steel. Raiford stared at the steam that rose from the cooking puddle.
XI
Julie called Robert Goff’s cell phone a little after eight, telling its message center her hotel exchange and room extension. It took ten minutes. “Is this Miss Campbell? You paged me?”
Julie explained who she was and what she wanted. Some of it, anyway. “I realize it’s extremely short notice, but I wonder if I might meet you this evening.”
“This evening? Now?”
“It is somewhat late and I’m very sorry. I didn’t feel free to call you at work—I know how busy you are there. But I leave in a few hours and the issue really is imperative. May I buy you dinner by way of apology?”
“Well, I …”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t so very, very important.”
“Well …”
“Mr. Wood told me you would know details of the ship’s operations.”
“Mr. Wood said that?”
“He said you receive the ship’s daily reports.”
“Well, yes. But I’ve already dined.”
“Perhaps an after-dinner drink, then? Is there a pub conveniently near your home? You see, I fly out before your office opens tomorrow, and it’s very important that I speak with you. And, again, I apologize.”
“You’re American, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to decide it. “All right—the Two Dukes, just across from Neasden Station. That’s on the Jubilee line between Wembley Park and Dollis Hill.”
The silence left by the departing train accentuated the station’s emptiness as well as the neglect and grime of an overused and underfunded public service. The few passengers headed toward metal stairs posted with notices to alert security about anything suspicious. Julie paused in front of the schedule of trains to let them pass. No face looked familiar; all seemed caught in their own worries. But to be certain, she walked away from the pub. Circling a block, she crossed the street and approached the Two Dukes Free House from the other direction. Its dangling street sign, lit by lights from above, showed on one side a rosy face that, despite poor drawing, looked like John Wayne wearing a kerchief and cowboy hat. The other side displayed an ebony and whitely grinning face, presumably the other duke: Duke Ellington. The owner apparently believed his customers found the royalty of entertainment more convivial than the entertainments of royalty.
The L-shaped room was plain and stark. Scarred wooden tables outnumbered the three or four booths. Harsh lighting showed dull yellow walls and a dado of worn scarlet flocking. A mix of black and white faces, mostly men, gathered in quiet laughter and talk. Against a far wall stood a row of the usual fruit machines flickering and chattering in electronic voices—a parrot: “Avast matey, win the treasure!” From a busty cartoon, a low-pitched female voice said at intervals, “I’d like you on my star craft crew. Won’t you come with me?” In the last booth, sitting alone, Robert Goff ran a nervous hand down his cropped beard and nodded hello.
Julie paused at the bar to order a lager and another round of whatever Goff was drinking. Then she sat and thanked the man again for coming out so late.
“No trouble—I mean, Mr. Wood did say I was the person to speak with, didn’t he?”
“He certainly did. He admires the way you handle the ship. How long have you been with Hercules?”
“Almost five years now.”
“It must be interesting work.”
A deprecating shrug as he used thumb and forefinger to wipe foam from the corners of his mouth. “Gets a bit routine. After a while anything does, I suppose. But it’s a sight better than the dole.” His eyes, dark and haunted by some inner worry, finally met Julie’s. “How are jobs in the States, miss? I mean, can a chap find some decent work there?”
“Depends on what you want and what you offer. It’s a big country and there are opportunities. Why?”
“Um. I’ve been thinking of migrating. The States, Canada, Australia.” He shook his head and drank deeply again. “The shipping industry’s depressed worldwide, I know that. And I’m not sure what else I’m good for. But there’s not much of a future here. Not for a man wants to do best by his family.” Another drink and a long stare at the well-used table. “Still, home’s home, isn’t it?”
They talked through another pint about various job opportunities in America, its cost of living, the ubiquitous American violence that showed on the telly and in the tabloids. About differences in school systems and housing prices. The questions seemed to be the real reason Goff agreed to meet Julie, and she was happy to barter information. When enough debt had been established, she asked Goff about the Aurora Victorious and the death of Rossi.
“Yes, tragic, that. Fell down a ladder, I understand. It does happen.”
“Have there been many deaths aboard her?”
“Deaths? Not as many as some. And she hasn’t exploded yet, thank God. But her crew’s suffered the various broken bones and lost fingers and limbs.”
“I understand her electronics officer is home on leave.”
He nodded. “Each officer gets thirty days’ leave per twelvemonth. Doesn’t seem worth it to me. I mean, eleven months is a long time away from your wife and children.”
“Pierce has thirty days’ leave?”
“No—two weeks. Gets his thirty in two fortnights. He’s only a third officer, and junior officers sometimes have to do that. Scarcely time to get to know your kids again, eh?”
“Do you know Pierce’s address?”
“I should remember that. I mail his paycheck monthly … south of London … Kent … Rochester! Yes, that’s it: Primrose, number 42, Rochester, Kent. Do you need to talk with him?”
“He might have witnessed Rossi’s death—if so, I’d like a statement from him.” Julie shrugged. “My company wants as complete a file as possible
on major incidents. But a telephone call would do.”
“No one’s asked for that with any of the other deaths.”
“Have other ship’s officers been killed?”
“Well, no. Not on my vessels, anyway.”
“That must be why they’re asking—he was an officer.”
“I see. Well, I don’t know his number. BT information can give it right enough.”
Julie thanked him with another round of lager and more information about the States. “Yesterday you mentioned something about the location of the ship when Rossi was buried. Something about it being unusual?”
“I only meant that she was out of the usual southbound lane. Most tankers between the Gulf and the Cape go inshore of Madagascar. They make better time that way—currents or wind, I believe. I don’t know why the Aurora chose an eastern route.” He shook his head. “Wasn’t by my direction. Mr. Wood’s, maybe. And a ship’s master has some leeway for local weather, provided he don’t lose time overall.” He added, “Mr. Wood keeps the GPS records for all the vessels in his office.”
“Can you tell me who the agent was for the Golden Dawn?”
“The Golden Dawn?” Surprise lifted his eyebrows. “I was. That is, until Mr. Wood asked for it himself.”
“Wood handled that ship himself?”
“Yes. He’s head of the company’s tanker section. But he didn’t have her for long. She went down a couple of months after he took the account. All hands, too. Found a couple crewmen a bit later—what was left of them.”
“He arranged the ship’s insurance?”
“Oh, certainly. Whoever handles a vessel takes care of all that. Has to—get too many agents involved and things get overlooked. It’s a complex business, so the whole idea is to schedulize operations—make procedures as routine as possible so they can be checked and double-checked. Used to be one account, one agent. Now agents handle two, sometimes even three, because computers do a lot now. But things can still get bollixed up—insurance or bunkerage or shipping dates. And Mr. Wood’s damn quick to give the boot to anyone gets his accounts tangled.”
“Does Wood often take over a ship?”
“Only time since I’ve been there. At first I thought it was something I’d done—had me in a sweat, I can tell you. But it wasn’t, thank God. He just wanted to see to her personally, I suppose. He’s the section manger—does what he likes. And when she was lost, I was damn glad he was her agent and not me.” He explained, “Not that the agent can be blamed for perils of the sea or poor ship handling. But it’s a funny business. Agent gets the reputation for having bad luck with his vessels and he’s on his way out the door. And won’t find another open very soon.”
“Do you hire officers and crew?”
“The owners place the captain, with the advice and consent of the section manager, and that’s always a major confab. The captain represents the owners, you understand; he’s the one responsible to them for the vessel’s profit or loss. Office staff deal with recruiting agencies or sometimes unions for the crews. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On the flag the ship flies. Whether or not the owners are required to have citizens of that flag or can use crews of convenience. Hercules has crews of convenience on all its vessels. It’s a sight better for operating expenses.”
“Did you receive any of Rossi’s personal effects after his death? Letters, photographs, footlocker, that sort of thing?”
“Not I, nor would I. That’s up to the ship’s master. Sometimes they send the personal effects to the seafarer’s home address if they know it. Or to his recruiter for forwarding. Other times they don’t.” He shrugged. “Put what’s useful in the slop chest and bury the rest at sea with the body, I suppose.”
“Is it customary to have sea burials?”
“Oh, yes. Custom of the sea for centuries. No law against it, in international waters.”
Julie asked a few other questions, general ones about being an agent and about the tanker business. Questions that, in Goff’s memory, might blur what she had focused on. Then she gave the man tips about writing various chambers of commerce and what regional newspapers to pull up on the computer for current information. It wasn’t much help for a man who wanted to emigrate, but it might come in handy if anyone at Hercules Maritime ever found out about Goff’s conversation with her.
XII
Even the carpeted stairs pulled at Raiford’s sore thighs as he went down to the lower bridge deck. A long soak in a hot shower had washed a lot of pain from his strained muscles, but he knew it was going to take a couple of days for his legs to recover completely.
Not that he was suffering as much as Charley. As he tapped on the open door of the hospital room, Raiford could hear the man’s heavy, raw breathing. A single spartan bunk rested atop a chest of wide, gray metal drawers. The room also contained a small stainless steel cabinet with shelves filled by bottles and bandages. Its metal top held a steel washbowl and a well-used copy of the Shipmaster’s Medical Guide. Except for the panting sailor, the white room was vacant. Charley’s skin was as frail and sallow as a plucked chicken’s, and the bones of his chest showed in dim shadows. At the sound of the tapping, he slowly turned his head.
“You feeling better now, Charley?”
The pockmarked face twisted painfully into something like a smile that showed crooked teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Raifah. Thank you very much.”
“No problem. Couldn’t leave you down there, could we? Might spoil the oil.”
“Thank you very much!” Tears made his dark eyes shiny and wet as he struggled to rise on an elbow.
“Hey, Charley, what are shipmates for?” Raiford’s hand clapped on the man’s bony shoulder, half spanning his narrow back.
Charley clutched at Raiford’s arm as if it could keep him from sinking. “Thank you, sah!”
“All right, all right. That’s enough now, Charley. You’re wrinkling my skin. Anybody would have done it.”
“Not anybody. You. Not Mr. Hansford. You!”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Hansford went up for the oxygen mask. You still feeling a little sick? Stomach upset?” Raiford made a circling motion in front of his own stomach.
“No, no—feel good. Much better. Go to work very soon. Get up very soon!”
“Glad to hear it. Is there anything you need? Something I can get for you?”
“No—all okay now.”
“Fine. I have to report to Mr. Shockley, now, but I’ll come by later, okay? Make sure everything’s okay with you.”
“Okay, Mr. Raifah—thank you!”
Raiford drew his arm out of the man’s fevered clutch and gave a long sigh as he closed the door. For a minute there, he thought old Charley was going to pry himself off the cot and offer a big fat kiss. It figured that the guy would blow the rescue all out of proportion—it was his life. Still, Raiford felt pretty good about being a hero to Charley. The look in the man’s eyes brought back memories of the awe and wonder in the eyes of kids spilling onto the football field for autographs after a game. “Chin strap? Can I have your chin strap?” What did a kid do with a collection of sweaty, slobbery chin straps?
Hansford’s eyes had not held awe and wonder. They had been full of terror as he realized that a bubble of gas had drifted as near as Charley and could snare him next. And the engineer had run blindly. He tried, later, to make Raiford—and maybe himself—think that he had scrambled up the ladder for the oxygen mask. But oxygen wasn’t needed. They had the Drager gear, they had the resuscitators. And that’s what really saved Charley, even more than the long, nightmare climb. No, if Hansford had been capable of thought at all, he had been thinking only of himself, and that told Raiford how much he would be on his own in any other emergency. Still, remembering Hansford’s bulging, unseeing eyes, he wasn’t going to blame the engineering officer. The only reason Raiford had stayed be
hind to pick up Charley was because he was too dumb to know better. Maybe if, like Hansford, he’d seen what the gas could do to a human being, he would have had the same ungovernable terror.
While Sam had not said anything about Hansford leaving Charley to die, he had knelt on the hot steel beside the clenched and retching sailor and stared at the engineering officer with openmouthed dismay. And Hansford had escaped into his quarters as soon as possible, leaving Raiford to explain to the first mate in a few exhausted phrases what had happened.
Mr. Pressler, medical officer by virtue of his rank, had not summoned his best bedside manner for Charley. “Right. Well, haul the bugger down to hospital. I’ll take a look at him there—too damned hot out here. Shot of paregoric’ll have him back to work soon enough. Where the hell do you think you’re going, Mr. Raiford?”
“Change clothes.”
“Be damned quick about it. We’ll be tying up within the hour. I want you in the pump control room with Mr. Shockley when lading commences, hear me?”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
“I’m not the goddamned captain, you lubber! I’m the first mate!”
The second officer was not enthusiastic about having Raiford join him. “Mr. Pressler sent you here?”
“Told me to stick with you. Said you couldn’t function without my skill and talent.”
“Damned if he did!” The pudgy man stared in shock first at Raiford then at the dials and lights as the oil flowed into the tanks. Finally, he muttered, “The chief steward tells me you were quite the hero this morning.”
“Shucks, it warn’t nothing.”
Another noncommittal sound. Shockley touched the dials in answer to a flicker of red and green lights. “That relay in tank five seems to be working now.”
“Good. Hate to think that little trip was for nothing.”