Death of a Supertanker (8 page)

A hoarse voice he did not recognize answered. ‘Your wife needs you urgently in your cabin, sir.’ Before he could ask any questions he heard the click of the caller’s phone being put down. He wondered what on earth could have happened. She wouldn’t have sent for him unless it was really important. But why hadn’t she phoned herself? God, he thought, she must have had an accident. He turned in the darkness towards the Captain. ‘That was my wife, sir. There’s been some trouble. She wants me urgently. I think she may have had an accident.’

‘Then go to her at once, Mr Foley. I’ll look after the bridge with Gomez. I trust it is nothing serious.’

‘Thank you, sir. I won’t be long.’

Foley raced through the chartroom, down the stairs to Deck One and along the passageway to the door of his cabin. Stuck to it with sellotape was a crudely pencilled note:
Your
wife
is
in
the
chief
officer’s
cabin.

Foley was sure the unidentified voice on the bridge phone and the writer of the note were the same person. Who he was and his motive, he could not imagine. Perhaps a hoax aimed at hurting him and Sandy? Foley knew that Jarrett’s weakness for her was no secret. Was that it? An attempt to make trouble? To show her up? These jumbled thoughts were in his mind as he tore off the scrap of paper, stuck it in his pocket and opened the door.

The lights were on but she was not in the dayroom. He went through to the bedroom. That, too, was empty. Next he tried the bathroom, but drew a blank there. The wrap she’d been wearing when he left was on the bed together with a small hand towel. The sheets had not been turned back, the bed had not been slept in, and the room reeked of
Madame
Rochas.

By now he knew that the phone call and the note on the door were no hoax. His anxiety changed abruptly to suspicion and anger. So she
was
with the chief officer.

He went down the passageway to Jarrett’s office, opened the door and went in as quietly as he could. The lights were on but the office was empty. He listened at the door of the dayroom. All he could hear was the thumping of his own heart and his laboured breathing. The door was locked. That confirmed his worst suspicions. He knocked but there was no response, so he banged with his fists but still nothing happened. ‘I know she’s in there‚’ he called. ‘Open up.’ Although he had almost lost control, he did not shout. He had no wish-to advertise his wife’s indiscretions.

Moments later Jarrett called out, ‘What the devil’s going on there?’ There was the sound of a key turning, the door swung open and the chief officer appeared. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

Blinded by rage and jealousy, Foley forced his way past him and made for the bedroom door. It, too, was locked. He banged on it. ‘Come out, Sandy. I know you’re there.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion. Before he could get an answer Jarrett was hauling him off the door. Foley wrenched free, got an arm round the chief officer’s neck, took a wide stance and threw him to the
deck. ‘Get up, you bastard, and I’ll give you what you deserve.’ It was a hoarse, threatening growl.

Jarrett scrambled to his feet, raised his fists and made for the second officer. ‘Come on, do that,’ he said in a voice thick with anger.

Foley waded in with flailing fists and wild swinging punches. What he lacked in skill he made up in sheer rage and animal strength. Both men were strong, there was little between them in height and weight, but Jarrett was the cooler fighter and he held Foley off with solid lefts and rights to the head. Had the fight gone on one or the other would probably have been knocked out. As it was the bedroom door swung open and Sandy emerged in the white caftan, her eyes wild, her hair untidy.

‘Stop it, you maniacs,’ she shrilled, clawing at them. ‘Stop it, for God’s sake. You’ll kill each other.’

That brought them to their senses and they stood, bruised and dishevelled, their arms at their sides, breathing heavily. Blood trickling from Jarrett’s nose and from a cut on his eyebrow left crimson stains on his white shirt and shorts. Foley’s lower lip was swollen and bleeding, and he had bruises on his forehead.

‘For God’s sake try and behave like civilized human beings,’ she implored looking from one to the other, her eyes alternately threatening and pleading. ‘All right? Now let’s go.’ She went out of the dayroom. Foley followed her to the door, stopped and looked back. ‘Keep your hands off my wife, Jarrett, or I’ll kill you.’

Jarrett gestured angrily, turned away. ‘Oh, get to hell out of it‚’ he muttered.

They got back to their accommodation and Foley shut the door. She turned to him, her face white and drawn. ‘I’m sorry, George. Terribly sorry. I know I’ve let you down.’

He gave her a long hard look, shook his head, but said nothing. He went into the bathroom, took off the blood-stained shirt and filled the hand basin with water. She came in a few minutes later. ‘Can I help?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘No. Don’t touch me. Go to bed. You’ve done enough damage already.’

She went into the bedroom and he heard her sobbing but he was in no way moved. It was too late for tears. He got on with dabbing the swollen lip and the bruise on his forehead, using
water as hot as he could bear. After he’d dried his hands and face he put on a clean shirt. He felt a grim satisfaction that most of the blood on the one he’d taken off was Jarrett’s.

The phone in the dayroom rang. He looked at his watch. It was eleven minutes since he’d left the bridge. He picked up the phone. ‘Two-Oh here.’

‘Captain here, Foley. How’s your wife?’

He was ready for this. He’d been rehearsing it as he bathed his bruises. ‘All right, sir. I’ll be up in a moment. There was a short on the bedside lamp. The lead started smouldering. Sandy woke up, smelt burning and was frightened. I’ve fixed it. I would have been back sooner but I slipped on the stairs coming down. Got a few bruises but everything’s okay now.’

‘Good,’ said Captain Crutchley with characteristic brevity, and rang off.

Foley hoped that his voice had not given him away. He was in a highly emotional state. Once again he wondered who had phoned the bridge and put the note on the door.

Something else which Foley had rehearsed was handing over the watch to Jarrett at four o’clock that morning. He was determined to keep it cool, not to refer to what had happened. If Jarrett chose to do so that was his responsibility. In the hours he’d had to himself since the Captain left the bridge, Foley had done some hard thinking. While he put the greater part of the blame on the chief officer, he knew that it took two to create a situation of that sort. Others would say that Sandy was just as much to blame and maybe they’d be right. She was old enough and experienced enough to know what she was doing. While this in no way diminished his hatred for the chief officer, he was too intelligent to believe that a further row could repair the damage. The least said now the better. Fortunately it had happened in the middle of the night, behind closed doors, and it was unlikely that anyone had heard. Jarrett would be the last person to talk about it.

In the event, the chief officer had come up at four o’clock as was his custom. They’d not greeted each other and in the sheltering darkness of the wheelhouse neither could see the damage done to the other, which was just as well. Foley had handed over in monosyllabic and more cryptic terms than usual. Jarrett had acknowledged curtly, asked no questions, and by four o’clock the handover had been completed. Foley went to the chartroom,
spent a few minutes there writing up the logbooks and then went below.

There had been one notable departure from normal routine. He’d not handed over the traditional cup of coffee.

Throughout the following day
Ocean
Mammoth
made steady progress down the South African coast. Cape Recife, guarding the southern flank of Algoa Bay, was abeam soon after eight o’clock in the morning. At 1153, Cape St Francis was abeam to starboard, distant 15 miles, and course was set for Cape Agulhas, the most southerly point of Africa. With the aid of the Agulhas current the supertanker, though steaming at only 12 knots, had by noon that day averaged 14.3 since leaving Durban.

The weather remained fine with a light southerly breeze, a long swell from the south-east and a calm sea. Both sea and air temperatures had dropped but the barometer remained steady. Along the coast to starboard banks of cloud lay on the distant ranges of the Outeniqua Mountains, but for the greater part the sky was clear.

From the bridge, high above the sea, Alan Simpson, the third officer, looked down on the diminutive figures of crewmen at work along the great expanse of the maindeck. Far away in the bows, so far that they seemed antlike on that huge scale, men were working on the windlasses and cables; others were painting the tripod mast, set well forward, which carried running lights and the foremast siren; further aft again crewmen were busy on the steam winches.

Simpson, young and new to supertankers, had never ceased to be amazed at the enormous size of
Ocean
Mammoth.
He often thought she was too big, too remote from the sea, a giant floating tank of frightening proportions. Yet he took boyish pride in being officer-of-the-watch in a ship of 320,000 tons. More than four times the tonnage of QE2, he used to remind himself.

For the greater part of that day Captain Crutchley, whether on the bridge or in his stateroom, tussled with his personal problem.

Withdrawn and reserved by nature, aloof from his officers as befitted the Master of a big ship, he had not confided in anyone on board, nor had he reported what he believed to be a temporary
disability to London. The dark optical glasses which concealed his eyes had not attracted attention for he had worn them for several years to counter the effects of bright light. Even Middleton had not known his secret.

Grundewald’s letter to the Harley Street consultant had come as a profound shock, for it enormously complicated his problem. Should he report to London by radio telephone now that he knew what it was, or say nothing? If he reported, London would probably instruct him to hand over command to the chief officer for the return voyage. In that event he would almost certainly be landed by shore-based helicopter at Cape Town to fly home.

Crutchley did not believe that his eye trouble endangered the ship. He had every confidence in his officers,
Ocean
Mammoth
was equipped with highly sophisticated navigational aids, his judgement and experience were unimpaired, and the ship would be back in the United Kingdom in a few weeks. In the meantime, with Grundewald’s treatment, the eyes should improve. He wished, however, that Middleton was still on board. He had been a great help.

A man of strong character, Crutchley was honest enough to admit to himself that in this matter he had been influenced by personal considerations. Having married a second time he had a young wife and family to support, school fees to pay, a large mortgage, a pension scheme and other personal insurances to finance. Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd. – small, impersonal, speculative and a late starter in the ship-owning world – had no pension scheme for its officers. Its policy was to pay well and leave it to them to make their own arrangements. This Crutchley did, but he had to remain at sea for a least another five years if he was to meet his commitments.

Two other factors complicated his problem. One was that the ship was about to be laid up, the other that the redundancy clause in his contract would be void if he were medically unfit for command at sea. It was essential that he should complete the voyage and continue to guard the secret of his eyes, if he were to take advantage of that redundancy clause. It would give him as Master a year on full pay. In that time, he argued, treatment should have restored his vision, the tanker market would have recovered, and he would be able to seek re-employment. There would be little chance of doing that if the record showed he had been relieved of command because of defective eyesight.

After a long fight with his conscience, Crutchley decided against informing the company. He was not happy about the decision but felt it had been forced upon him.

Jarrett and Foley were at considerable pains that day to avoid each other. At four o’clock in the afternoon when Foley handed over the bridge watch, it was once again done quickly, curtly and impersonally. By custom they had always sat at different tables in the saloon and while at sea had meals at different times, so no problem arose there. It was known that they had long disliked each other, and the absence of communication and bonhomie, more pronounced that day than others, might have passed unnoticed had that been all. But it was not.

At breakfast Jarrett had explained away his puffy nose and cut eyebrow as the result of walking into a wheelhouse doorframe in the dark hours of the morning. As a rule Foley did not breakfast in the saloon; instead he would have coffee and an apple in his dayroom. To those who saw him that day he ascribed the swollen lip and bruised forehead to a fall on the stairs leading down from the chartroom to Deck One when he came off watch.

As the day progressed tongues began to wag. By late afternoon it was rumoured that there had been a fight and there was much speculation. Doris Benson thought she’d heard shouting and banging in the early hours but could not be sure. ‘You know what a heavy sleeper I am,’ she added apologetically.

The catering officer’s wife said, ‘Well, I’m not on that deck so I wouldn’t know. But you’d think the Chief or the Captain would have heard. After all they’re in adjoining accommodation.’

Doris Benson shook her head. ‘The Chief was down in the engineroom with Ben, and though the Old Man’s suite adjoins Jarrett’s their bedrooms are four away from each other’s. Not that I’m suggesting that anything happened in the
bedroom.
Maybe it was in Jarrett’s office or dayroom.’

‘Of course you’re opposite, aren’t you, Doris?’

‘Yes. Our bedroom is right opposite his dayroom.’

‘Well. I don’t know.’ The catering officer’s wife wrinkled her nose and forehead. ‘What on earth could they have been fighting about?’

‘Don’t be so naïve, love.’ Doris Benson tidied her hair with one hand. ‘Everybody knows Sandy and Jarrett fancy each other. And the men hate each other’s guts.’

‘But George was on watch between midnight and four this morning.’

‘That was it, wasn’t it, dear?’ Doris Benson chuckled. ‘Maybe he went down to get a clean hanky.’

The catering officer’s wife looked at her with wide eyes. ‘You don’t mean to say he could have found …?’

‘I don’t mean anything, love. But I did hear peculiar noises.’

‘It could have been George falling downstairs, like he said. Both being bruised could be a coincidence. I mean, their stories may be true.’

Doris Benson shook her head. ‘That’s being a bit unrealistic, isn’t it, sweet?’

‘Well, she doesn’t look as if anything unpleasant’s happened. Cool as a cucumber,’ said the catering officer’s wife.

And indeed Sandy was. She had looked and behaved quite normally throughout the day, laughing and chatting, swimming and sunbathing, as if nothing had happened.

Down in the Foleys’ cabin, however, things were somewhat different. The tension was acute and they did not speak to each other. She had tried hard but it had been impossible to break his stubborn silence. For his part he behaved as if she were not there.

When Foley relieved the third officer at midnight the ship was off Still Bay. The coastline, some twenty-five miles to starboard, now ran more or less east and west across the bottom of the African continent. It was a fine clear night, the southerly breeze had died away, the sea was calm, the barometer high, but the long swell from the south-east persisted. The temperature had dropped and Foley wore a jersey over his denim shirt and slacks. Captain Crutchley did not object to informal dress during the night watches as long as it was, in his words, ‘clean and well scrubbed’.

The second officer had not been on the bridge long when a phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Two-Oh here.’

‘Midnight met report ready, George.’ It was Tim Feeny speaking from the radio office.

‘Fine. I’ll send for it. Any problems?’

‘Not really. Maybe fog later.’

‘Much later I hope.’

Feeny laughed. ‘Like after four o’clock.’

‘You said it, Sparks.’ Foley replaced the handset and summoned the quartermaster who was on bridge lookout.

Gomez came into the wheelhouse. ‘Sir?’

‘The met report’s ready, Jorge.’

‘Okay, sir. I fetch it.’ The quartermaster disappeared into the darkness. He was soon back with the report. Foley went into the chartroom and read it in the light of an angle-poise lamp. The forecast indicated fairly settled conditions over the ensuing twenty-four hours with calm sea and light winds. It concluded with a warning that in the vicinity of Cape Agulhas and the area immediately westwards there was a possibility of fog. In
accordance
with Standing Orders the second officer at once informed the Captain by phone.

Crutchley said, ‘Good. I’ll be up shortly,’ and rang off.

The second officer clipped the report on to the forecast board over the chart-table and returned to the wheelhouse.

Cape Agulhas was the focal point for shipping around the southern extremity of Africa and there was a fair amount of traffic about. It was this which Foley now examined with binoculars from the starboard wing. Later he returned the night glasses to their box in the wheelhouse, went to the AC radar, adjusted the display hood and pressed his face into the rubber eyepiece. He turned up the brilliance and for some time watched the sweep circling the screen, switching through the range scales and identifying the echoes of the ships he’d observed visually. He put relative motion markers on two of them and noted the time, 0017.

He was at the steering stand comparing the ship’s head by gyro compass with the magnetic compass reading in the periscope above, when he heard the Captain’s heavy tread in the
chart-room
. Five minutes later he heard a chart-table lamp click off and the Captain came into the wheelhouse. ‘You there, Mr Foley?’

‘Aye, sir.’

The Captain said no more but took up his usual position at the console, to starboard of the steering position. Foley could just see the solid shape of the Master in the darkness, standing squarely, braced against the slow roll of the ship, looking ahead. On the bridge, high above the water, the roll was exaggerated by the pendulum effect.

‘No sign of fog yet, sir,’ ventured Foley after a long silence.

There was the customary pause as if the Captain was weighing every word said, before he answered. ‘It’s unseasonal. But I’ve experienced it here before at this time of year.’ It was a long sentence for him.

Foley said, ‘Yes, sir. I imagine with this high glass it must be due to radiation.’

There was another long silence, broken at last by the Captain’s. ‘I’ll take a walk on the bridge, Mr Foley.’

‘You’ll find the temperature’s dropped a bit, sir.’

The Captain went out of the port door. It was some time before he returned. As he passed through the wheelhouse he said. ‘Keep a sharp eye on the traffic, Mr Foley.’

Through the glass panels along the top of the screen between wheelhouse and chartroom, Foley saw the reflection of a chart-table lamp as it was switched on.

It must have been fully ten minutes before the light went out and he heard the Captain making his way to the head of the stairs. He knew he’d been writing up his night order book.

Crutchley changed into pyjamas and went through to the bathroom. There he boiled water in an electric kettle, poured it into a jug, worked cotton wool round the head of a wooden spoon, secured it with a bandage and dipped it into the hot water. For a minute or so he held the pad as close to his eyes as he could bear, repeating the operation several times. Next he put in the eye drops, applied the ointment to the lids and massaged them gently with his fingertips. When he’d finished and put things away he went through to the bedroom.

It was the end of a tiring day and he had used his eyes too much. Strained them, he supposed, for the pain and irritation were severe. The eyes soon began to feel better but his head continued to throb. Worrying too much about his personal problems. But it was impossible to escape them and, as he lay waiting for sleep to come, they paraded through his mind in an endless procession. The family dominated because they were his main concern … Emma, sad, wistful, so much younger than he, so considerate and sympathetic, a fine wife and mother … the boys: Andrew, intelligent, diligent, thoughtful in his adolescence but somehow distant and unapproachable: Bobby, still at preparatory school, full of good-natured fun, unperturbed by indifferent school reports. It was a splendid little family and every fibre of Crutchley was determined to defend it … Kostadis, lean, sharp-faced, long-nosed, appeared in a vaguely threatening role and Crutchley rejected him, only to find that a picture of
Ocean
Mammoth
, red with rust and neglect in some Scottish loch, had
taken his place … the service contract joined the procession, clause after clause of it passing before his eyes like a cue-sheet until it stopped on the redundancy clause:
unless
the
employee
shall
be
declared
unfit
for
service
at
sea
for
medical
or
other
reasons
or
by
virtue
of
loss
of
certificate/
s
of
competency
… Grundewald came next; calm, grave, sympathetic, pronouncing sentence:
your
vision
should
improve
…
it
will
not,
I’m
afraid,
be
as
good
as
it
was
…
new
spectacles,
these
should
help.