Crude Carrier (8 page)

“Gawd, I hate it! Pressler knows it, too, that arse crawler. Makes damn certain the chief engineer chooses me to go down every time. I'm the one with the most experience, he says. Damn right I am. Nobody else gets a chance at any. Whoo!”

“If this is the kind of ladder Rossi fell down, I can see how it would spoil his weekend.”

Hansford paused and squinted up at Raiford, mouth twisted. “Why don't you lay off Rossi? He had an accident and the poor sod's dead. For God's sake, let it go.”

“I'm only asking because—”

“Because his mum and dad want to know. I understand. But what good will it do them, eh? He's dead. That's that. Dead and gone. Just leave it, can't you?”

Silently, Hansford started down again. Raiford and Charley followed, one slow step at a time.

The farther down into the fading light, the larger the vast cavern seemed. Above, a row of open Butterworth plates in the deck gave the only illumination. Raiford could see Sam's head, a black bump at the edge of the nearest circle of sky, peering down. He lowered a spare oxygen mask on a long line to dangle a third of the way down the ladder. The ports receded until they were dots of glare far above the gloom. Around the men loomed shadows of pipes and valve housings. The hull's gigantic transverse beams were as large as cathedral buttresses. Bayonets of tank washing machines rose twenty feet from the ship's bottom. They reminded Raiford of wire sculptures made of cast-off rods and piles of scrap.

Hansford had told Raiford to let him know immediately if he started to feel a bit tipsy or sleepy, or had any numbness on his skin. “Gas bubbles float about. We use the Drager gear where we can, but there's no way we can do a proper job without taking it off.” Only two or three breaths of the odorless and tasteless hydrocarbon gas would knock a man out, Hansford said. Raiford should not be shy about speaking up if he felt any of the symptoms of gassing. Without a resuscitator, a man would have six minutes to get up to the deck before dying. Looking at the almost invisible top rungs of the ladder, Raiford knew no one could ever make it.

“All right, Mr. Raiford. This is the relay switch that wants looking after. Charley, you give an anchor to that fitting. I'll get the damn housing loose.”

Hansford's voice was loud in the absolute silence of the steel cavern. Raiford could smell oil, but he saw none—the washing machines had scoured every angle of the dim struts and beams, steel plating, ladders and catwalks. Even any color had been washed out to leave only the hue of dead ash. And the ship's vibration, felt everywhere else, was dead here, too.

“How much oil does this tank hold?”

“Eighteen thousand tons. Want to get the clip off that lead?”

Hansford held the insulated flashlight while Raiford worked in the circle of its beam. The electrical connections to the unit were basic: circuit and grounding wires, or “earthing” as the British diagram named it. But the solenoid was crammed behind complex shielding. It had to be guaranteed against the slightest possibility of an electrical spark when the current switched on to operate its valve.

“All right, Charley. He's got it. Hand me the new unit, and for God's sake don't drop the bloody thing or we could all be cinders.”

Even deeper recesses were below them. From the lifeless gray where they worked, dark caverns led into almost total blackness. A small walkway ran across the tops of the transverse beams, and ten or twelve feet below that was the final steel plating of the double hull that held out the sea and gave support to the network of pump hoses and siphons.

The only sound was the scuffle of Wellies or the whisk of rubberized cloth. Raiford tied off the electrical leads and tightened their clamps, careful not to drip sweat from his face onto the connections. Then he held the light while Hansford replaced the shockproof housing over the unit.

“Good—let's give her a test.” He unclipped the portable VHF radio from his belt and keyed the transmit button. “Mr. Bowman? Give it a try, sir.”

There may have been a faint click from the replacement unit, but Raiford couldn't be certain. The only noise he was conscious of was the thud of his own heartbeat in his ears.

A tiny voice said, “Well done.”

“All right! Let's get the hell out of here.” Hansford quickly but carefully placed his coated tools into the rubber bag. “Charley—stow your gear and … Charley?”

The man, head lifting slowly at his name and mouth sagging open, gazed dully at Hansford with glassy eyes.

“Jesus! Gas!” Eyes stretched with fear, Hansford jammed his mouthpiece between his lips and stumbled for the ladder, leaving Charley to waver and sag against the beam. As the mate climbed frantically, Raiford, sucking on his own air tank, crammed Charley's rubber mouthpiece up to the man's lax jaw and slung him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

Thighs straining against the tightness of his coveralls, he raced after Hansford. At first the seaman's weight wasn't much. But with more steps he felt heavier and heavier until Raiford's legs burned with every lunge. The mouthpiece constricted his breathing until it strangled the gasps of air he sucked frantically through the narrow hose. And he could use only one hand on the rails. The other clamped Charley's breathing tube into the now-unconscious sailor's mouth. As Raiford slowly rose above the steel plates and beams, he stared at his hand to will its accuracy as it quickly released and slapped for the next rung. His body clenched tighter and tighter against the outward pull of the weight across his shoulders and against the thought that his hand, clumsy and sweaty in its ill-fitting glove could reach for a thin steel bar and miss. And, as if malignantly reading his thoughts, his fingers stubbed on the next rail and he felt himself flail backward and grabbed wildly with his other hand. The breathing tube slipped from Charley's mouth, but Raiford—jerked straight-armed and off-balance­ over the darkness below—clung motionless for a long instant. Then, curling his chest and stomach muscles against Charley's weight, he blindly pulled back close to the ladder and stuffed the mouthpiece back into Charley's face. Then he started up again toward the oblong glare that was still so small and distant.

He was finally nearing the top when he saw Hansford descending, tugging the emergency mask at the end of its long line.

“Can you put this on him?” Hansford's voice was raw with the struggle of his own climb.

Raiford, breathless, shook his head, forcing the tearing muscles of his thighs to make the last 30 rungs … the last 15 … the final 10. … He spit out his mouthpiece and pumped air into his burning lungs and pushed his trembling legs up the last 5 rungs.

Hands clawed at Charley's body and hauled the weight off Raiford as he shoved himself through the hatch. The groaning effort of his final few steps was loud in his ears, but he did not know that the rasping noise was his. He collapsed facedown on the green steel plates, no longer feeling the rip of his thigh muscles, no longer staring at the slap of his stiffened and aching fingers on the steel bars. Gradually, the heat of the deck burned through the numbness of his flesh and he rolled over, squinting and blinking against the hazy glare to suck hot air deeply into his chest as the tight overalls clamped against his heaving ribs.

“Raiford—you okay?” Hansford looked up from the prone Charley. “Any gas?”

He shook his head. The heat of the deck burned into his quivering and jumping muscles. It was hot—hot enough to sting even through the heavy rubber cloth—but it loosened his strained thighs and eased the pain of flesh that had been asked to do too much.

“He's coming around. Charley's coming around.”

Sam, eyes bulging with fear and shock, said something in Chinese to the sprawled man. Charley gave a faint groan.

“All right, Charley—you're going to be all right. We'll get you to hospital chop chop.”

Something weak and strangled in Chinese to the hovering Sam who answered.

Two small figures were running from the distant white tower. A collapsed stretcher bounced between them. Hansford was saying something else into his radio as Sam called in Chinese to the running figures. Charley grunted deeply, curled onto his side, and vomited onto the sun-baked steel. Raiford stared at the steam that rose from the cooking puddle.

XI

Julie called Robert Goff's cell phone a little after eight, telling its message center her hotel exchange and room extension. It took ten minutes. “Is this Miss Campbell? You paged me?”

Julie explained who she was and what she wanted. Some of it, anyway. “I realize it's extremely short notice, but I wonder if I might meet you this evening.”

“This evening? Now?”

“It is somewhat late and I'm very sorry. I didn't feel free to call you at work—I know how busy you are there. But I leave in a few hours and the issue really is imperative. May I buy you dinner by way of apology?”

“Well, I …”

“I wouldn't ask if it weren't so very, very important.”

“Well …”

“Mr. Wood told me you would know details of the ship's operations.”

“Mr. Wood said that?”

“He said you receive the ship's daily reports.”

“Well, yes. But I've already dined.”

“Perhaps an after-dinner drink, then? Is there a pub conveniently near your home? You see, I fly out before your office opens tomorrow, and it's very important that I speak with you. And, again, I apologize.”

“You're American, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to decide it. “All right—the Two Dukes, just across from Neasden Station. That's on the Jubilee line between Wembley Park and Dollis Hill.”

The silence left by the departing train accentuated the station's emptiness as well as the neglect and grime of an overused and underfunded public service. The few passengers headed toward metal stairs posted with notices to alert security about anything suspicious. Julie paused in front of the schedule of trains to let them pass. No face looked familiar; all seemed caught in their own worries. But to be certain, she walked away from the pub. Circling a block, she crossed the street and approached the Two Dukes Free House from the other direction. Its dangling street sign, lit by lights from above, showed on one side a rosy face that, despite poor drawing, looked like John Wayne wearing a kerchief and cowboy hat. The other side displayed an ebony and whitely grinning face, presumably the other duke: Duke Ellington. The owner apparently believed his customers found the royalty of entertainment more convivial than the entertainments of royalty.

The L-shaped room was plain and stark. Scarred wooden tables outnumbered the three or four booths. Harsh lighting showed dull yellow walls and a dado of worn scarlet flocking. A mix of black and white faces, mostly men, gathered in quiet laughter and talk. Against a far wall stood a row of the usual fruit machines flickering and chattering in electronic voices—a parrot: “Avast matey, win the treasure!” From a busty cartoon, a low-pitched female voice said at intervals, “I'd like you on my star craft crew. Won't you come with me?” In the last booth, sitting alone, Robert Goff ran a nervous hand down his cropped beard and nodded hello.

Julie paused at the bar to order a lager and another round of whatever Goff was drinking. Then she sat and thanked the man again for coming out so late.

“No trouble—I mean, Mr. Wood did say I was the person to speak with, didn't he?”

“He certainly did. He admires the way you handle the ship. How long have you been with Hercules?”

“Almost five years now.”

“It must be interesting work.”

A deprecating shrug as he used thumb and forefinger to wipe foam from the corners of his mouth. “Gets a bit routine. After a while anything does, I suppose. But it's a sight better than the dole.” His eyes, dark and haunted by some inner worry, finally met Julie's. “How are jobs in the States, miss? I mean, can a chap find some decent work there?”

“Depends on what you want and what you offer. It's a big country and there are opportunities. Why?”

“Um. I've been thinking of migrating. The States, Canada, Australia.” He shook his head and drank deeply again. “The shipping industry's depressed worldwide, I know that. And I'm not sure what else I'm good for. But there's not much of a future here. Not for a man wants to do best by his family.” Another drink and a long stare at the well-used table. “Still, home's home, isn't it?”

They talked through another pint about various job opportunities in America, its cost of living, the ubiquitous American violence that showed on the telly and in the tabloids. About differences in school systems and housing prices. The questions seemed to be the real reason Goff agreed to meet Julie, and she was happy to barter information. When enough debt had been established, she asked Goff about the
Aurora Victorious
and the death of Rossi.

“Yes, tragic, that. Fell down a ladder, I understand. It does happen.”

“Have there been many deaths aboard her?”

“Deaths? Not as many as some. And she hasn't exploded yet, thank God. But her crew's suffered the various broken bones and lost fingers and limbs.”

“I understand her electronics officer is home on leave.”

He nodded. “Each officer gets thirty days' leave per twelvemonth. Doesn't seem worth it to me. I mean, eleven months is a long time away from your wife and children.”

“Pierce has thirty days' leave?”

“No—two weeks. Gets his thirty in two fortnights. He's only a third officer, and junior officers sometimes have to do that. Scarcely time to get to know your kids again, eh?”

“Do you know Pierce's address?”

“I should remember that. I mail his paycheck monthly … south of London … Kent … Rochester! Yes, that's it: Primrose, number 42, Rochester, Kent. Do you need to talk with him?”

“He might have witnessed Rossi's death—if so, I'd like a statement from him.” Julie shrugged. “My company wants as complete a file as possible on major incidents. But a telephone call would do.”

“No one's asked for that with any of the other deaths.”

“Have other ship's officers been killed?”

“Well, no. Not on my vessels, anyway.”

“That must be why they're asking—he was an officer.”

“I see. Well, I don't know his number. BT information can give it right enough.”

Julie thanked him with another round of lager and more information about the States. “Yesterday you mentioned something about the location of the ship when Rossi was buried. Something about it being unusual?”

“I only meant that she was out of the usual southbound lane. Most tankers between the Gulf and the Cape go inshore of Madagascar. They make better time that way—currents or wind, I believe. I don't know why the
Aurora
chose an eastern route.” He shook his head. “Wasn't by my direction. Mr. Wood's, maybe. And a ship's master has some leeway for local weather, provided he don't lose time overall.” He added, “Mr. Wood keeps the GPS records for all the vessels in his office.”

“Can you tell me who the agent was for the
Golden Dawn
?”

“The
Golden Dawn
?” Surprise lifted his eyebrows. “I was. That is, until Mr. Wood asked for it himself.”

“Wood handled that ship himself?”

“Yes. He's head of the company's tanker section. But he didn't have her for long. She went down a couple of months after he took the account. All hands, too. Found a couple crewmen a bit later—what was left of them.”

“He arranged the ship's insurance?”

“Oh, certainly. Whoever handles a vessel takes care of all that. Has to—get too many agents involved and things get overlooked. It's a complex business, so the whole idea is to schedulize operations—make procedures as routine as possible so they can be checked and double-checked. Used to be one account, one agent. Now agents handle two, sometimes even three, because computers do a lot now. But things can still get bollixed up—insurance or bunkerage or shipping dates. And Mr. Wood's damn quick to give the boot to anyone gets his accounts tangled.”

“Does Wood often take over a ship?”

“Only time since I've been there. At first I thought it was something I'd done—had me in a sweat, I can tell you. But it wasn't, thank God. He just wanted to see to her personally, I suppose. He's the section manger—does what he likes. And when she was lost, I was damn glad he was her agent and not me.” He explained, “Not that the agent can be blamed for perils of the sea or poor ship handling. But it's a funny business. Agent gets the reputation for having bad luck with his vessels and he's on his way out the door. And won't find another open very soon.”

“Do you hire officers and crew?”

“The owners place the captain, with the advice and consent of the section manager, and that's always a major confab. The captain represents the owners, you understand; he's the one responsible to them for the vessel's profit or loss. Office staff deal with recruiting agencies or sometimes unions for the crews. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On the flag the ship flies. Whether or not the owners are required to have citizens of that flag or can use crews of convenience. Hercules has crews of convenience on all its vessels. It's a sight better for operating expenses.”

“Did you receive any of Rossi's personal effects after his death? Letters, photographs, footlocker, that sort of thing?”

“Not I, nor would I. That's up to the ship's master. Sometimes they send the personal effects to the seafarer's home address if they know it. Or to his recruiter for forwarding. Other times they don't.” He shrugged. “Put what's useful in the slop chest and bury the rest at sea with the body, I suppose.”

“Is it customary to have sea burials?”

“Oh, yes. Custom of the sea for centuries. No law against it, in international waters.”

Julie asked a few other questions, general ones about being an agent and about the tanker business. Questions that, in Goff's memory, might blur what she had focused on. Then she gave the man tips about writing various chambers of commerce and what regional newspapers to pull up on the computer for current information. It wasn't much help for a man who wanted to emigrate, but it might come in handy if anyone at Hercules Maritime ever found out about Goff's conversation with her.