Crude Carrier (5 page)

Julie read the thumbtacked business card and knocked. A voice said, “Come.”

Mr. Wood did not look up from rattling the keys of his computer. On a stand in the corner of the tiny room, a printer buzzed through a tray of paper. Finally, the man raised his head, surprise lifting his heavy eyebrows. “Yes?”

Julie introduced herself. The man's dark eyes blinked once and he wagged a finger at the single chair beside the desk before finishing his typing. He pushed
ENTER
and the printer again started buzzing. “Mrs. Fleenor said you would be telephoning.” He leaned back to gaze coldly at Julie. “From the States.”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood. And you've been difficult to reach.”

“I am a very busy man, miss. Especially at this time of day.” He nodded at the in-tray full of papers. “Ship's status reports, brokerage offers, chandlers' bids, fuel quotes, all of which came in last night from around the globe. All to be attended to before the quotations change. I understand you have questions about the
Golden Dawn
? I have one for you: it has been almost a year, why hasn't Marine Carriers honored our claim?”

She did not correct his assumption that Marine Carriers employed her. “Such things take time, Mr. Wood.” Julie guessed that Wood was in his late thirties, but the man's dark hair and olive skin didn't show age. And his taut expression didn't give away much, either.

“I trust that means there will be no problem with the claim. It is part of my collateral for obtaining a replacement vessel.”

“No real problems, I'm sure. But a few questions do need to be cleared up before the issue is closed.”

“Oh? Well, Miss—ah—the issue seems quite defined to me. Your company insured the vessel, the vessel was lost at sea, and now the indemnity is due. What questions might there be about that?”

Julie opened her leather folder and thumbed through an impressively thick sheaf of papers, most of which were blank. “Let's start with the type of coverage you chose for the
Golden Dawn
—insurance against future cargo, single-voyage hull insurance, no deductible. That latter seems a bit out of the ordinary for a routine voyage, doesn't it?”

“Really? I always understood that the purpose of insurance was indemnity against the extraordinary. That proved to be the case, didn't it? And remember, please, that your own agent drafted the policy and that we paid what you asked in that additional—and expensive—no-deductible coverage.”

“Have you had any further information about the vessel?”

“You would have been promptly notified if we had.”

“Of course.” Julie shuffled a few more pages. “A second point concerns the weather recorded in the
Golden Dawn
's area on the day she disappeared. Satellite pictures for the entire twenty-four hours show no cloud cover at those coordinates, and no log entries from ships in the vicinity reported bad weather.” Julie stared down at the blank sheet. “Yet the cargo was said to have shifted because of heavy seas.”

“Squalls and high seas of a very local nature are not uncommon anywhere at sea, miss. As any man with any seafaring experience knows. And in that part of the Indian Ocean, the currents and configurations of the sea bottom tend to make the waves eccentric, as do occasional earthquakes. Remember the tsunami in Indonesia? No cloud cover that day, either. Now, it is remotely possible that the bauxite was initially loaded in such a way that even a mildly rough sea could shift the cargo. But our policy clearly covers against loss caused by negligence of master, officers, or crew, as well as perils of the sea. So the vessel was covered under either contingency.”

But willful misconduct by the crew was not. As both of them knew and as Julie's silence stated.

“I would also remind you, miss: all hands went down with the ship, as the two bodies that were found almost a month later clearly indicate.”

And, as Mack said, that ended the investigation into willful misconduct by the crew. “You've had a recent death aboard another of your ships, haven't you? The
Aurora Victorious
?”

The man's eyebrows pinched together in a dark frown. “We lose several crewmen a year to accidents usually caused by their own carelessness. Seafaring is one of the world's most dangerous occupations.”

“Can you tell me anything about Third Mate Rossi's death? Exactly how and when it happened?”

“Is that in the slightest way pertinent to our
Golden Dawn
claim?”

“Not directly, no. But it may be pertinent to Marine Carriers's evaluation of its other policies with Hercules Maritime.”

Wood pushed back in his chair. Its spring twanged shrilly. “That sounds as if it's a threat.”

“Only a request for information, Mr. Wood. The information itself may or may not turn out to be threatening.”

Without taking his angry eyes from Julie's, Wood pressed a switch on his intercom. “Mr. Goff—please bring in any information we have on a recent death aboard the
Aurora Victorious
. I believe it was a third mate.” He folded his hands on the desk, eyes still on the young woman who had entered his office to coolly imply that he was lying. “My concern is with the management of our vessels. I am not concerned with their crews.”

“Is Mr. Goff the person the
Aurora Victorious
reports to?”

“For all routine matters, yes.”

A tap and the door opened. A young balding man with a full beard glanced at Julie. “Excuse me, miss.” He leaned across her to place a manila folder on the desk. “We have only these telexes in the file, Mr. Wood.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

As the clerk left, Wood glanced over the two pages and then handed them to Julie. The first read, “Third Mate (Nav.) Harold Rossi died following fall down ladder way.” The final line gave the time and date of transmission, and Julie noted them: 17 May, 17:33 hours (GMT). The second message requested computation of Rossi's pay and allowances less deductions, asked that the replacement be flown out to the ship when it neared Cape Town, and noted that Rossi was buried at sea 14:00 hours (local time) 18 May. Julie noted that, too; it was something she could give to Rossi's parents. “No medical diagnosis?”

“Only the Japanese routinely have doctors aboard their tankers. However, according to the traditions of the sea, every first mate on all our vessels—including the
Aurora Victorious
—is trained in emergency medical techniques to render first aid. Additionally, company policy is for the shipmaster to locate the nearest vessel with a doctor aboard and, if necessary, to rendezvous with it for medical assistance. Air evacuation by helicopter is another option if the vessel is within flight range of a major airport and if the injury is of sufficient seriousness. This humane policy could lead to considerable expense, miss, since a tanker the size of the
Aurora Victorious
costs more than two hundred thousand of your dollars a day at sea. But it is our policy, nonetheless.” The shoulders of the man's pinstriped suit rose and fell. “However, if a hand dies, there is little any doctor can do.”

And much time and money saved. “Can you give me the ship's location when Rossi was buried?”

Wood made it obvious that he was mastering his impatience as he pressed the intercom button again. “Mr. Goff, please give me the coordinates of the
Aurora Victorious
on”—he glanced at the date line on the telex—“May 18, 14:00 hours local time.”

“Directly, sir.”

A minute or two later the intercom gave a timid peep. “Sir, at that date and time, the
Aurora Victorious
was approximately fifty-one degrees east, eighteen degrees south. That would be some three hundred miles due east of Madagascar and approximately one hundred miles west of the Mauritius and Rodrigues Islands.” A pause. “Seems a bit off course for the usual Gulf to Cape Town route, doesn't it, sir?”

“Thank you, Mr. Goff.” Wood took a deep breath. “Anything else before you go, Miss ah—?”

He did not stand to see her out. “Please tell your employers that I consider your line of questioning to have verged on insult, that their delay in settling our legitimate claim is both arbitrary and unwarranted, and that I will reassess my future needs for underwriting in light of their performance in this affair closely. If their delay should cause Hercules Maritime any material loss whatsoever, a legal suit will be forthcoming. Good day.”

Julie smiled. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wood.”

VIII

By late afternoon, lading would cease and the
Aurora Victorious
would hose down and stow in order to get under way. Pressler summoned the chief steward to the bridge. Short, Taiwanese, and in a white jacket, he never seemed to tire of smiling. “Johnny, this mountain of flesh here is our new electronics bloke while Mr. Pierce is on leave. Name's Mr. Raiford—a supernumerary. He don't know a goddamned thing about ships and even less about shipboard manners. You show him around. Get his head screwed on right.”

“Yessah—please this way, Mr. Raifah.”

Because of lading, Raiford's tour was limited to the aft of the vessel. Johnny, smiling, warned him that no smoking was allowed anywhere aboard while they were at a terminal. “Okay at sea to smoke in own cabin or in wardroom only.”

“Don't smoke at all—bad for the health.”

“Ha, yes. Very bad: go boom! Ha ha ha.”

They began with the navigation bridge, an open deck capped by the mast and, at the top of that, the radar scanner. Five enclosed bridge decks rose to form the island some forty feet above the main deck. Below the main deck, in the bowels of the hull, were at least five more levels.

The deck just below the navigation bridge, where the first mate prowled, was the captain's bridge. Raiford had already glimpsed Captain Boggs's roomy quarters on the starboard side. Johnny told him that Chief Engineer Bowman had a similar suite on the port side. Between, and taking up the remaining space of that entire span, was an owner's suite that was seldom used. “Owner never comes aboard. Good thing—big cabin to clean.” Outside and across a walkway aft from those suites was the swimming pool tucked at the base of the towering smokestack. “Too hot to use now. Too hot to look at, too. Better when we get under way.”

Next came the upper bridge deck. It held the senior officers' quarters. The four or five doors were spaced along a wide corridor that had the strip of temporary runner to protect the forest green carpet from oily plimsoles. The middle bridge deck held the junior officers' cabins, including Raiford's and Third Officer Suk Wan Li's, along with those of four petty officers. “Steward for this deck is Wang Wei—English call ‘Woody.' Anything for your cabin, you ask him.” An even wider, gold-sparked smile. “My cabin right here—petty officers' cabins. Wang Wei is very good steward or he has much trouble with me.” The lower bridge deck, just above the main deck, was one of the ship's principal social centers. It contained the movie theater, library, and infirmary, as well as the officers' games room and dining saloon with its adjoining wardroom. “You spend plenty time here, Mr. Raifah.” Johnny glanced around the carefully ordered wardroom with the eye of a professional caretaker. The dominant colors were a restful dark green and cream. Thick drapes flanked the large windows that looked forward to the bow. “Drapes must be shut every night. Hard for lookout on bridge to see if light comes out at night.”

Leatherette sofas, deeply cushioned armchairs, and a scattering of coffee tables were placed at one side of the clublike space. The other side held a wet bar with half a dozen stools and a long shelf full of bottles in a variety of languages. Mounted around the room were a television set, a stereo, shelves holding rows of worn paperback books, a shortwave radio with an attached radiotelephone console and mounted instructions for its cost, times of operation, and use. There were no company flags or emblems on display in this room. “Whiskey price is very good. Very cheap.”

The crew's entertainment area was below on the main deck—a combined games room and mess hall that ran the width of the ship. Its smaller windows, lacking drapes, looked aft to the stack housing and the fantail beyond. This one, too, had a television—large screen—and stereo sets, but the decor was more functional and easier to clean. Just below the main deck were the crew's quarters. One- and two-man rooms lined a promenade of green asphalt tiles. It ran down both port and starboard sides of the hull and was lit by a band of twin portholes outboard, looking over the sea. Inboard, each room had a large square window that brought in light from those outboard portholes. Through them bunks, desks, washbasins, and padded chairs could be glimpsed. It was, Raiford thought, a long way from a ratty hammock, a hunk of hardtack, and a cat-o'-nine-tails.

“Did you know Third Officer Rossi, Johnny?”

“Yes, sah. Very bad he died.” Then, “You know him too?”

“I met his mother and father. They asked me to see if I could find anything of his they could have to remember him by. He was buried at sea, right?”

“Yes, sah. Buried at sea.”

“Did you clean out his room when he died? Gather up his things?”

“Officer do that, sah.”

“Do you know what they did with his stuff?”

“You ask officer about Mr. Rossi, sah.”

That was the answer to all other questions about Rossi: ask one of the officers.

Below the crew's space were the decks and rooms that would be Raiford's chief interest as electronics specialist: the operating panels for the engines, the communications center, the housing room for the navigational equipment and its related computers, the loading control room for the storage tanks. Clean and efficient, the sterile and fluorescent-lit space reminded him of any slightly outdated computer center ashore. Although he was continually bending his neck to pass under steel door frames, he was relieved to find plenty of headspace everywhere except in the engine room. There, his claustrophobia was stirred by the latticework of cramped ladders, railings, and platforms that made him duck and dodge. Narrow passages sliced between wheels and banks of dials and switches; speaker tubes and rows of levers reached to snag his shoulders. But for all the clutter of those manual controls, the space was void of life. It was as if here, in its heart, the ship was its own master and a human hand was both unnecessary and unwanted. It was Raiford's job to ensure the computers kept it that way.

In the loading control room, they found a man in jeans and plimsoles. His black T-shirt bore a skull and the words
GRATEFUL DEAD
in silver ink. He was probably in his midthirties, but the casual dress made him seem younger. He stood tensely in front of a wall-mounted diagram dotted with red and green lights connected by varicolored lines. Beside the diagram was another panel filled with alert lights, green numbers changing regularly, control dials that he touched lightly now and then as if tuning an instrument. The man glanced at Raiford and then back quickly as a pair of red and green dots switched their colors.

“Mr. Shockley—Mr. Raifah. Temporary electronics officer, sah.” He explained to Raiford, “Mr. Shockley is second mate.”

“Pleased.” A quick handshake whose softness went with the small paunch swelling beneath the T-shirt. He turned quickly back to the illuminated diagram that made a large and intricate pattern in the center of the flickering lights. “Served much time aboard tankers?”

“First time ever. On any ship.”

“Oh?” The second mate pulled his eyes from the control board for an instant and he looked more closely at Raiford. “The owners must be getting desperate.”

Raiford shrugged. “They needed someone fast and my name was on the list. Regular replacement was sick or something.”

“Ah.” His eyes went to Raiford's stocking feet. “Well, you'll want a proper kit. Johnny'll take you to the ship's slop chest. Mind the prices—company sets them and they're damned high, so buy only what you need.” Then, “I'm second deck officer. That means I supervise the loading. First officer's duty, normally, but …” He ended with a lift of shoulders that said it didn't make any difference as long as the job got done. “We're a fully automated tanker. Automated navigation and steering, automated engine. Automated loading system. If something goes awry with the electronics, you'll be kept damn busy I can promise you.” He spoke to Raiford, but his eyes stayed on the lights and the rows of dials labeled with pump and valve numbers and functions monitored: speed, suction pressures, quantities, ballast level, cargo level, ship's trim. “You'll be kept busy anyway, what with the maintenance and routine servicing. No pleasure cruise, this.”

“The electronics give you a lot of trouble?”

“Well, she's old, the
Aurora
is. But the circuitry manages to hold up right well. Knock on wood—if you can find any. Sensors and switches are always the problem. Corrosion. Salt. That's why I keep a close eye on the loading. That's what this is, the loading control room. This computer here is the Lodicator. Tells the valve controls how to do the job. How much ballast out of which tank, how much oil into which tank, and when. Stuck valve, and everything becomes a hell of a mess. The diagrammatic tells me how well the ship's answering. Sweding machine here”—he nodded at another console—“gives a projection of the ship's stability based on the current loading pattern. These are the override switches for manual control. Ticklish time right now: getting up to ullage—full on the tanks. Load up to twenty thousand tons an hour of warm, light oil. Only twelve thousand of this stuff, though. Heavy. But the computer does it all: fills each tank to ninety-eight percent capacity, distributes the load so the ship stays trim and won't go brittle or capsize, opens and closes valves to the center cargo tanks and the wing cargo tanks in the right order. That's what these lights are on the diagrammatic—red open, green closed.”

Raiford had a chilling thought. “Who programs the computers?”

“Done ashore. Computer gurus ashore figure that out. Home office sends out the software and programs we need at each port. Don't vary too much: the load's always crude oil. But we do get different types of crude—we'll be going up to Al Ju'aymah to complete loading, and that's a different weight and type. Lighter. Have to keep that separate from the Halul crude—that's one of the things that makes this part of the loading plan so ticklish. A tank of ballast beside one full of heavy crude puts a lot of shear strain on the old hull. Damn good thing the Gulf's a calm sea.”

“You mean we could sink?”

“Happens. Don't want to, of course.”

“Of course.”

Johnny had disappeared sometime during the second mate's monologue, but Raiford stayed to watch Shockley fine-tune the pumps' speed and press a macro on a keyboard that recorded tank numbers, load, and time completed. “How many tanks does the ship have?”

“Fifteen for cargo plus a bunker for ship's fuel. Six center tanks, ten wing tanks. Full cargo capacity is 326,000 deadweight tons of crude.” He looked at Raiford. “Canadian, are you?”

“American.” The red and green lights flickered, numbers changed steadily, needles swung across dials or fell back as pumps adjusted to the valves, and the cargo compartments were filled in rotation to keep the ship level. Except for the steady murmur of the air conditioner and the occasional chatter of a printout from the Sweding machine, the room and the steel world surrounding it were silent.

“Have you been on the ship long?”

“Going on four years, now. Before that, was third mate on the SS
Kuwait Champion
.” Shockley eyed the green numerals. “Another couple of years and I'll strike for first. Which is why I don't mind filling in for Pressler—gives me a chance to learn the job, eh?”

“That's moving up pretty fast, isn't it?”

The face tried to hide its pleasure. “Oh, I suppose. But if it can be done, why not? Who knows how long the bloody shipping industry's going to need crews? SS
Keymatic
, that's what will sail the seas before long. Got to build up my retirement while I've still got a job, right?” He laughed. “You, now, you might end up being the only soul aboard. No crew, no officers, just the bleeding electronics tech to keep the computers happy. You and that bleeding machine there”—he waved a hand at a keyboard and screen filling a metal drop leaf mounted on the bulkhead.

“That's the main computer?”

“Not the main one, no. Some kind of slave terminal. Don't know how it works. Don't want to, either. Your job, not mine. You'll be like the Ancient Mariner, eh? All alone and water, water everywhere, eh?”

“They can't sail ships without people.”

“I used to think that too. Can't sail ships without a black gang. But now there's no more black gang, no more deckhands. It's just ‘navigation.' Question is, how many people will they need? You realize a ship this big carries only thirty-eight men? That's full complement. Captain to mess boy—thirty-eight men. And mark my words, they'll be cutting that back soon enough.”

Raiford let his silence indicate agreement. “Did you know Harold Rossi?”

In the silent room, Shockley's pale blue eyes stared at Raiford long enough that he twitched when the Sweding machine chattered out more data. “What's Rossi to you?”

“I met his parents in the States. They told me he had some bad luck.”

“Bad luck, all right. Terrible what happened to him. Nice chap.”

“How did he die?”

“Fell down something, I hear. Didn't see it.” The pudgy face frowned at the consoles, and the faint fellowship that Raiford sensed as the two men stood together in the stark and plastic-smelling emptiness suddenly ebbed.

“Well, like I say, I didn't know him. His parents called me just before I left and asked if I'd find out a little more about how and where he died. The letter they got from the owners didn't tell them much.” Raiford added, “They wanted me to send on his personal effects, too.”

“I see.”

Raiford watched the man. Shockley watched the gauges. The consoles took all his attention and he didn't offer any more commentary.

After a while, Raiford asked, “Do you know what might have happened to his gear?”

“No.”

“His parents wanted me to ask. Sentimental reasons. You understand.”