by Sewell, Ron
With the engine de-clutched, his feet hit the deck and he ran out the landing, letting the steel-tipped skids slow the craft. A sudden gust caught the wing and lifted him. He pressed his non-slip soles into the deck and stopped the drift. “Shit,” he shouted as the tip of the wing caught and twisted.
Annoyed, he unzipped his harness and secured the craft to a deck ring. “Night-Fighter, unexpected gusts made landing dodgy. I recommend you land on the aft end of the deck. For you, that means the back end!”
“Thanks, Ghost – on my way.”
Petros waited for Bear to land and assisted in fastening his craft. “I’ve bent my starboard wing strut.”
“Let’s take a gander.”
Petros removed both containers from the frames, opened one, and deposited its contents on the deck. He picked up a roll of tape, while his friend studied the bent spar.
Bear raised his head. “I’ll go back and get the spare.”
“Let’s try and fix it.”
“A broom handle or an aluminium pole,” said Bear. “Have a hunt.”
“Okay, on my way.”
From the other container Petros removed two torches. One he gave to Bear, the other he used as he entered the fire-blackened bridge. The windows no longer existed and a glance confirmed nothing of any use remained. He concentrated his thoughts as he tested the rungs on the companionway. “Thank God steel doesn’t burn.”
Out of control, the fire had ravaged the officers’ accommodation. He descended to the crew’s quarters and found them smoke-damaged. Warily he progressed through the passageways, checking every cabin. In a cupboard, a mop with a wooden handle suited his purpose. One pull and the mop head fell to the deck. With his prize in his hand, he returned. Bear lay flat on the deck.
“You can’t sleep here.”
“I’ve been waiting. What took you so long?”
“Below this deck it’s a bloody disaster.” He handed over the wooden pole. “This should do the trick.”
Bear grabbed it and presented one end to the frame.
“Made to measure. Hold the frame.”
With tape and a few aluminium clamps, the wing was operative. “Don’t over stress,” said Bear, “and it’ll get you home.”
“What happens if it doesn’t work?”
“We revert to plan B.”
“I didn’t know we had one.”
“We haven’t.”
“That’s reassuring. Nonetheless, for the moment it’s not a problem,” said Petros. “We’ve wasted a lot of time.” From the deck, he retrieved a couple of adjustable spanners, one large, one small, and a hammer.
“We’re going to get wet,” said Bear, pointing. “She’s busted in two.”
The two of them made their way to the main deck. Slimy and hazardous, with jagged uneven plating, each step was a danger.
Petros shook his head. “Those waves are at least two to three metres from crest to trough.”
The ship rose as the sea surged under the stern. The hull juddered back into the seabed. Water channelled by the twisted vessel raced up the deck towards them.
Bear stared across the foam-covered gap and raised an eyebrow. “Not nice, PK. Watch the surge as the hull opens and closes.”
Petros held onto the guardrail, which disappeared into the water. “Bear, this wire seems to be intact. Can you see? When I give it a tug, it moves the other side. We’d better leave our helmets here. Stick the tools inside your suit.”
“From a bird to a fish.” Water lapped over his feet. “Ready when you are. You’d think in this part of the world the water would be warm. It’s bloody freezing.”
They gripped the wire and walked into the surging foam. The sea reached their waists and then swept over their heads.
Petros pulled on the wire, his hands clamped like vices. The hull ground on the seabed and resonated in his ears. Swimming in turbulent water at night and his direction solely controlled by a wire of unknown strength, troubled him. Fighting his way, he tightened his grip as the backwash swept over him. His feet swung out with the surge, and hand over hand he used the incoming wave to push him forward. Fear drove him; with this rapid movement of water, if he relaxed for an instant it would sweep him away. His feet touched the unmoving forward section and he doubled his efforts. In seconds his head broke clear and he breathed deeply moments before another wave crashed on top of him. Step by step, he dragged his body onto the dry surface. Bear emerged behind him.
Both men sat and dragged air into their lungs, shaking with a mixture of adrenalin and relief.
“Bloody dark down there and that surge is a bugger.”
“Just think, Bear, we have to do that again.”
“For the moment, I don’t want to think. Come on, PK, we’ve a job to do.”
“Well, shift your fat arse.”
Shivering, it took them ten minutes to reach the bow. Petros stood back as Bear removed the clips from the forepeak entrance and eased it open.
“Go on, you first,” said Petros. The light breeze disturbed a stomach-turning stench imprisoned inside.
One after the other, they clambered in. Petros turned his torch on and swung its beam around the compartment.
“Jesus,” said Bear, “something’s curled up and died.”
“Breathe through your mouth. It won’t seem half as bad.”
Bear shrugged. “Half as bad as what?”
“Your shit after a curry. Shut up and help me shift this crap.”
“I’m too old for this game,” said Bear. “Time I retired.”
“Think about it later.”
With muscles straining, they heaved and tossed rotten ropes, buckets, paint tins and dead fish onto the deck.
When empty, Petros waved his torch light across the bulkheads. “There’s the hatch to the forepeak. Spanner.” He glanced at his watch. “We have an hour-thirty left.”
Both set to work and removed the many nuts securing the cover. Twenty minutes elapsed before they shone their torches onto a metal plate.
“I’ll go. You’d never get out.”
“Not my fault you’re a skinny runt.”
Petros climbed over the ledge and let his feet rest on the ship’s frames before illuminating the space behind the plate. The safe was intact.
From memory, he operated the combination. He sighed with relief as he turned the lever and bolts clicked. In the bottom nestled two small sacks. One he opened. The glow from his torch lit up an assortment of dull lumps of glass. Petros rubbed his nose.
“A bagful of uncut diamonds. Cut and polished, Maria would love one on her finger. Bear, there’s a fortune in this bag alone.”
“Stop pissing about and pass them out.”
With the gems safely inside his suit, Bear left the compartment. Outside he took several deep breaths to rid his lungs of the foul odour. He sat on the deck and waited.
“PK, there has to be a better way back.”
With his right hand he picked up the rope tossed from the forepeak. He stood and tied one end to a bollard and walked aft laying the line out as he did so. “PK, come and add your weight to this.”
Both heaved on the line.
“For what I have in mind – it’ll do.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Simple,” said Bear. “I tie this round my waist and swim to the other side. If it goes pear-shaped, pull me back.”
Petros faced him. “You can’t be serious?”
“Never more so. Let’s go.”
Where the water covered their feet, they stopped. Petros secured one end of the line to a cleat. “Just in case, and you have to pull yourself back. Ready?”
Bear grimaced and walked into the spray and foam. With a dive he disappeared. On surfacing, the rush of the water caught him. Digging deep with his arms he swam, angling across the irregular surges.
With his focus continuously on the next roller, he ploughed through the sea. In the dim light, twenty metres remained. At ten, his feet touched solid metal. St
raining, he hauled himself out and onto the deck.
“PK, let me know when you’re ready. Float on your back as I pull, it’ll be easier.”
“On my way.”
Coughing and spluttering, Petros stood on the shifting deck. “I preferred the underwater method.”
“That was fun. I can’t remember the last time you kept your mouth shut.”
“Ha-ha.”
“PK, grab your helmet and let’s go.”
In less than ten minutes, both arrived on the helicopter deck.
“Bear, you take the two bags with you. I’ll dump our bits and pieces into the sea. With my dodgy wing, I’d hate to lose this lot.”
“When you’re ready, go. If you crash and burn I can’t help you.”
Petros nodded. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He lifted the glider’s frame and walked back to the edge of the deck. The engine started first time and he increased the revs to seventy-five percent. He weighed his options and gripping the frame ran fast, countering the pitch angle. The air whipped across his face as the deck vanished. For an instant he raced towards the surging sea but holding his nerve, the craft levelled off and climbed.
“Ghost to Night-Fighter, use eighty percent for your take-off.”
“Hear you loud and clear, Ghost. I’ll be on my way in five.”
Petros increased the engine speed and gained height. His eyes tracked along the shoreline; a thick white mist rolled off the dunes and crept phantom-like towards the sea.
“Ghost to Night-Fighter, am going to gain height and use my chute.”
“Is that plan B?”
“It’s the only plan I’ve got.”
“Ghost, Control, wind speed fifteen knots across the deck. Cargo nets rigged.”
“Thanks, Control. Hope I don’t need them.”
“Night-Fighter to Ghost. Don’t screw up or Maria will have my arse.”
“Night-Fighter, with the greatest of respect, don’t mention it.” Time dragged as he gained height. “Control, this is Ghost. A welcome light might help.”
Straight away a vertical beam of light sliced the sky. Petros flipped his visor up, along with his night vision glasses. He checked his height: one thousand metres.
“Well,” he muttered, “I’ve hit the target DZ from this height more times than I can remember.”
But not with a damaged wing, came a voice from inside his head.
He answered his fears. “It’s a doddle. Military jumps are rough so soldiers have to be tough.” He shook his head and concentrated. “Height, okay, distance, wind, time. Let’s do it.”
A loud crack told him what he dreaded. The cold hand of fear swept over him. With deft movements, he declutched the propeller, stopped the engine and pushed himself out of the frame. Falling free he pulled the ripcord. The canopy streamed, filled, and burst open. Quietness ensued; the rush of the wind barely disturbed the silence. The chute handled clumsily but by pulling on speed and direction toggles, he turned and set his course towards the landing site. The wind shifted and he tried to compensate. The sea dashed towards him.
“Night-Fighter, I’m dropping in for a bath. See you soon.”
“Ghost, you can’t get rid of me that easy. Will come to you. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I have a choice?” Petros extricated himself from his harness and waited until he hit the water. With his right hand, he groped for a plastic toggle. His life jacket inflated with a whoosh of gas and the white location light shone. The swell lifted and dropped him. On the crest his eyes spotted the stern light of Morning Glory disappearing. At that instant, Petros experienced total isolation.
* * *
Seaman Austin reacted a moment before Petros hit the water. The beam of light from the starboard bridge searchlight found him. Austin knew the drill; never take your eyes off the man.
Bear landed and slipped out of his harness while others secured his craft. “Why haven’t we turned, Captain?”
“I remained on this heading to make your landing easier. You’re safe, so now we’ll go and pick up Petros. My man on the bridge wing is operating a searchlight and with a pair of binoculars keeping a constant eye on Petros. If the sharks don’t get him, we will. Let’s go and find your friend.”
They entered the bridge. “Officer of the Watch, carry out a Williamson turn to starboard,” the captain ordered.
“Okay, Captain,” said Bear, “I’m sure you know what you’re doing but could you please explain.”
The captain remained silent as the ship’s head turned to starboard, stopped and began moving to port.
“Bear, many manoeuvres are employed to recover a man overboard, and a Williamson turn is my preference. Done correctly it will bring my ship back to the point where Petros entered the water. My biggest problem is judging when to stop. I’m sure you are aware that ships do not have brakes. Seaman Austin,” he shouted. “Where’s my man?”
“In the light, dead ahead, one and a half kilometres, Sir.”
“Very good. Officer of the Watch, I have the ship. Please take over from Seaman Austin.”
“On my way, Captain.”
“Distance to man in the water?” shouted the captain.
“One thousand metres, Sir.”
“Stop engines. Boson, release cargo nets port side.”
The crew cut the ties with their knives and a dozen cargo nets dropped from the bow to amidships, their bottoms trailing in the water.
“Distance to man in the water?”
“Five hundred metres, Captain.”
“Slow astern.” Captain Eachan Eliopoulas’ eyes fixed on the ship’s speed indicator while he demanded the distance constantly between his ship and the man in the water. “Stop.” He wandered almost casually to the port bridge wing and peered over the side. “That’s close enough. Bear, your partner’s fifty metres away. Do you think he would mind swimming that short distance?”
Bear hollered. “Hey, PK, you’ll have to swim for it. The meter’s running on this taxi and it’s getting expensive.”
Petros swam and grabbed the cargo net. Close to hypothermia, he pulled himself out of the water.
Bear, safely secured in a harness, clambered down and grabbed him. “Can’t leave you hanging there like a wet rag. It’s quicker this way.”
Sprawled on the deck, Petros glanced at the bridge, smiling with salt encrusted lips.
“You found the packages,” said the captain over the loudspeaker system.
“Yes, Captain. Two minutes and you’ll have them.” Petros opened the container strapped to the frame of Bear’s glider and removed both packages.
When he reached the bridge, Captain Eachan Eliopoulas laughed. “I’ll put these in my safe.”
“Captain, Captain.” The Radio Officer waved a sheet of paper. “A radio message for Mr Petros.”
“Give it to me,” said Petros.
Bear gazed at his friend quizzically. “I bet I know what it says.”
“Two weeks early, Maria, my wife, has gone into labour. Where can you land us, Captain?”
“Come. Let me study the chart.”
Three men scurried to the rear of the bridge. Once there, Captain Eachan Eliopoulas removed various charts and placed them on a chart table.
“First Mate, what’s our present position?” Charlie Sykes read the sat nav position and transferred it to the chart.
“Let’s see. We are here,” Eachan leant over the chart while he focused on the fix. The ship rolled on the Atlantic swell. “And there’s Luanda, not my favourite port, but you can fly direct to London.” With a pair of brass dividers, the captain checked the distance. “Five-hundred-and-thirty-two at twenty-six kilometres, equals twenty hours. The tidal stream will add a few more. A day, maybe a bit more.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Petros gave him a thoughtful look. “Why isn’t it your favourite port?”
Eachan grunted. “My memories of Luanda are of armed gangs boarding the ship I was on, ready to kill and steal whatever they could car
ry. My captain didn’t report the incident, mind you. The police wouldn’t have done anything.”
“Not the best of places,” said Bear.
“Well,” said Eachan, “it wasn’t and I doubt if it’s changed.” He turned. “First Mate, set course north, speed fourteen knots, Luanda.”
“Aye, Aye, Sir. North, fourteen knots.”
“Can I use your radio to book our flights?” asked Petros.
“A drink in my cabin for a job well done. Flights can wait until the morning. Follow me.”
Captain Eachan Eliopoulas led them to his beautifully appointed and immaculate day cabin. Nothing out of place. Not one loose pen or piece of paper. A tsunami could hit this ship, sink it, nothing would move. When compared to the crew’s no-frills accommodation, it demonstrated superiority. Dark wood lined the bulkheads and pictures of Greek village life added splashes of colour. Books filled a glass-fronted cupboard and a smart sofa nestled against one wall.
“My home away from home. It’s a captain’s privilege. I paid for most of it myself.” He wandered over to a wall cabinet, removed a key from his pocket and opened the doors. “What would you like to drink?”
“Brandy,” said Petros. “I think I need it.”
“Double for me,” said Bear.
“I’d love to join you but I refrain from drinking when at sea.”
Petros took a sip of brandy. “Are there rules about drinking on board?”
“Drinking is not the problem, but drunk on duty is. This in turn creates its own dilemma. How do I, as captain, define if a man is drunk?” He smiled. “If he collapses and cannot carry out his duty, he may be drunk or ill. I haven’t the medical degree to say. The company states that officers and ratings should not be impaired by alcohol when performing their duties. One rule – no drinking while onboard or during the evening prior to sailing. I’m fortunate, my officers and crew observe the rules.”
Bear swallowed the last drops of his brandy. “Your rule makes it easier for everyone. No drinking is perfectly clear. During my stint in the army and while on patrol, we never thought about booze. A full water bottle was more important. But back in the mess we celebrated until we collapsed in a heap.”