Death of a Supertanker

by Antony Trew

  ‘Because what?’ insisted Foley. ‘Come on, let’s have it. Feel free to speak your mind.’

  She looked at him with narrowed eyes, hating him at that moment, wondering how far she could go. ‘Because he likes me and I like him. And because he can do things you can’t. Like knocking out those two men and preventing God knows what.’

  Foley’s face was tense and drawn as he pulled the sheet over his shoulder and turned his back on her. ‘I hope the bloody lip goes septic,’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s exactly the rotten sort of thing you would hope,’ she said. ‘You’re all mixed up, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake shut up and turn out the light. I want to go to sleep.’

  She got into the bed, turned off the light and lay there thinking. She had remained in the chief officer’s cabin after the catering officer had gone. She re-lived those minutes, the things Jarrett had said, the way he’d held her, his cheek against hers because, as he’d explained, ‘I can’t kiss you with this bloody lip.’

  So she had kissed him, given him a final hug, and left the cabin.

  It was the breakthrough, and it had been very exciting.

  Chapter 6

  Nico Kostadis took the dinner bill from the waiter and went on talking while he checked it with the detached air of a man well able to distribute his attention. ‘Thank you,’ he said replacing it on the salver. ‘We’ll have coffee and brandies on the terrace. Don’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll be there, sir.’ Kostadis was a generous tipper. A man, the waiter decided, with a large expense account.

  Foley followed his host on to the terrace. They sat at a table above the swimming pool, a discreet comfortable place, dimly lit, where the sound of the sea breaking on the rocks below masked conversation. It was a warm night, dark with no moon, and from the lighthouse which stood like a giant sentinel in front of the Oyster Box, a long finger of light swept the sea at regular intervals.

  The waiter brought coffee and brandies, Kostadis signed the chit and told him to come again before too long. The two men talked inconsequentially of many things, laughing at times, silent at others. The waiter reappeared occasionally to replenish the brandies and coffee and, inevitably, conversation became more personal as the night wore on.

  ‘If I’m to hold her I’ve got to leave the sea,’ said Foley. ‘Make real money. God knows how. And why the hell? Tanker life suits me. The company pays well …’ He shook his head. ‘But … I don’t know …’ He left the sentence unfinished, looking into his brandy as if it was in some way involved in his perplexities.

  ‘She doesn’t like being left on her own?’ Kostadis decided privately that this was probably the misstatement of the year.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s more than that. Her ambitions are way ahead of wife of the second mate of a tanker. She’s very status conscious. You know – wants a big house, two cars – Jag for me, Lotus for herself – sort of thing. Holidays at Cannes.’ Foley drained the goblet. ‘And clothes, my goodness, how she goes for clothes. Expensive ones. No wonder we struggle.’

  Kostadis examined the end of his cigar with studied care, sighed audibly. ‘You know, George, behind most successful men there’s a woman like Sandy. Ambitious, pushing, determined to make her man exploit his potential. It’s not a bad thing. It happened to me. I didn’t get to where I am without that sort of prodding. Kate wasn’t going to end her days as the wife of a tanker engineer and she let me know it.’

  ‘We quarrel a lot,’ said Foley gloomily. ‘She gets steamed up at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘Sounds like married life,’ Kostadis observed dryly. ‘Look, George, as marine-superintendent I’m the last person to suggest that you should leave the sea. But you’ve got a problem. Hell … I can see that. At twenty-six you’ve a lot of life ahead of you. You’ve already got an Extra Master’s Certificate. That’s pretty good. Unusual. Shows drive. If you’re convinced the only way to hold her is to make good ashore, get on with it. I’ve no doubt you’ve got the necessary qualities.’ Kostadis leant forward, his voice all the more deliberate. ‘Let’s be honest. Prospects at sea are worse than they’ve been for a long time. Bottom’s dropped out of the tanker market. Ships are being laid up. Ocean Mammoth will probably be one of them soon. We’re waiting for a decision. Don’t repeat that. It’s highly confidential but it’s a fact.’

  ‘Christ.’ Foley sounded startled. ‘That’s great, isn’t it. Especially with things the way they are ashore. Economy in a mess. Record unemployment. Not much chance of my landing anything.’ He grimaced, shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless sort of way. ‘Join the dole queue, I suppose.’

  Kostadis drank more brandy, drew on this cigar. ‘Let me tell you something, George. Pessimism is a coward’s philosophy. You never know what’s round the corner. Every man is confronted at least once in a lifetime with an exceptional opportunity. It usually comes when least expected and it’s not always recognized. The reason why some men succeed where others fail is just that. They see the opportunity – and, equally important – ’ he paused, looking out to sea, describing an explanatory circle with his cigar, ‘they have the courage, the guts if you like, to seize it. To take the risks almost always involved if something big is to be achieved.’

  Foley was silent, thoughtful, chin in hand, looking down to the pool where splashing and laughter came from late night bathers. Two men daring a bikini-clad woman to join them. Foley was wondering whether he should tell Kostadis what was on his mind. Make it clear that he hadn’t just sat idle, let opportunity slide by. He decided he would. ‘Opportunity’s not so easily come by,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind telling you now. Because of Sandy, I’ve applied for three shore jobs in the last twelve months. One was in the Australian harbour service – another as marine-super to a North Sea oil outfit – and the third for a post with a navigation school in Southampton. In each case an Extra Master’s ticket was an essential qualification. In each case my application was turned down.’

  Kostadis turned to him, smiled sympathetically. ‘There’s fierce competition for that sort of job nowadays, George. Always a lot of well-qualified applicants, many with experience of command at sea. But don’t give up hope. You never know when opportunity will come knocking at the door.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Foley conceded, lost in private thought.

  Kostadis changed the subject. ‘You don’t like Jarrett. What’s the trouble?’

  Foley showed surprise. It was the first time Kostadis had mentioned the chief officer, and the question was irrelevant to what they were discussing. ‘You know that, do you?’ He paused, frowning at the older man. ‘Chemistry, I suppose. We’re allergic to each other.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ The marine-superintendent watched him through half-closed eyes. Foley fidgeted with the stem of the brandy goblet. ‘He fancies Sandy. Makes passes at her.’

  ‘She’s an attractive woman, George. Of course men are going to notice her.’

  ‘It’s more than that. She thinks he is,’ he mimicked his wife’s accent, ‘quite outstanding.’

  Kostadis knocked ash from his cigar. ‘He’s a very capable man, I’d say. But that’s no reason for you to do the jealous husband bit.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Would you say he’s a dependable man? One who could be relied on?’

  Before Foley could answer a man came from the darkness at the lower end of the terrace, walked past their table, turned and came back. ‘Nico Kostadis, isn’t it?’ He held out a hand.

  Kostadis stood up, stared at the newcomer doubtfully, then with a sudden laugh took his hand. ‘Stefan! What the hell are you doing here?’ They shook hands warmly. Kostadis introduced the two men. ‘Stefan Suvic – George Foley. Stefan and I haven’t seen each other for years. He’s from Nicosia. Or used to be. Sit down, Stefan. Have a drink.’

  A waiter came up, took the order and disappeared. For some time Kostadis and the newcomer monopolized the conversation, exchanging news, enquiring after mutual acquaintances and generally br
inging each other up to date. Kostadis explained what had brought him to Durban – that he was staying at the Oyster Box and likely to be there another week. Suvic, it appeared, had flown in the day before on behalf of Iranian principals. ‘To sort out a tangled sugar contract,’ he said. ‘I’m staying at the pub next door.’ With a thumb he indicated the massive tower block of the Beverly Hills Hotel. ‘I’ll be flying back to Teheran shortly. Report to the people there. Then back to Nicosia.’

  The waiter came to the table. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said to Kostadis. ‘You’re wanted on the phone. It’s urgent, the caller says.’

  Kostadis apologized and hurried off.

  ‘Probably a woman,’ suggested Suvic. ‘It’s always urgent with them.’ He was a dark man with a low hairline and an expressive simian face, its seams and folds constantly changing. The mid-European accent suggested Czech or Yugoslav. Foley wasn’t sure which, but he decided there was something very likeable about the stranger, whatever the country of origin.

  While they waited for Kostadis they exchanged the small talk of men who had just met. Suvic asked Foley what he did and where he was from. He expressed surprise when he learnt that he was second officer of a supertanker. ‘Which one?’ he enquired.

  ‘Ocean Mammoth. The ship Nico Kostadis has been talking about.’

  ‘Is that so? How d’you like the job?’

  ‘Not too bad. Has its snags like everything else.’

  The conversation turned to the forthcoming OPEC price increase, the state of the tanker market, the North Sea oil bonanza, and efforts in the West to develop alternative power sources.

  Suvic was an interesting, well-informed man and Foley was disappointed when Kostadis came back. It meant he had to take a back seat again.

  ‘Sorry‚’ said the marine-superintendent. ‘It was Hoffman of Marinreparat. The new rotor will be delivered to the ship tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Foley. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’

  For Suvic’s benefit Kostadis explained briefly the repair problem, more drinks were ordered, and the three men sat talking to a late hour. Before they parted Suvic had invited them to dinner at Beverly Hills on the following night.

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Foley. ‘But I’ll have to clear it with my wife.’ He grinned apologetically. ‘Two consecutive nights out on my own, you know.’

  ‘Of course‚’ said Suvic. ‘I understand.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must go. I have much work tomorrow.’

  When he’d gone Foley said, ‘Nice chap. What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Visiting fireman,’ said Kostadis.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Trouble-shooter, fixer. When the big boys have a problem they send for him. He fixes it. That’s how he made his money.’

  ‘What’s his nationality?’

  ‘Czech. But he’s lived in Cyprus for years,’

  It was close to one o’clock when Kostadis saw Foley to the car which he’d organized for the second officer’s journey back into Durban. ‘You’ll find the Marinreparat launch waiting for you at the Point Ferry Jetty. I fixed it with them this afternoon.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Nico. And thanks for the dinner. It was great.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ said Kostadis. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  A tug towing a lighter arrived alongside Ocean Mammoth early in the afternoon of the following day. It made fast abreast the after superstructure on the port side, the ship’s gantry crane was run out to plumb the lighter, and the HP rotor was lifted clear. Sandy Foley, watching the operation with two other wives, was surprised how relatively small this much discussed and important piece of machinery was. About three and a half feet in diameter, she estimated, and four or five feet long. But it was heavy and had to be handled carefully. From the top of the gantry it was hauled inboard along the overhead transverse crane which travelled across the beam of the ship through the superstructure housing at maindeck level. Once amidships the rotor was transferred to the fore-and-aft overhead crane which traversed the length of the engineroom. When it was immediately above the HP turbine casing it was lowered gently into position and the contractors began the work of fitting.

  The arrival of the new rotor had a remarkable and tonic effect on morale. There was cheerful chatter, laughter and an air of happy expectation throughout the ship. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from the shoulders of those on board. It was, in fact, no more than the old truth that delays in harbour make for restless sailors and a longing for the sea, for getting on with the voyage which must at its end bring them home.

  Kostadis had arranged to meet George Foley on the verandah of the Royal Hotel to drive him out to Umhlanga Rocks where they were to dine with Stefan Suvic.

  When Kostadis arrived he was full of apologies. ‘Sorry, old chap. I can’t make it tonight. Have to attend a conference with the Marinreparat people and the marine surveyors. We’ve a problem to sort out. My driver will take you to the Beverly Hills. Tell Stefan I’ll come along after dinner if we finish early enough.’

  They evidently didn’t finish early enough, because Kostadis hadn’t turned up by eleven o’clock when Foley bade Suvic goodnight and got into the car which was to take him to the Ferry Jetty in time for the eleven-thirty launch.

  Not that Kostadis’s absence had in any way detracted from a memorable evening. On the contrary, the dinner had been unusually good and Stefan Suvic had proved to be an entertaining host with interesting and important things to say. Afterwards, on the journey back into Durban, Foley realized how fortunate it was that the marine-superintendent had been otherwise engaged.

  Chapter 7

  Two days after the new turbine rotor had been delivered to Ocean Mammoth, Captain Crutchley, Kostadis and Lars Ham-marsen were discussing ship’s business in the Master’s dayroom.

  ‘We’re now two assistant stewards short,’ said the Captain. ‘Transferred one to the bulk carrier with Middleton last week. We’ve managed without him, but this morning we discharged Alvarez to hospital. Acute duodenal ulcer. Bad, they say. We’ll need a replacement before sailing.’

  Kostadis said, ‘Can you manage that, Lars?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll see to it.’ Hammarsen made an entry in his notebook. ‘I’ve a man in mind.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ enquired the Captain.

  ‘Remember Beau Rivage? Where we lunched on Sunday.’

  ‘Yes. Up on the ridge.’

  ‘The waiter who looked after us. Piet Pieterse. He’s the man.’

  Captain Crutchley appeared doubtful, but said nothing.

  ‘I’ve been using Beau Rivage for several years,’ went on Hammarsen. ‘He’s always looked after me well. For the last few months he’s been begging me to find him a ship. Wants to get to Europe. Comes from the Cape. His brother got into some sort of political trouble and is in prison. That was the last straw for Pieterse. He wants to get out.’

  Kostadis looked up from under bushy eyebrows. ‘Will the authorities let him go?’

  ‘Yes. I know the people here. There won’t be any problem. He has a clean sheet. No trade union snags either, with the ship Cypriot-registered.’

  ‘I see.’ Captain Crutchley was thoughtful. ‘When will he join?’

  ‘The day before sailing,’ said Hammarsen. ‘In say three or four days. Can you manage until then?’

  ‘We’ll have to,’ said the Captain.

  Kostadis looked at his watch, stood up. ‘Don’t move, gentlemen. I’ve an appointment with the marine surveyor and the contractors at eleven-thirty. Must go now.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Captain Crutchley. ‘There’s not much left to discuss.’

  When Kostadis had gone, Hammarsen said, ‘There’s a hardworking go-getter for you. No wonder he’s so highly thought of in Zurich.’

  ‘A busy man.’ The Captain said it with studious indifference. ‘What about the other half?’

  ‘Thank you. Gin and ton
ic.’ Hammarsen handed over his glass. Crutchley refilled it from the silver salver on the coffee table between the armchairs and passed it back.

  ‘Not having another, Captain?’

  Crutchley held up his half-finished drink. ‘Still going strong.’

  Hammarsen looked at him curiously, wondering what was going on behind the dark glasses. He had long ago decided that this was a strange, unpredictable man – a loner if ever there was one. ‘So McLintoch is happy with the progress of the repair work,’ he prompted.

  ‘Satisfied. Not happy.’

  ‘Any doubts about keeping to the provisional sailing date? The twenty-sixth?’

  ‘No,’ said Crutchley.

  Hammarsen raised his glass. ‘Cheers then, Captain. That’s good. I’ll confirm with the port authorities this afternoon. If that meets with your approval.’ He took a printed form from his briefcase, unfolded it and inserted the date. ‘Provisional notification of departure,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t commit us and we don’t have to indicate a time until the day before sailing. Even then it’s subject to final confirmation. Has to be signed by the Master. I wonder if you’d mind?’

  Captain Crutchley took the form, pulled himself out of the armchair. ‘I’ll get my pen,’ he said.

  Hammarsen took one from his pocket. ‘Use mine, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll get my own.’ The Captain went through to the bedroom, took off his dark glasses and studied the form with a magnifying glass. Satisfied, he signed it.

  He went back to the dayroom, handed it to Hammarsen. ‘Our future movements. Still no news?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid.’ Hammarsen nodded sympathetically. ‘Kostadis says London and Zurich are making every effort to find a charter. I’m afraid these are difficult times.’

  Through his sun-glasses Captain Crutchley tried to read the blurred image of the agent’s face but he could find no clue there to the truth he suspected. No subtlety of expression came through but perhaps that was because of the blurring.