Crude Carrier (14 page)

XVIII

Raiford no longer took his coffee in the wardroom. After supper, he helped himself to a soda pop from the vending machine on the main deck and carried it up to his quarters where he read until he finally dropped off to sleep. So it was a surprise, after several nights, to hear a scratch on his door. At first he thought the faint noise was at a neighboring cabin. But it came again, and, shrugging on one of the ship's heavy bathrobes, he unlocked the door.

“Mr. Raifah—your coffee, sah.” The deck steward held a covered tray on his shoulder, face impassive.

Understanding, he stepped back so the man could carry the tray in. “Took you long enough, Woody,” he said loudly as he closed the door.

It really was coffee, and the steward busied himself serving as he spoke quietly. “Sam is very sorry for the trouble he makes for you, Mr. Raifah. He wants me to tell you.”

“He didn't make the trouble, Woody.” His voice, too, was low. The uninsulated steel bulkheads between cabins carried sound easily and were the cause of occasional witticisms by neighbors of officers whose wives had come aboard.

“His fault, he says. Very sorry.” Woody clattered the cup and saucer loudly over the murmur of his voice. “First Mate kick him very hard. Very …” He searched for the word, eyes turning toward the ceiling for inspiration. “Hurt—skin all dark.”

“Bruised?”

“Bruise—yes. Very bruise. Any more kicks maybe break something and he cannot work no more. Sam say thank you very much.”

“Tell him I hope he's feeling all right now. That sort of thing happen a lot?”

“Sometimes. Depends. Sometimes First Mate very angry alla time. Sometimes not. Nobody likes him. You are a good man, not same as him.” Woody frowned as he poured the coffee, eyes on the smoking stream. “First Mate is very dangerous. You please be careful, sah.”

“Is that what happened to Mr. Rossi? He had a fight with the First Mate?”

“No. He fall overboard.”

“Was another ship alongside when he fell?”

“Oh, yes. Little tanker. Mr. Rossi reach way out for line to secure hose. Too far. Fall down between.” The man's slender hand made a rolling motion. “I see him—call ‘man overboard.' First Mate tells me shut up and we leave Mr. Rossi. First Mate says keep off-loading—keep working. Never mind Mr. Rossi.”

“He was still alive and they didn't stop for him?”

“Yes. Mr. Rossi wave his arms, try to swim.” Woody clattered his silver-plated serving dishes together so that Raiford barely heard his words. “Leave him sink behind ship.”

Raiford sighed a long breath. Then he murmured, “What happened to Rossi's personal effects? Letters or clothes or other gear?”

“In his footlocker, sah.”

“What happened to it?”

Woody shrugged. “Maybe went to slop chest.”

“Everything?”

He bobbed his head and shuffled nervously. “Man die, all the good stuff goes to the slop chest. Cheaper than send it home—makes money for ship's store, too.” He added, “Rest of his stuff …” and ended in a shrug.

Raiford could be wearing Rossi's plimsoles.

“I must go—Mr. Raifah, you be very careful, please. First Mate your enemy now. Much danger for you.”

“I will, Woody. Thanks.” Raiford leaned into the passageway to call after the tinkling tray, “And next time don't take so damned long getting here—I like my coffee hot!”

Silent, but ready to hand any tool needed, Alfred stood at Raiford's side. Much of the electronics work did not require an assistant, and given the small number of crewmen, it seemed Alfred could have served better chipping paint or helping with the ceaseless maintenance in the engine room. But the sailor was less aide than guard, and the man's presence kept other crewmen from talking to Raiford.

Today's schedule called for a calibration check of the temperature sensors, those that monitored each section of the old boilers as well as those watching over the condenser and turbine. The lower levels of the engine room, dim with spotty lighting and intricate shadows, were hot and damp with steam. It was here that Raiford's claustrophobic dislike of ships grew intense, and here that the age of the
Aurora
was most evident. Steam leaked in tiny plumes around valves and fittings crusted with years of mineral deposits or slick with beards of slimy brown rust. The second engineering officer, Henderson, had told Raiford that the ship was one of the few still powered by steam rather than diesel engines, and its age forced them to lie idle for a day every three months so the accumulating leaks could be tightened up. “If we didn't, we'd lose our steam and the old tub would up and die. Steam runs everything: steerage, electricity, your precious computers, pumps and loading systems, everything. Not so bad if it comes when we're in port waiting to load. Damned expensive at sea. Lose a good fifteen or twenty hours at over five thousand dollars a day.” He added, “Then the captain pushes her at flank speed to make up the bleeding time and that starts the leaks all over again.”

Water distillation was another nagging problem for the engineering officer. The steam leaks, though small, added up to a loss of thirty tons of distilled water a day. The evaporation unit produced freshly distilled replacement water at only thirty-five tons. A five-ton margin was, Henderson said, almost no margin at all. The large boiler making the steam that turned the turbine and its single massive propeller shaft used distilled water that had to be absolutely clean. Impurities would dry and cake against the boiler's steel wall and cause uneven heat. The resultant hot spots could burn through the side of the boiler in a matter of hours, and that made the heat sensors and Raiford's job all the more vital.

“As for the condenser, don't ask.”

Raiford promised he wouldn't, but Henderson wanted him to understand how important maintenance duties were. The condenser was a pipe system that cooled the steam back into water after it had run through the turbine. “Has to be water when it goes into the boiler, right? Otherwise, the fire burns through the bottom just like your granny's teapot when it's empty.” Seawater, used for cooling the condenser, was drawn in through the ship's hull, circulated around the steam pipes in the condenser chamber. Then the seawater was pumped out in a steady warm stream above the waterline. But seawater corrodes metal, and old metal corrodes faster, and the engineering officers had a constant battle to keep the cooling seawater from leaking into the condenser's steam pipes and contaminating the pure water used for the engine. “Another reason why the heat sensors are so important, right? Warning light on the monitor board lets us know if the bloody condenser unit's sprung another leak. Gives us a chance to shut down and patch up before any harm's done to the boiler.”

As Raiford and Alfred worked their way down a narrow catwalk along the shuddering flanks of the towering boiler, the clank of tools and high-pitched voices cut through the humming throb of burners and pumps, turbine and screw. A glare of bright light from the level below showed the engineering shop where three crewmen stood pounding at a length of pipe clamped in the vises of a metal worktable. One was Sam, who, glancing up, stared for a long moment through the grill of the catwalk toward Raiford and then turned quickly back to his work. The voices dropped beneath the engine room's rumble. Raiford tested the readings of sensor fourteen and, squinting against the fiery glare and heat spilling from a small vision port, recorded the test date on its inspection tag. Then he moved to the next unit. At number eighteen, he shook his flashlight and thumped it against the heel of his hand.

“Alfred, me lad—the electric torch is out. Can't read the meter. Go up to ship's stores and trade these for new batteries­.” He tilted the flashlight over the man's hand and let its batteries slide into the open palm. “Just like these, got it? Battery—electric torch—chop chop. Got it?”

The man's black eyes narrowed slightly and he nodded once. Raiford watched through the steamy air as the dark coveralls flickered away in the patches of light along the catwalk. When Alfred was out of sight, Raiford swung quickly down a ladder way toward the three seamen.

Sam saw him first. A startled look crossed his face. He peered past Raiford then scanned the catwalk along the tall side of the boiler. When he did not see Alfred, Sam smiled widely, “Mr. Raifah—thank you! Thank you!”

“How you feeling, Sam? Everything okay?”

“Everything okay—and you, Mr. Raifah—you are treated very bad now, yes? Very sorry,” he said, still grinning.

The other two sailors grinned just as widely. Raiford shook his head. “No problem. Woody told me to be careful. He also said things could get dangerous. What did he mean, Sam? What kind of things?”

The smile went away and the man wagged his head. “Tanker work is very dangerous alla time. Alla time work very fast—hurry alla time.” Another wag. “First Mate maybe gives you work so you have accident, yes? That Alfred is not good man—works for First Mate, yes? When he works along with you, you look out for him.”

“Thanks, Sam. Will do.”

A clanging noise echoed faintly through the noise. Sam, frightened, looked up toward the catwalk and said hurriedly, “You meet me at the fantail, four bells tonight, yes?”

“Right—see you then.” Raiford scrambled back up the ladder. Alfred, a gliding wedge of darkness in the steam, flickered toward him.

“Batteries.” He handed them to Raiford, eyes studying the taller man, then the three sailors working industriously below.

“Right.” Raiford dropped them into the L-shaped flashlight. “Let's get this over with. I'm starting to get moldy.”

Muted by the hiss of waves and the hum of wind across struts and cables, the ship's bell came softly from the intercom. The stern was a vast black shadow whose taffrail and butts, winches, drums, and hawseholes were silhouetted against the wide band of churned sea that unrolled like a faintly glowing ribbon into the darkness. Gleams of pale green flickered and surged beyond the ship's flanks as phosphorescent waves broke into foam under the steady push of the northern monsoon. Above, towering into a moonless sky filled with more stars than Raiford had seen in a long time, the aft face of the ship's island gleamed here and there with uncurtained windows. Yet, despite its size, the island was but a small focus of life and light in a darkness that stretched forever.

Four bells of the third watch. Most of the officers and ratings would be in the crew's mess watching the evening movie, an old Charles Bronson film called
Messenger of Death
. For some reason, Bronson was a favorite with the crew. But Raiford had seen this dog on late-night television and didn't feel he was missing anything now. Nor would his fellow officers miss him—they had come to expect his absence.

High in the stars overhead, the wind made a hollow sound across the ship's funnel. Raiford's eyes, grown accustomed to the dark in the twenty minutes he had been waiting, made out the trail of quickly blown smoke that blotted and dimmed stars over the port bow. He hunched deeper into his jacket. With the equatorial sun gone, even a sea wind as warm as this one felt chill. Leaning into the shelter of the lifeboat, he waited.

Finally, a vague figure moved quickly against the pale bridge. A moment later, the shape reappeared against the sea's glow. It stood motionless for a breath or two and then gingerly came forward.

Raiford stepped out of the shadow of the lifeboat davit. “How're you doing, Sam?”

A sharp intake of breath followed by a relieved sigh. “Ah—Mr. Raifah!” Sam stepped close, bringing the thick odor of garlic from the evening meal. “Very dark here. You wait long?”

“Long enough to be sure we're alone. What do you want to tell me?”

Sam's voice, tensely muted, spewed as if a plug had been pulled. “Ah, Mr. Raifah, this is a very bad ship—very bad! Treat sailors very bad—take too much pay for everything: movies, crimp, laundry, even TV. So much they take out! Even take money for safety class—must go to safety class every week and pay for class. And First Mate very bad. All the time he hits sailors, calling them names. That Alfred very bad. Works for First Mate. Spies on crew. Tells First Mate to fire this man, give that man hard work or dangerous work—”

“Well, go to another ship. Can't you move to another ship?”

“No—crimp say I must work here. He keeps much pay until my contract is finished. Three years. If I leave ship early, no pay, no repat.”

“I don't know what to tell—”

“Very dangerous work this tanker. Now is more dangerous with new Plimsoll. Work very much overtime and no pay for it—not enough crew for all the work—too little sailors for keeping ship to run …”

Sam's English was a lot better than Raiford's Chinese, but it was breaking down under the pressure of his complaints. Raiford had trouble understanding the tumbling words whose syllables began to separate and take on the rise and fall of his native language. “Whoa, Sam—slow down. What do you mean, a new Plimsoll?”

“New Plimsoll. Plimsoll line. New paint. Makes ship carry more but looks same.”

“You mean you painted over the old Plimsoll line with a new one?”

“Not new one over old one. Black paint over old Plimsoll and new Plimsoll higher up side. Ship carries more oil but new Plimsoll looks okay to inspectors.”

“This ship is overloaded?”

“Yes! Big overload. Very dangerous. Ship very easy to break up now. Easy to sink in storm. Very dangerous now and sailors very frightened.”

“How much overloaded?”

A shadowy shrug and a wide stretch of both arms.

“You moved the Plimsoll line up that far?”

“More.”

“More? When was this done?”

“Three—maybe four voyages. Clean tanks, move Plimsoll up. Very lucky so far no big storms. But dangerous, too—a big storm is coming some time.”