Death of a Supertanker (11 page)

‘Right. What time?’

‘Now – now, 0529.’

‘0529 it is.’

Jarrett put down the phone and pressed the ‘standby’ button on the ER control panel. A neon light glowed in response. That’s one essential done, he said to himself as he went into the chart-room. I’ll log that. Now for another.

‘More problems, Sparks.’ The radio officer’s back was towards him. ‘Both radar sets are on the blink.’

Feeny spun round, his mouth wide open. ‘For God’s sake! What’s it now? Turned up the brilliance too much? Burnt the bleeding tubes?’

‘Watch it, Sparks,’ warned Jarrett. His voice had hardened. He
didn’t like flippant criticism, particularly when he was on edge. He gave the radio officer a long hard look. ‘Both units are U/S. You’d better get cracking. We’re not far off Cape Agulhas and there’s traffic around. We can’t afford to be blind.’

Feeny stared back aggressively. ‘What d’you want? Decca Nav or radar? I can’t do both.’

‘For Christ’s sake, radar of course. We’re in bloody fog and there’s traffic about. Fix the radar first – either set – then the Navigator.’

Feeny tightened his lips, shook his head, turned his back on the chief officer and went into the wheelhouse. Jarrett followed.

The radio officer got to work on both sets, checking through the controls first then, having removed the inspection panels, he examined the complicated circuits by torchlight.

He stood up, scratched his tousled hair and began thinking aloud, rather pointedly neither speaking to Jarrett directly, nor looking at him, yet keeping him informed. ‘It’ll take time,’ he mumbled. ‘Got to check through these circuits, that’s for sure. Nothing coming through from the transceivers to the displays. Could be the inter-switching unit. Might well be. I’ll have a look there first. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll check out the circuits.’

Feeny went through to the chartroom and began to examine the inter-switch unit which was on the after bulkhead.

In the wheelhouse Jarrett stood at the wiper-windows looking ahead, tapping uncertainly on the console. Increasingly he felt himself to be losing touch with reality, he and the ship lost in a limbo of wet and clinging fog, all points of reference gone, the swiftly flowing stream of events beyond his control. A gnawing doubt nagged at the pit of his stomach. It was almost as if a fire were burning there.

A phone rang on the console. Jarrett picked it up. It was Cavalho. ‘I hear noise like motor car hooter, sir. Ahead to starboard. Three, maybe four shorts. Far away.’

‘Probably a fishing boat, Cavalho.’

‘You see on radar, sir?’

‘Radar’s packed up,’ said Jarrett. ‘Didn’t see anything there when last I looked. Keep a sharp lookout. We need your eyes and ears now if ever we did.’ He put down the phone and made for the chartroom. There was no sign of the radio operator but Foley was at the chart-table, his back towards him. The second officer had evidently not heard him come in, and for some moments Jarrett watched in silence.

Wearing a navy polo neck, blue denims and white plimsolls, Foley was in the act of sliding parallel rulers over the chart. When he realized he was not alone he stopped, switched round and looked at the chief officer with startled eyes.

Jarrett’s stare was belligerent. ‘What do you think you’re doing here … in my watch?’

Foley pushed the parallel rulers aside. ‘Something funny’s going on. This course I mean …’ His voice was hoarse. ‘The Decca Nav’s dead. There’s no siren sounding? What the … what’s happening?’

‘And I dare say you sabotaged the Decca,’ Jarrett snapped back. For a moment it looked as if he was about to use violence. ‘What are you doing creeping around here when you’re supposed to be off watch? Why didn’t you report to me when you came on the bridge?’ He darted an angry, suspicious glance round the chart-room. ‘Where’s Feeny?’

‘Went down below as I came in.’ Foley said it mechanically as he turned back to the chart-table and pointed to the chart. ‘These aren’t the figures I wrote against the course before you took over. I wrote two-five-seven, not two-six-seven degrees. Who changed that?’ The words trailed away as if it were all too much for him. He moved over to the far side of the chart-table, switched on the echo-sounder. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ his voice was suddenly strident.
‘Look at this… we’re in eight fathoms!… look! It’s shoaling… my God, it’s shoaling.’

For a moment Jarrett watched the flickering neon figures with staring eyes. ‘Christ!’ He ran into the wheelhouse shouting, ‘Hard-a-port! Hard-a-port!’

Fernandez repeated the order, put the wheel hard over and the helm indicator travelled slowly across its red arc. He knew from experience that it would take fifteen seconds to complete the movement to hard-over. They seemed to him to be fifteen very long seconds.

Jarrett depressed the ‘Full Ahead’ button on the control console and phoned the engineroom. Benson answered.

‘Mate here, Ben. I’m going to sound emergency stations. We could run aground. Keep her full ahead. We’ve gone hard-a-port. May get clear.’ There was a shocked ‘Jesus!’ from Benson. Jarrett rang off and thumbed the siren button for ‘emergency stations’. The comparative quiet of early morning was shattered by ear-splitting roars from the steam whistle on the funnel abaft the bridge. In the sudden silence which followed, the water noises along the hull and the rising note of the turbines sounded unusually loud.

Jarrett pressed the speak-button on the handmike of the broadcast system. ‘Emergency stations, land close ahead,’ he warned. ‘Emergency stations. Land close ahead.’

Foley, who’d dashed into the wheelhouse on the heels of the chief officer, went to a radar set and began fingering the controls. Jarrett shouted, ‘No good. They’re on the blink.’

The second officer joined him. The two men, their animosity forgotten in the face of sudden disaster, stood at the front windows, their bodies rigid, their eyes straining to see through the fog.

From somewhere ahead came a series of two short blasts followed by a long blast – the ‘U’ of the International Code – ‘you are standing into danger’. An agitated voice with a strong Afrikaans accent came over the VHF loudspeaker on the bridge. ‘Ship bearing due east. You are standing into danger. Repeat, you are standing into danger … this is Agulhas lighthouse,’

Somebody touched his elbow. It was Jackson the electrician. ‘Sorry for the delay, sir. Storekeeper’s fault. I’ve got the parts for the auto-switch.’

Jarrett waved him away. ‘For God’s sake, Jackson. You heard
the alarm. Forget the bloody switch.’

The turn to port was only half completed when the ship shuddered, seemed to check, moved on only to shudder again, this time more severely. There followed violent deceleration, accompanied by the muffled sound of rending metal. From forward came the sharp hiss of vent valves discharging from the gas line. The men on the bridge knew then that deep down in the ship seawater must be rushing into empty oil tanks through torn plating, compressing the inert gas in the tanks which was exhausting through the PV-breakers, blowing oil slush and water over the fog-shrouded maindeck. Above these harsh sounds came the thin shrill of a woman’s scream and the shouts of men, followed by the piercing shriek of steam exhausting from the funnel, a sound which drowned all others.

Quite suddenly
Ocean
Mammoth
came to a lurching stop, the force of the impact throwing those on the bridge forward, spreadeagling Foley and Jarrett over the consoles and winding Fernandez who was forced against the steering standard.

The moment Jarrett recovered his balance he pressed the ‘emergency full astern’ button. It was an automatic response, a conditioned reflex, but even as he did it he knew it was futile. Another of his automatic responses was to note the time – 0539. It was little less than two minutes since he’d found Foley in the chartroom.

Cavalho slid open the door from the bridge-wing. ‘It
was
motor car I hear before, sir,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Now i hear him again. Also dog barking. Now you see we hit the rocks.’

A stern authoritative voice interrupted. ‘Sound the fire alarm, Mr Foley.’ It was Captain Crutchley. He had come from the chartroom into the dark wheelhouse, the sound of his footsteps drowned by the noise of escaping steam and the rattling of windows and other loose fittings as the ship’s emergency astern movement built up. The harsh jangle of fire-bells now added to the din, competing with the shrill of escaping steam and the high-pitched hiss of gas venting through the safety valves. The Captain spoke into the ship’s broadcast system. ‘Captain speaking. Take up stations for fire forward. This is a precaution, but get there smartly. I want the pumpman on the bridge.’ The even voice sounded absurdly formal in the turmoil.

Jarrett called out, ‘I’ve already sounded emergency stations, sir.’

‘I know that, Mr Jarrett. But you were wrong. Fire is the greater risk. Go at once to your fire station.’ There was a sharpness in the Captain’s voice which brooked no opposition.

The chief officer said, ‘Aye, sir,’ and left the wheelhouse.

Soon afterwards the pumpman arrived on the bridge. ‘Captain, sir?’

‘Chapman. I want you to sound the deep tanks and lower holds right away. Work from forward aft and report to me as soon as possible.’

The pumpman said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and disappeared at the double.

Captain Crutchley, wearing a uniform coat over his pyjamas, remained at the forward windows staring ahead into the fog. He had considered illuminating the maindeck but decided against it because floodlights would be largely ineffective in fog, and a fire risk if power lines were damaged.

The sound of escaping steam stopped as the emergency astern movement relieved pressure on the boiler’s safety valves. From time to time the ship shuddered and ominous noises came from strained plating and frames as
Ocean
Mammoth
took the full impact of the south-easterly swells which rolled in on her port beam, their powerful undulations surging up against the high steel wall of the hull.

The jangle of fire-bells ceased suddenly. In the unfamiliar silence which followed, men moving about the deck and occasional shouted orders could be heard; and the new and chilling sound of breakers as the swell spent itself on the rocky headland.

‘Mr Foley.’ Captain Crutchley continued to stare ahead. ‘Where has the ship grounded?’

‘Cape Agulhas, sir. The light-keeper spoke to us on VHF a moment ago. Gave our bearing as east of the lighthouse.’

‘Get Decca Nav and radar fixes at once, Mr Foley.’

‘They’re unserviceable, sir. The Navigator and both radar units.’

‘My God! What has been going on in this ship?’ The Captain paused, and in the half light of early morning Foley regarded the broad-shouldered back with anxious eyes. Believing that he understood what was in Crutchley’s mind, he began to speak in an uncertain, apologetic tone. ‘I was off watch, sir. I went to the chartroom only a few minutes ago. Before emergency stations was sounded. I found the Decca Nav dead. I couldn’t understand the course we were steering. The chief officer came in. Then …’
He hesitated as if he were trying to recall the sequence of events. ‘Then I switched on the echo-sounder… and told him we were in eight fathoms, with the water shoaling. He rushed into the wheel-house, ordered hard-a-port and emergency-full-ahead, and we struck soon after that. It was …’

‘That will do, Mr Foley. This is no time for explanations. Go at once to the chartroom and give me a DF bearing of the radio beacon at Agulhas lighthouse.’

A bell rang on the communications console. It was Tim Feeny. ‘Radio Office here.’

‘Captain here,’ replied Crutchley.

‘Anything for transmission, sir?’

‘No, Mr Feeny. But stand by.’ He rang off, picked up the ship’s broadcast mike. ‘This is the Captain speaking. We have run aground near Cape Agulhas lighthouse. There is no immediate danger. Keep calm. Remain at fire stations for the time being.’ He paused and his deep breathing could be heard over the loudspeakers. ‘The third officer is to report to me in the wheel-house at once. That is all.’ He released the ‘speak’ button and replaced the mike on the console.

Foley came back from the chartroom. ‘Agulhas lighthouse bears two-six-eight, sir.’

‘How is the ship’s head, Mr Foley?’

The second officer went to the steering gyro on the console. ‘Two-two-seven, sir. We’re lying on a sou’westerly-nor’easterly axis. Beam on to the swell.’

Captain Crutchley was silent for almost thirty seconds. To the second officer it seemed a great deal longer. Then he said, ‘Stop engines.’

Foley pressed the ‘stop engines’ button and moments later the rattling and shaking of the bridge superstructure died away.

The deep voice with the Afrikaans accent sounded again on the VHF speaker. ‘This is Cape Agulhas lighthouse. What ship is that east of the lighthouse?’

The Captain picked up the VHF handmike. ‘VLCC
Ocean
Mammoth
bound for the United Kingdom in ballast. Captain speaking. We are aground. We have the bearing of your beacon. Two-six-eight degrees. Can you give me a distance?’

‘No, sir. We can’t see you. The fog is very thick. Visibility under a hundred metres. We haven’t got radar. I reckoned from your siren and the sound of steam blowing off that you must be about
due east of the lighthouse. Very close inshore.’

‘Thank you, Agulhas.’

‘I will report your stranding to Cape Town, sir. Is there any message I can pass on for you?’

‘No, thank you. As soon as matters here are clarified I’ll be speaking to them by radiophone. We’ll come back to you if necessary.’ The light-keeper acknowledged and Captain
Crutchley
replaced the handmike. ‘Now, Mr Foley. Have soundings taken immediately, right round the ship. And give me the times of high and low water.’

The third officer arrived on the bridge as Foley left. The Captain said, ‘Look after things here for a moment, Mr Simpson. I’m going through to the chartroom.’

When he got there he switched on the angle-poise lamps, removed his dark glasses and cleaned them, took the magnifying glass from its bracket above the chart-table and examined the chart. With parallel rules he checked the pencilled course line to the position ten miles off Cape Agulhas. It was 257°, but written against it in pencil in Foley’s neat small figures was 267°. No alterations of course since 0400 were shown on the chart, but a line of bearing from the radio beacon had been plotted and a position circled on it over the 34-fathom mark with the time – 0505 – against it.

Next he turned to the deck logbook. Under ‘Course’ at 0400, the end of the middle-watch, ‘267°’ had been entered in ink; again the figures were Foley’s. Since that entry the chief officer had recorded in his bold angular hand, several alterations of course and the times at which they’d been made. The checking of that data would have to wait, decided Crutchley – there was no time now. He moved across to the starboard side of the chart-table, leant forward and peered into the rectangular face of the course-recorder. It was an instrument which plotted the courses steered and the times of alteration by means of a stylus on moving trace paper.

‘My God,’ he muttered, repeating what he’d said to the second officer. ‘What has been going on in this ship?’

The broken edges of the trace paper were visible at the top of the frame where the moving sheet had been torn off. The record of courses steered since 0200 had been removed.