by Wilbur Smith
not expect me to be party to a criminal act. They were all silent,
watching Samantha, for she was their leader, but for once she was at a
loss.
On the other hand, if a party of graduate researchers put in a
requisition, through the proper channels, I would be quite happy to
authorize an extended field expedition across the Straits to Grand
Bahama on board the Dicky.
Tom, you're a darling/ said Samantha.
That's a hell of a way to speak to your Professor/ said Tom, and scowled
happily at her.
They came in on the British Airways flight from Heathrow yesterday
afternoon. Three of them, here is a list of the names, Bernard Wackie
slid a notepad across the desk, and Nicholas glanced at it quickly.
Charles Gras - I know him, he's Chief Engineer at Construction Navale
Atlantique/ Nicholas explained.
Right/ Bernard nodded. He gave his occupation and employer to
Immigration. Isn't that privileged information? Bernard grinned. I
keep my ear to the ground, and then he was deadly serious again. All
right, so these three engineers have a small suitcase each and a crate
in the hold t at weighs three hundred and fifty kilos, and it's marked
Industrial Machinery . Don't stop now, Nicholas encouraged him.
And there is an S6iN Sikorsky helicopter sitting waiting for them on the
tarmac. The helicopter has been chartered direct from London by Christy
Marine of Leadenhall Street. The three engineers and the case of
machinery are shuttled aboard the Sikorsky so fast that it looks like a
conjuring trick, and she takes off and egg-beats for the south.
"Did the Sikorsky pilot file a flight-plan? Sure did. Servicing
shipping, course 196 magnetic. ETA to be reported. What's the range of
the 6iN - 500 nautical miles? Not bad/ Bernard conceded.
'533 for the standard, but this model has long-range tanks, she's good
for 75o. But that's one way, not the return journey. The helicopter
hasn't returned to Bermuda yet. She could refuel aboard - or, if they
aren't carrying av-gas, she could stay on until final destination/
Nicholas said. What else have you got? You want more? Bernard looked
aghast. Doesn't anything ever satisfy you? Did you monitor the
communications between Bermuda Control, the chopper, and the ship she
was servicing? Nix/ Bernard shook his head. There was a box-up. He
looked shamefaced. It happens to the best of us. Spare me the details.
Can you get information from Bermuda Control of the time the chopper
closed her flight-plan? Jesus, Nicholas, you know better than that.
It's an offence to listen in on the aviation frequencies, let alone ask
them. Nicholas jumped up, and crossed swiftly to the perspex plot. He
brooded over it, leaning on clenched fists, his expression smouldering
as he studied the large-scale map.
What does all this mean to you, Nicholas? Bernard came to stand beside
him.
It means that a vessel at sea, belonging to the Christy Marine fleet,
has requested its head office to send machinery spares and specialist
personnel by the fastest possible means, without regard to expense. Have
you figured the air freight on a package Of 3 5o, kilos? Nicholas
straightened up and groped for the crocodile-skin cheroot case.
It means that the vessel is broken down or in imminent danger of
breakdown somewhere in an area south-west of Bermuda, within an arc of
four hundred and fifty miles probably much closer, otherwise she would
have requested service from the Bahamas, and it's highly unlikely they
would have operated the chopper at extreme range. Right/Bernard agreed.
Nicholas lit his cheroot and they were both silent a moment.
A hell of a small needle in a bloody big haystack/ said Bernard.
you let me worry about that, Nicholas murmured, still without taking his
eyes from the plot.
That's what you are paid for, Bernard agreed amiably.
it's Golden Dawn, isn't it? Has Christy Marine got any other vessels in
the area? Not as far as I know. Then that was a bloody stupid
question. Take it easy, Nicholas. I'm sorry. Nicholas touched his
arm. My boy's on that pig, He took a deep draw on the cheroot, held it
a moment, and then slowly exhaled. His voice was calm and businesslike,
as he went on: What's our weather and Wind at 060 and knots. Cloud
three eighths stratocumulus at four thousand feet.
Long-range projection, no change. Steady trade winds again/ Nicholas
nodded. Thank God for all small mercies. There is a hurricane warning
out, as you know, but on its present position and track, it will blow
itself out to sea a thousand miles south of Grand Bahama.
"Good , Nicholas nodded again. Please ask both Warlock and Sea Witch to
report their positions, course, speed and fuel-conditions. Bernard had
the two telex flimsies for him within twenty minutes.
Warlock has made a good run of it/ Nicholas murmured, as the position of
the tug was marked on the plot.
She crossed the equator three days ago, said Bernard.
And Sea Witch will reach Charleston late tomorrow, Nicholas observed.
Are any of the opposition inside us? Bernard shook his head. McCormick
has one in New York and Wittezee is halfway back to Rotterdam., We are
in good shape/ Nicholas decided, as he balanced the triangles of
relative speeds and distances between the vessels.
Is there another chopper available on the island to get me out to
Warlock? I No/ Bernard shook his head. The 6iN is the only one based
on Bermuda. Can you arrange bunkering for Warlock, I mean immediate
bunkering - here in Hamilton? We can have her tanks filled an hour
after she comes in. Nicholas paused and then made the decision. Please
telex David Allen on Warlock, TO MASTER WARLOCK FROM BERG IMMEDIATE AND
URGENT NEW SPEED TOP OF THE GREEN NEW COURSE HAMILTON HARBOUR BERMUDA
ISLAND DIRECT REPORT EXPECTED TIME OF ARRIVAL ENDS.
You're going to run, then? Bernard asked. You are going to run with
both your ships? Yes, Nicholas nodded. I'm running with everything
I've got. Golden Dawn wallowed with the dead heavy weight of one
million tons of crude oil. Her motion was that of a waterlogged hulk.
Broadside to the set of the swells, her tank decks were almost awash.
The low seas broke against her starboard rail and the occasional crest
flopped over and spread like pretty patches of white lace-work over the
green plastic-coated decks.
She had been drifting powerlessly for four days now.
The main bearing of the single propeller shaft had begun to run hot
forty-eight hours after crossing the equator, and the Chief Engineer had
asked for shut-down to inspect the bearing and effect any repairs.
Duncan Alexander had forbidden any shut-down, over-riding the good
judgement of both his Master and Chief Engineer, and had only grudgingly
agreed to a reduction in the ship's speed.
He ordered the Chief Engineer to trace any fault and to effect what
repairs he could, while under reduced power.
Within four hours, the Chief had traced the damaged and leaking gland in
the pump that force-lubricated th
e bearing, but even the running under
reduced power setting had done significant damage to the main bearing,
and now there was noticeable vibration, jarring even Golden Dawn's
massive hull.
I have to get the pump stripped down or we'll burn her clear out, the
Chief faced up to Duncan Alexander at last.
Then you'll have to shut down and not just a couple of hours either, It
will take two days to fit new bearing shells at sea. The Chief was pale
and his lips trembled, for he knew of this man's reputation. The
engineer knew that he discarded those who crossed him, and he had the
reputation of a special vindictiveness to hound a man until he was
broken. The Chief was afraid, but his concern for the ship was just
strong enough.
Duncan Alexander changed direction. What was the cause of the pump
failure in the first place? Why wasn't it noticed earlier? It looks
like a case of negligence to me. Stung at last, the Chief blurted out,
If there had been a back-up pump on this ship, we could have switched to
secondary system and done proper maintenance. Duncan Alexander flushed
and turned away. The modifications he had personally ordered to Golden
DaWn's design had excluded most of the duplicated back-up systems;
anything that kept down the cost of construction had been ordered.
How long do you need? He stopped in the centre of the owner's stateroom
and glared at his engineer, Four hours/the Scot replied promptly.
You've got exactly four hours, he said grimly. if you haven't finished
by then you will live to regret it. I swear that to you.
While the engineer stopped his engines, stripped, repaired and
reassembled the lubrication pump, Duncan was on the bridge with the
Master, We've lost time, too much time, he said. I want that made up.
It will mean pushing over best economic speed/ Captain Randle warned
carefully.
Captain Randle, the value of our cargo is 85 dollars a ton. We have on
board one million tons. I want the time made up. Duncan brushed his
objection aside. We have a deadline to meet in Galveston roads. This
ship, this whole concept of carrying crude is on trial, Captain. I
don't have to keep reminding you of that. The hell with the costs, I
want to meet the deadline. Yes, Mr. Alexander/ Randle nodded. We'll
make up the time. Three and a half hours later, the Chief Engineer came
up to the bridge.
Well? Duncan turned on him fiercely as he stepped out of the elevator.
The pump is repaired, but What is it, man? I've got a feeling.
We ran her too long. I've got a nasty feeling about that bearing. It
wouldn't be clever to run her over 5o% of power, not until it's been
taken down and inspected I'm ordering revolutions for 25 knots, Randle
told him uneasily.
I wouldn't do that, man, the Chief shook his head mournfully.
Your station is in the engine room/ Duncan dismissed him brusquely,
nodded to Randle to order resumption of sailing, and went out to his
customary place on the open wing of the bridge. He looked back over the
high round stern as the white turbulence of the great propeller boiled
out from under the counter and then settled in a long slick wake that
soon reached back to the horizon. Duncan stood out in the wind until
after dark, and when he went below, Chantelle was waiting for him. She
stood up from the long couch under the forward windows of the stateroom.
We are under way again. Yes/he said. It's going to be all right. The
engine control was switched to automatic at nine o'clock local time that
night. The engine room personnel went up to dinner, and to bed, all
except the Chief Engineer. He lingered for another two hours shaking
his head and mumbling bitterly over the massive bearing assembly in the
long narrow shaft tunnel. Every few minutes, he laid his hand on the
massive casting, feeling for the heat and vibration that would warn of
structural damage.
At eleven o'clock, he spat on the steadily revolving propeller shaft. It
was thick as an oak trunk and polished brilliant silver in the stark
white lights of the tunnel.
He pushed himself up stiffly from his crouch beside the bearing.
In the control room, he checked again that all the ship's systems were
on automatic, and that all circuits were functioning and repeating on
the big control board, then he stepped into the elevator and went up.
Thirty-five minutes later, one of the tiny transistors in the board blew
with a pop like a champagne cork and a puff of grey smoke.
There was nobody in the control room to hear or see it. The system was
not duplicated, there was no back-up to switch itself in automatically,
so that when the temperature of the bearing began to rise again, there
was no impulse carried to the alarm system, no automatic shutdown of
power.
The massive shaft spun on while the over-heated bearing closed its grip
upon the area of rough metal, damaged by the previous prolonged running,
A fine sliver of metal lifted from the polished surface of the spinning
shaft, and curled like a silver hair spring, was caught up and smeared
into the bearing. The whole assembly began to glow a sullen cherry red
and then the oxide paint that was daubed on the outer surfaces of the
bearing began to blister and blacken. Still the tremendous power of the
engine forced the shaft around.
What oil was still being fed between the glowing surfaces of the
spinning shaft and the shells of the bearing turned instantly thin as
water in the heat, then reached its flash point and burst into flame and
ran in little fiery rivulets down the heavy casting of the main bearing,
flashing the blistered paint-work alight. The shaft tunnel filled with
thick billows of stinking chemical-tainted smoke, and only then did the
fire sensors come to life and their alarms repeated on the navigation
bridge and in the quarters of Master, First Officer and Chief Engineer.
But the great engine was still pounding along at 70% of power, and the
shaft still turned in the disintegrating bearing, smearing heat-softened
metal, buckling and distorting under unbearable strains.
The Chief Engineer was the first to reach the central console in the
engine control room, and without orders from the bridge he began
emergency shut-down of all systems.
It was another hour before the team under the direction of the First
Officer had the fire in the shaft tunnel under control. They used
carbon dioxide gas to smother the burning paint and oil, for cold water
on the heated metal would have aggravated the damage done by heat
distortion and buckling.
The metal of the main bearing casting was still so hot when the Chief
Engineer began opening it up, that it scorched the thick leather and
asbestos gloves worn by his team.
The bearing shells had disintegrated, and the shaft itself was brutally
scored and pitted. If there was distortion, the Chief knew it would not
be detected by eye. However, even a buckling of one ten thousandth of
an inch would be critical.
He cursed softly as he worked, nuking the obs
cenities sound like a
lullaby; he cursed the manufacturers of the lubricating pump, the men
who had installed and tested it, the damaged gland and the lack of a
back-up system, but mostly he cursed the stubbornness and intractability
of the Chairman of Christy Marine whose ill-advised judgement had turned
this functionally beautiful machinery into blackened smoking twisted
metal.
It was mid-morning by the time the Chief had the spare bearing shells
brought up from stores and unpacked from their wood shavings in the
wooden cases; but it was only when they came to fit them that they
realized that the cases had been incorrectly stencilled. The
half-shells that they contained were obsolete non-metric types, and they
were five millimetres undersized for Golden Dawn's shaft that tiny
variation in size made them utterly useless.
It was only then that Duncan Alexander's steely urbane control began to
crack; he raged about the bridge for twenty minutes making no effort to
think his way out of the predicament, but abusing Randle and his
engineer in wild and extravagant terms. His rage had a paralysing
affect on all Golden Dawn's officers and they stood white-faced and
silently guilty.
Peter Berg had sensed the excitement and slipped up unobtrusively to
watch. He was fascinated by his stepfather's rage. He had never seen a
display like it before, and at one stage he hoped that Duncan
Alexander's eyeballs might actually burst like over-ripe grapes; he held
his breath in anticipation, and felt cheated when it did not happen.
At last, Duncan stopped and ran both hands through his thick waving
hair; two spikes of hair stood up like devil's horns. He was still
panting but he had recovered partial control.
Now sir, what do you propose? he demanded of Randle, and in the silence
Peter Berg piped up.
You could have new shells sent from Bermuda - it's only three hundred
miles away. We checked it this morning., How did you get in here?
Duncan swung round. Get back to your mother, Peter scampered, appalled
at his own indiscretion, and only when he left the bridge did the Chief
speak.
We could have spares flown out from London to Bermuda There must be a
boat -'Randle cut in swiftly.
Or an aircraft to drop it to us Or a helicopter Get Christy Main on the
telex/ snapped Duncan Alexander.