Deadly Cargo: A chilling naval terrorism thriller

by Rich Johnson

  “Sir,” the voice of his first officer brought Sleagle back from his thoughts, and he turned to face the man.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “A report from the deck crew, sir. They have checked all the tie-downs and found everything secure.”

  “Thank you. Carry on.”

  The bridge deck was elevated the height of a two-story building above the highest rank of containers, and was positioned near the stern of the ship, giving the skipper a commanding view of his cargo load. The bridge deck was a wide glass and steel hallway that stretched ninety-two feet across the ship, and was filled with the latest electronic monitoring, control, communication and navigation equipment. There were dedicated stations for the other members of his command team, consisting of his first officer and navigator. To port and starboard of the enclosed bridge, outside platforms offered secondary stations where the skipper could see up and down the length of the ship to either side and direct steerage and line-handling when docking, passing through locks, or when tugs were coming alongside. In some respects, the view from the bridge deck was like watching a football game from the owner’s lounge through an expanse of windows high above the field.

  Facing the command team were redundant arrays of monitors for the multiple radar and electronic chart plotting systems. Primary and secondary VHF and SSB radios, as well as the ship’s intercom system, were centered on the command dashboard.

  The helm station was home to the engine controls and the vast array of electrical and hydraulic systems controls. Rather than having a wheel, Desdemonda’s manual steering was controlled by use of devices similar to computer game joysticks. Rudder angle indicators gave a visual feedback to the captain about how much steering effort was being made.

  Manual steering was used for close-in work, but most of the time, the huge ship was steered by autopilot that was directed electronically by the global positioning satellite system, leading the vessel from one pre-designated waypoint to the next without the need for anyone to touch the controls.

  On the open sea, the ship could literally tend itself while everyone on board went to sleep or fell overboard or died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Once the ship was underway and the autopilot activated, nothing would stop it from plowing ahead at full speed toward its destination. To Sleagle, all the electronic gadgetry came with both a bright and a dark side. It certainly eased the exhausting burden of having to manually control the ship hour after hour, day after day, as it had been done in earlier times before the advances of technology. But if the crew became complacent and lazy, the self-governing systems could carry the ship to disaster. Sleagle constantly reminded the command team that even with all the wizardry built into the control systems, it was still necessary, in fact it was the law of the sea, that the command crew maintain an adequate watch at all times.

  “Machines and electronics are nice,” he was fond of saying, “but they can’t make judgment calls or respond to sudden emergencies the way a man at the helm can.”

  Much of the time, only one member of the command team stood watch. They worked by a three-on, six-off schedule leaving the off-watch ample time to rest and prepare for their shift. But today, as they prepared to head into the hurricane, all hands were on the bridge deck, and would stay there until the captain decided to shorten crew and resume the rotation schedule. This was one of those exceptional moments in the life of a container ship, when every set of eyes and ears was necessary for the next several hours as they sailed into harm’s way.

  The rest of the crew, consisting of twenty-nine men, were scattered throughout the ship, tending to cargo and mechanical equipment. A full team of ship’s engineers stood round-the-clock watch on the engines and generators. Electricians and hydraulic specialists saw to the needs of the onboard electrical and hydraulic equipment. Others pulled shifts to maintain saltwater desalination units that provided fresh water for the ship. A mess crew kept everybody fed, and a gang of able seamen took care of general ship’s maintenance, scraping and painting and fixing whatever needed attention.

  Running all of this was a daunting task. In addition to commanding from the helm, it was Sleagle’s job to make sure the entire ship was kept in top running condition, the crew well fed and cared for, and the cargo carried safely to its final destination. It took coordinated teamwork to make it all happen, and he was pleased with the team aboard Desdemonda for this voyage.

  As he stared through the binocular at the gray scene before him, Sleagle called for Peter Moyes, his weather officer. A young man of slight build and a thinning wisp of blond hair stepped from a small room directly aft of the helm station. Without turning to acknowledge the man’s presence, Sleagle asked, “What is the latest position of Yolanda?”

  Moyes was twenty-three years old, had a weak chin, and his attempt at growing a mustache had failed miserably. The thin hairs on his upper lip were spotty and limp, but he persisted in letting the thing grow, to the amusement of the crew members who sported more substantial facial hair. Looking a bit more pale than usual, Moyes stepped beside the captain.

  “The eye is located seventy miles distant at a relative bearing of one two zero and approaching at a speed of 12 knots and rising. We are under the leading edge and on a collision course, sir.”

  Sleagle raised his eyebrows. “Well, so much for being stalled. I guess it was too much to hope that she would sit still forever. I was hoping to get out ahead of her and beat her through the Yucatan Channel. The problem is that now that she’s on the move, as the seas grow we’re not going to be able to maintain our speed, so we can’t outrun her. Eventually, we have to slow down and let her pass over us.”

  He turned to the chart table where, in spite of all the electronic gear onboard, the navigator still maintained a dead reckoning plot on paper charts – just in case the electronics failed. The captain scribed a line with his finger and tapped hard at one spot.

  “We’ve got about four hours, I’d say, and she’s going to run over the top of us right about here. What’s the wind speed at the eye wall?”

  Moyes swallowed a rising lump in his throat. “Reported to be 145 and rising, sir.”

  “Forecast storm track?”

  “Miami is forecasting three options, sir.”

  “Let me guess. One is to sweep up this way,” – he ran his finger across the chart – “through the Yucatan Channel and into the Gulf of Mexico. Another is to slam into the coast somewhere between Honduras and Belize, blowing the place to bits and wrecking the local tourism economy. And the third is to do something totally unpredictable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are they giving percentages?”

  “Not yet.”

  Sleagle looked at his weather officer, as if waiting for something more.

  Finally it came. “Not yet, sir,” Moyes’ eyes fell to the floor in silent apology for neglecting to be properly respectful.

  “That will be all for now, Mr Moyes,” Sleagle said. “Keep me updated every thirty minutes. But if there are any significant changes from what you’ve already told me, I want to know it immediately. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Moyes turned away and returned to the ship’s weather station where he could monitor all the major forecasting stations, tap into satellite imagery, and receive real-time reports from data buoys and other ships in the region. A murmur stirred in his mind, but he was smart enough to never let it near his lips. He resented Sleagle and his constant demand for what he called ‘proper military respect’. A quiet plan was growing, and he was more certain now than ever that this was his last voyage under the dictatorial command of Sleagle. In Miami, he planned to terminate his contract and find a nice, friendly cruise ship to work for. He’d seen the brochures. The food was undoubtedly better. There were parties every night. Rather than shipping containers, the decks would be lined with gorgeous babes. And maybe, just maybe, he could finally drop the ‘sir’ from his working vocabulary.

  As ordered, Peter Moyes d
elivered weather updates to Captain Eric Sleagle every half hour. At each report, he addressed the man he despised with the hated word ‘sir’. By the time he made his third report, winds were screaming at more than 70 knots, already at the first level of hurricane strength. Moyes knew that worse was yet to come as the center of the storm approached. Wind strength would increase steadily, doubling what they were already feeling, and perhaps even more than doubling by the time the eye wall slammed into them.

  Desdemonda was rolling hard now, and every now and then there was a thunderous boom that shook the ship as the hull was hammered by a wave that was out of synch with the vessel’s rhythmic roll and pitch. In calm seas, the ballast of heavy cargo was an advantage that helped keep the ship steady, but in conditions like this, the kinetic energy of half a million tons of swaying weight only amplified the movement. And with the cargo containers stacked as high as they were on Desdemonda, a great deal of weight was above the water line, raising the center of gravity and creating an inherently unstable load.

  Like the swinging of a heavy pendulum, once the rolling motion started, the more the ship wanted to continue to roll, first to one side and then the other. Ballast in the cargo holds below decks acted as the far side of the teeter-totter, counterbalancing the weight above decks, but that concept was only good up to a point. Even sailboats with heavily ballasted keels were known to be rolled over in heavy seas, and Desdemonda was a far cry from having a sailboat’s self-righting ability. Everyone onboard understood that, if the winds and seas continued to worsen, it was not inconceivable for the enormous ship to roll all the way over and never come up. There were no guarantees of safety just because she was a big ship.

  Captain Sleagle had gambled on being able to outrun the storm. He stared out the expansive windows of the bridge deck and mentally kicked himself for his decision back in Colon. He could have stayed put and waited for the storm to pass. But sometimes a hurricane will progress so slowly that a fast ship can easily outmaneuver or outrun the danger. The report he had received from the weather service before leaving port showed that the storm had stalled for more than eight hours before beginning to move again very slowly, and he was counting on being able to outrun it and stay on schedule to Miami. But in the last dozen hours, it had picked up speed and was roaring like a freight train. He saw now that he was going to lose the race.

  Moyes cleared his throat. “Wind strength is at 74, sir. Significant wave height is thirty-nine feet. Both wind and sea state are rising steadily, sir.” He doubled up on the ‘sirs’ as a barely visible form of personal protest, but said the word through a clenched jaw. Maybe it was the stress of the approaching storm, or the fact that he was seasick and had spent the past twenty minutes bent over the toilet. But Peter Moyes was angry. He was sick and angry, and he wanted to be anywhere else but here. The last thing he wanted was to report to Sleagle.

  Above the noise of the storm, the captain detected the difference in the way his weather officer talked to him. It wasn’t just his imagination. The first officer and the navigator heard it, too. They looked up from their work, glanced curiously at each other and then stared at the captain and the weather officer.

  “You don’t look well, Mr Moyes.”

  “I’m not well, sir,” Moyes yelled. “I’m sick to death of this ship and this storm. And mostly, I’m sick to death of you. Sir.” He spat the last word. “You got us into this. We could have stayed in Panama and let the storm pass, but no, you had to be the hero.”

  Sleagle had seen this before: a young man who thought life at sea was going to be nothing but a grand adventure, seeing the world on somebody else’s nickel and having a girl in every port; then the realities of it hits him square between the eyes, and he can’t take it

  “Well, son,” – the captain put a hand on the young officer’s shoulder, looked earnestly in his eyes and spoke with an almost hushed calm – “we can talk about my judgment later. But you are this ship’s weather officer. Right now, you are one of the most important people on this ship and we are relying on your judgment to help get us through this.”

  The calm voice of the captain took Peter Moyes aback. He didn’t know quite what to say, so he stood there with his mouth shut.

  “We need you to be on top of your game right now. You must pull yourself together enough to be an asset to the command team. We’re all depending on you. But I suggest that you go to my cabin, lie down, shut your eyes and rest for a while. It will make you feel better. I’ll call for you when I need you.”

  “Your cabin, sir?” This time, the word ‘sir’ didn’t stick quite so hard in his throat.

  “Yes. My cabin will be the most comfortable place for you right now.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key and handed it to the young man. “Go on. We’ll handle things until you are back on your feet.”

  “Who will do the weather for you, sir?” The question was carried on a weak voice.

  Sleagle smiled and patted the lad on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about that right now. When I got started in this business, I was a weather officer just like you. I think I can handle things.”

  “Just like me, sir?” Moyes’ voice was almost a whisper.

  “Uh-huh. Now you go rest. In an hour or so, we’re all going to be extremely busy on the bridge, fighting to keep the ship. The command team will need you to be at full strength.”

  Peter Moyes turned and, on unsteady feet as the ship rolled to the waves, headed across the bridge toward the stairway that led to the captain’s cabin. As he reached for the door, he turned back. “Captain Sleagle, sir …” When he saw the ship’s commander turn to face him, he stood erect and snapped a crisp salute. “I’m sorry for what I said, sir.” Then he turned and disappeared through the door.

  Captain Sleagle felt the eyes of his first officer and navigator. He turned his head to face them and, perceiving their thoughts, decided to answer the question he knew was in their minds. “That was me twenty years ago,” he smiled. “But don’t you guys get any funny ideas about me being a pushover. And keep this to yourselves, okay? I’ve got a reputation to protect. Now get back to work. We’ve got a tough day ahead of us.”

  Almost in unison, the men sounded off. “Aye, sir.”

  Over the next hour, Desdemonda rolled and pitched to the waves. Wind screamed through the radio and radar antennas atop the bridge deck. Swells hit them from just aft of the starboard beam, maximizing their impact on the hull, and causing the ship to roll violently and shoving the stern sideways. It was the most dangerous way for a ship to stand to large oncoming waves, and it set the vessel into a slow, wobbling spiral motion with the bow describing a circle in a rhythm just opposite the circle being described by the stern. In a smaller vessel, the motion was called a death roll. It was uncomfortable, but there was no real risk of a ship the size of Desdemonda actually spiraling into a wave-driven broach. The danger was that, if the cargo got loose in the holds, the ship could become unbalanced or sustain hull damage from a container slamming around like a wrecking ball.

  Driven rain slanted sideways, shutting down visibility to just beyond the bow of the ship. The world around them was slate gray and growing steadily darker. As if a sudden hill had appeared behind them, the stern angled up and the men on the bridge deck hung on to steady themselves as the ship rose and then fell off the back of the large wave. The whole ship shuddered under the impact, as the flat-sided hull slammed into the trough that followed the wave. Then she rose again and slammed once more, sending a shattering reverberation through the length and width of Desdemonda.

  “That one was over sixty feet sir,” the first officer shouted.

  “Bring us about,” Sleagle ordered. “We’ll never survive unless we get the bow into those monsters.”

  “Aye, sir,” the first officer responded as he laid the control stick over.

  As the ship came beam-to, another wave hit, this one larger than the last, and the Desdemonda was rolled into a thirty degree list. Everyone grabbed f
or something solid, and everything not bolted down shot into the downhill end of the bridge. Sleagle held his breath for so long that it seemed as if time had stopped while the ship held steady on the extreme angle of heel. He knew that at a certain point, the weight of cargo above the ship’s center of gravity would overwhelm the righting moment, with no coming back upright. She would just lay over on her side with cargo bay hatches bursting open and the ocean flooding in, sending them to the bottom.

  While his officers strained to hold on, under his breath the captain prayed for the ship to right itself. After what seem an eternal wait, he felt the hull slide off the huge wave and fall into the trough. It was just enough to start the ship coming back up, but he knew the next wave was waiting to finish the job the first one started.

  “I’ve got the helm,” he shouted as the ship came level, and grabbed the joy stick and throttle controls. He rammed one control full forward and the other full reverse in a desperate effort to spin the enormous ship on its axis and get her pointed into the waves before the next onslaught.

  Mercifully, there was a pause in the waves, and Sleagle knew that they had been slammed by a short series of rogue waves that were created by the unusual joining of two or three waves that combine their force and build to enormous height. If he could take advantage of the relative calm that followed those rogues, they might have a chance. But another set of rogues could come along at any time.

  Slowly, Desdemonda regained her feet, and the giant propellers dug into the thrashing seas. Gradually, the scene before them rotated. Another wave slammed them, this time exploding across the cargo deck and drowning the bridge windows. A falling sensation followed the lifting of the wave, and they were back in the trough, but the ship was still turning. The next wave lifted them like a fast elevator ride, then they fell again, and this time the bow went down first.

  “We’re getting there, men!” the captain shouted. “Just a little more!”