Death of a Supertanker

by Antony Trew

  ‘The agents in the Gulf are trying, too‚’ Hammarsen was saying. ‘Without success it seems.’ Over the Captain’s shoulder he could see through a window to the blue waters of the Bay. ‘Even if there’s no charter by sailing date, you can always be diverted at sea.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Captain Crutchley. ‘We can.’

  Hammarsen held up his drink. ‘Anyway. Let’s drink to a successful voyage.’

  The Captain nodded as if that were toast enough, drained his glass and replaced it somewhat noisily on the salver. He hoped the gesture would encourage Hammarsen to leave. Only when he had could Crutchley go to the bathroom, attend to his eyes and take something for the headache which had grown more severe as the morning proceeded.

  A breeze came through the open windows of Beau Rivage high on the ridge above the Umgeni River, and table candles flickered discreetly on the faces of the diners. To the south the lights of the city shone anonymously, their glittering pattern ruled off abruptly in the east by the dark flank of the Indian Ocean.

  ‘Marvellous view.’ Suvic pointed with his cheroot to the south.

  ‘Absolutely marvellous,’ agreed Jarrett. ‘And poor old Ocean Mammoth somewhere down there in that sea of light.’

  ‘Surely not old and poor. New and worth fifty million dollars I gather.’ Suvic coughed, half choked, frowned at the cheroot. ‘That’s a lot of money,’ he finished hoarsely.

  Behind the dissonant voices and sudden bursts of laughter, taped music wove a thin pattern of sound. Suvic looked at the cut on Jarrett’s lip. ‘Still worrying you?’

  Jarrett touched it with a finger. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What happened to the man?’

  ‘He was logged and fined.’

  A waiter appeared from behind the folds of a drawn curtain, took the wine from the ice-bucket and refilled their glasses. ‘Coffee, gentlemen?’

  ‘Please.’ Suvic looked at Jarrett. ‘Port or brandy?’

  ‘Brandy,’ said Jarrett.

  ‘Make it two,’ said Suvic. The waiter returned the wine bottle to the ice-bucket and disappeared.

  Suvic said, ‘Good man. Always around when you want him. Never says an unnecessary word, gets on with the job and knows when to smile.’

  Jarrett smiled. ‘You sound like a restaurateur.’

  ‘I know quite a lot about waiters,’ said Suvic. ‘Most of it not to their credit.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something,’ said Jarrett. ‘He’s from the Cape and the only waiter I’ve seen here tonight who isn’t Indian.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Mixed race. Mostly from the Cape. The remnants of colonization.’ Jarrett lit the cheroot Suvic offered him, drew on it. ‘How did you find this place, Stefan?’

  ‘Nico Kostadis told me of it. His agent Hammarsen put him on to it. Don’t you remember the discussion? The other night when I bumped into you and Nico at the Oyster Box. That chat about Durban’s alleged night life?’

  Jarrett shook his head. ‘I don’t remember that, I’m afraid. Haven’t found the night life, anyway.’

  Suvic watched him through a haze of blue smoke. ‘You’d gone off to pee perhaps.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The waiter came back with the coffee and brandies. ‘Black or white, sir?’

  ‘Black for me,’ said Suvic.

  ‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Jarrett. He winked at the waiter who smiled but said nothing.

  In the boardroom off the Seefeldstrasse a meeting had just concluded. It had been a difficult, gloomy affair. Among other things, Kurt Raustadt had reported on his telephone conversation with Kostadis in Durban that morning. Repair work in Ocean Mammoth’s engineroom was well in hand, and should be completed within the next few days. But that was the only good news, if indeed it was good news since there was no employment for the ship.

  As for the rest, it was anything but good: the Liechtenstein banks, said the chairman, had proved as unco-operative as the Zurich consortium. Urgent attempts to raise finance in Paris, London, Frankfurt, New York, Tel Aviv and Bahrain had all met with the same chilly response. Bankers were in no mood to rescue tanker owners in a faltering economic climate and with so much tonnage unemployed.

  ‘It seems,’ said the chairman despondently, ‘that we have come to the end of the road. Short of a miracle we face the unpleasant reality of liquidation.’

  Le Febre, having expressed his customary concern that the caution he’d so long advocated had been flouted, finished with, ‘The disastrous results of that disregard are now plain for all to see.’ He sat back with the injured dignity of a prophet without honour in his own country.

  The chairman forced an astringent smile. ‘No one likes liquidation, my dear le Febre, but it is not the end of the world. Your personal shareholding is no more than nominal, if I remember correctly?’

  ‘The holdings of those I represent are anything but nominal‚’ rasped the Frenchman. ‘And much of the institutional money comes from the savings of small investors.’

  ‘Then I suggest you leave the grief to them.’ The chairman gathered his mobile features into the affected smile of a man who knows he’s made a quick kill. ‘And now‚’ he said, ‘I would like to get on with the business of the meeting.’

  That business was fairly quickly dealt with: one, Ocean Mammoth was to return to the United Kingdom in ballast for laying-up in a Scottish loch, her crew to be paid off on arrival in the Clyde and informed that there were no prospects of re-employment in the foreseeable future. Two, there was to be another meeting in a week’s time when the Board would consider the liquidation report to be drawn up by Raustadt in consultation with the company’s auditors and legal advisers.

  On this gloomy note they had broken up, the chairman and deputy-chairman remaining in the boardroom after the others, including the staff, had left.

  ‘Shall we go through to my office?’ suggested the managing-director.

  ‘Of course, Kurt‚’ said the chairman, ‘Let us do that.’

  In a bay window on the south side of the managing-director’s office, the three men sat in leather easy chairs, their faces pallid in the light from green shaded lamps on tall stands behind them.

  The chairman leant forward, hands grasping the arms of the chair, his lined features troubled. ‘Is he sure he’s picked the right man, Kurt?’

  ‘Yes. Quite sure.’

  The deputy-chairman, bald, hunched, came upright with the sudden jerk of a glove puppet. ‘I dare say. But are we sure?’

  Kurt Raustadt smoothed his thick black hair with what was intended as a reassuring gesture but which his listeners took to be nervousness – it was in fact both. ‘How can we be sure? We have to be guided by those on the spot.’

  ‘You are absolutely certain we cannot be involved?’ The chairman’s gathered brow and narrowed eyes reflected a concern which went to the marrow of his being.

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. Only he knows who has been selected. No one else. Not us. Not even Kostadis. The matter will be handled by three different Swiss banks. He will send instructions to them as from three different clients. From Cairo, Barcelona and Algiers. In no way can they be traced to us.’

  The chairman drew on his cigar, expelled the blue-grey smoke and watched it absent-mindedly on its slow climb to the ceiling.

  ‘The deposit,’ he said. ‘Is that in hand?’

  ‘Yes. He has a bearer receipt with him. To be completed and handed over on acceptance.’

  ‘That’s no guarantee of fulfilment.’ The deputy-chairman’s tone was belligerent.

  ‘True enough,’ conceded Raustadt. ‘But it buys confidence. That’s an important ingredient.’

  ‘A great deal of money is involved,’ said the chairman. ‘He must be successful.’ He unclasped his hands, sat upright, drumming on his knees with his fingers. ‘Now let’s change the subject. Something more pleasant. A drink for example, Kurt?’

  ‘Of course, Chairman.’ The managing-director walked over to the Louis XV rosewood corner cupbo
ard, unlocked and opened its curved door. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Scotch-on-the-rocks, Kurt.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said the deputy-chairman.

  The managing-director sighed audibly. ‘At least that problem is capable of solution.’

  Chapter 8

  Monday, 25 October, promised to be an important day for Ocean Mammoth. The engineroom repairs had been completed and the day was devoted to testing the new turbine rotor and shaft coupling while the ship was still alongside. All being well she would sail from Durban at five-thirty that afternoon. To what destination was as yet unknown.

  The atmosphere of expectation and excitement which these events inspired was at its height when Captain Crutchley spoke over the ship’s broadcast at 0930.

  ‘Attention all hands. This is the Captain speaking. As you know the ship is due to sail at five-thirty this afternoon. Until half an hour ago I did not know our destination. At nine o’clock I received a message from the agents ashore repeating one received from London. Here it is: On leaving Durban Ocean Mammoth is to proceed at three-quarters speed to the Clyde to be laid up until such time as the charter market for crude oil carriers has recovered. The crew will be paid off on arrival at the Clyde. The management regrets there is no prospect of their re-employment in the foreseeable future. Those who are on contract will be dealt with on a redundancy basis.

  ‘That,’ said Captain Crutchley, ‘is the end of the message. I can only say how deeply I regret having to convey such news to you.’

  The broadcast shed gloom throughout the ship and confirmed for Crutchley his original foreboding that nothing good would come of the Durban visit.

  The day of sailing is always a busy one for a ship’s master, and there was a steady stream of people to see Captain Crutchley, most of them with documents to be signed: port and health officials, representatives of the contractors, Lloyds agents, the marine surveyors, ship’s chandlers, the media and many others. Somehow he managed to cope with them, to sign where he was required to sign, to offer a drink where custom demanded he should, to be as businesslike yet courteous as befitted the Master. At times, between the arrival and departure of one official visitor and another, he would go to the bathroom and attend to his eyes. Yet despite this, they became more inflamed and the accompanying headaches more persistent as the day proceeded.

  Somehow, too, he found time in the course of this busy day to write to his wife for he felt it was important she should learn from him and not from rumour what lay in store for Ocean Mammoth and those who served in her.

  He did not, however, tell her the result of his visit to the ophthalmic surgeon two days earlier. The news he had sent her was, he felt, bad enough without that.

  During the afternoon the chief engineer and the contractor’s representative informed the Captain that tests of the new turbine rotor and shaft coupling had shown that certain adjustments were necessary. It was expected these would be completed by midnight. Captain Crutchley telephoned Lars Hammarsen and the port authorities and the time of sailing was put back to 0530 the following morning. The Captain decided to adhere to his decision that there should be no further shore leave before sailing.

  Later that day Ocean Mammoth’s refilled swimming pool, discreetly sited against the engineroom housing on the port side aft, was once again in use. It was a hot day and the sun shone down from a cloudless sky. There were only two bathers at the pool. Both were women, and they lay on lilos at opposite ends as if they had gone to some pains to get as far as possible from each other, which was indeed the case. Around them lay bathing towels, caps, sun-tan oils, periodicals, paperbacks and transistors.

  Sandy lay on her back, a straw hat over her eyes, a cassette recorder at her side purring Abba music. She was almost asleep when Jarrett, who’d been inspecting mooring lines and winches in the stern, arrived silently. He put his hard hat and R/T set on the bench, took out a handkerchief, mopped his face and considered the almost nude figure at his feet.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  She started, pushed the sun-hat away from her eyes and saw him. ‘Hi, Freeman. Come to swim?’ She turned down the volume on the recorder.

  ‘Not bloody likely. Too busy, love. Heard the buzz about sailing?’

  ‘Yes. It was broadcast. Five-thirty tomorrow morning.’

  He looked towards where Doris Benson lay at the far end. ‘She may be asleep‚’ he said, ‘but turn up that volume again in case she isn’t.’

  The volume went up and Abba delivered their message of love more loudly. ‘That’s better‚’ he said. ‘Now I can tell you what’s on my mind.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He dropped his voice. ‘A very important message. You’ve got a beautiful body. It’s a challenge. It does things to me.’

  She laughed happily. ‘Thank you, sir. You do things to me.’

  He leant closer. ‘How about doing them now?’

  ‘Freeman! How can you suggest such a thing to a respectable married woman.’ She folded her hands on her breasts in a gesture of modesty. He looked at her with half-closed eyes, speculating, trying to read her thoughts. ‘Has George any clue about our lunches?’

  She shook her head. ‘Definitely not. And let’s keep it like that.’

  ‘A room with a view‚’ he said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Can I ever forget? Fabulous view over the sea.’

  ‘I didn’t see much of that. There was a lot else to look at.’

  ‘Don’t be so basic, Freeman. Anyway, stop it. You’re turning me on.’ She sat up, put on her sun-hat, clasped her hands round her knees. ‘What are you going to do when we get back to the UK?’

  ‘I’m not worrying. You know I’m fed up with this life. I’ve wanted to make the break for a long time. Now the decision’s made for me. On balance I like that.’

  She looked at him with concerned, affectionate eyes. ‘It’s a terribly bad time to be looking for a job.’

  He stood up, stretched and yawned. ‘I’ll be okay, Sandy. Something worthwhile will turn up. It always does. I was born under a lucky star.’

  ‘I hope it does, Freeman. I hope you were.’

  The R/T set on the bench came alive. It was the Captain requesting the chief officer to report at once to his office.

  ‘Bloody hell‚’ said Jarrett. ‘Man can’t even chat up a girl friend.’ He put on the hard hat, picked up the R/T, put the leather strap round his neck.

  ‘’Bye now, Sandy. Look after the body beautiful.’

  ‘Don’t you ever think of anything else?’

  ‘Not often where you’re concerned.’ He smiled, blew her a discreet kiss and made for the accommodation housing.

  The atmosphere in Ocean Mammoth’s bar-lounge that evening was a mixture of gloom and gaiety. There was relief that the long stay in Durban was about to end, that uncertainty about the ship’s destination and the crew’s employment had gone, and some comfort that they were homeward bound. But those thoughts were overshadowed by the realities of their situation, the knowledge that at the journey’s end the ship would be laid up and they would have to face the problem of unemployment.

  Kostadis and Lars Hammarsen, only too well aware of these feelings among the ship’s officers, did their best to instil some sort of optimism as they made their farewells.

  ‘Look,’ said Kostadis, facing those nearest him at the bar. ‘Tanker markets recover as quickly as they collapse. We’ve seen it before and we’ll see it again.’

  ‘Not much comfort when you’re out of a job,’ said Foley.

  ‘You’ll have your redundancy hand-out,’ Kostadis reminded him. ‘That should see you through the worst of it.’

  ‘Three months’ pay? You must be joking. And my wife expecting,’ declared Jerry Whitelot recklessly, his voice thick with whisky. ‘That’s a fine bloody prospect.’

  ‘We’re a small company and a young one.’ Kostadis’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like criticism of the company, implied or otherwise. ‘We do our best for you but we
don’t control the world’s tanker market.’

  ‘Some of the circulars from Head Office give the impression you try to.’ Freeman Jarrett smiled sardonically, looked into his tankard. ‘But let’s cheer up. Things are never as bad as they seem.’

  ‘A damn sight worse, usually,’ suggested George Foley.

  ‘They are if you care to make them that way.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ challenged Foley.

  ‘Anything you like to think.’ Jarrett turned his back on the second officer, slid his tankard across the counter. ‘I’ll have the same again.’

  The steward filled it, passed it back.

  Lars Hammarsen, sensing the tension, lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to you, gentlemen. And to you, ladies‚’ he added as Sandy Foley and Doris Benson joined them. ‘Bon voyage, and may the future not be as black as it looks.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Kostadis raised the tankard and his long nose almost disappeared into it.

  At a nearby table Abu Seku, a young Ghanaian, one of several fifth engineers on board – the ‘fivers’ – raised his tankard to his Welsh colleague. ‘Balls,’ he said, ‘to all agents, ship owners, oil sheiks and other exploiters of the working classes.’

  ‘A fine sentiment, Abu,’ said Gareth Lloyd, who was also a ‘fiver’. ‘I’ll drink to that. Balls to the lot of them.’ He drained the tankard in two mighty gulps. ‘Thank Christ I’ll be home soon and along to Cardiff Arms to see the Welsh massacre the bloody English.’

  ‘Another fine sentiment,’ said the Ghanaian. ‘Racist bastards. Let’s have the next pint.’

  At the bar Jarrett was ordering a gin and tonic. He took it over to Sandy Foley. ‘Have a good swim?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘Marvellous,’ she whispered.

  ‘Meet any interesting people?’

  ‘Yes. A handsome stranger.’

  ‘Nice guy?’