by Antony Trew
DEATH OF A
SUPERTANKER
Antony Trew
It was a complete act of treason, the betrayal of a tradition which seemed to me as imperative as any guide on earth could be. It appeared that even at sea a man could become the victim of evil spirits.
Joseph Conrad
The Shadow Line
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
By the Same Author
Copyright
All of the characters and incidents in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
From the wing of the bridge the second officer searched the distant haze for the land he knew was there but could not see. Ahead, towards the sun, the view was dominated by the maindeck, a vast expanse of red coated steel, nearly a fifth of a mile of it reaching out from the foot of the superstructure on which he stood. The bridge was more than a hundred feet above the waterline, the height of a ten-storey building. Though he knew they were there, the bluff, rounded bows of the supertanker, the bulbous ram of her forefoot, the huge hull beneath the waterline displacing hundreds of thousands of tons of water every minute, were for him invisible, remote and commonplace.
More real was the sub-tropical sun which lay hot upon the ship, flecking the ruffled sea with dancing points of light and gilding the wings of seabirds which wheeled and swooped over the broken water astern. He saw that it was almost 1240; time to set about fixing the ship’s position. He checked the distance from the coast by radar. It was thirty-one miles. At the Decca Navigator he noted the lane co-ordinates and identified them on the chart. At their point of intersection he drew a neat circle, wrote against it the time, 1240, and entered the position in the deck logbook. ‘She’s on course,’ he muttered to himself. ‘North Sand Bluff abeam.’ With dividers he measured distances on the chart: the ship was 31.3 miles offshore, 85 miles from Durban. The electric log above the chart-table gave speed through the water as 15.3 knots, whereas the distance between the noon and 1240 positions showed it to be only 14.7. To avoid the Mozambique current which swept to the south-west they kept off the land on the voyage up the coast. But even out there, he decided, they were feeling some of it.
He moved along the foreside of the wheelhouse and from long habit, almost unaware that he was doing so because his mind was busy with other things, checked along the systems consoles: the gyro compass, course and speed indicators, the Decca Arkas auto-pilot, the bridge-engineroom controls, ship condition and alarm systems, the radar sets, communications panel and much else.
These routine things done he looked across to where the quartermaster – free of the wheel since the ship was on autopilot – polished a wheelhouse window with the slow but steady rhythm of a man who has time to spare.
‘Eighty-five miles to Durban, Gomez‚’ said the second officer.
The Cape Verde Islander stopped polishing, turned, grinned, strong white teeth prominent in the brown face. ‘What matter, Mister Foley. We not stop in Durban. How far now for the Gulf?’
‘Five thousand miles, give or take a few hundred.’
‘Is how many days?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Ah. Seventeen. Too much. Thirty-six hours in the Gulf to load. Afterwards, six weeks more sea before Rotterdam. It is not a good life, sir.’
‘You chose it, Gomez.’
‘Life chooses, sir. Not me. Must have money for wife and children.’ He turned back to the window and got on with the polishing.
The second officer’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden piercing blast. It was steam exhausting from the funnel and the sound of it was compounded by an unusual metallic clatter from the engineroom. Alarm signals sounded, warning lights on the bridge console glowed red, and he realized that the main turbine was tripping. The RPM meter indicated a rapid fall in revolutions and finally stopped. As if to emphasize its message, all hull vibrations ceased.
He reached for the phone to the engineroom but his intention was pre-empted by its flashing light and persistent buzz. He picked up the handset. ‘Bridge here. Foley speaking.’
Above the shrill blast of escaping steam he recognized the hoarse voice of Jerry Whitelot the fourth engineer. ‘We’ve a problem. Two-Oh,’ it said. ‘All hell’s let loose.’
‘Sounds like it. What’s up?’
‘Turbine coupling’s packed up. Jonah is shutting down. The HP rotor’s probably had it.’
‘Sounds traumatic. Would happen to Jonah.’ Jonah was Jonathan Malim, the third engineer.
‘You said it, mate. Days more than hours to fix this lot. Let the Old Man know right away, will you? ‘Bye now.’
‘Will do. ’Bye.’
Foley heard the phone click off, and at once dialled the Master’s suite. At that moment Captain Crutchley himself appeared on the bridge, a solid squarely built man with weathered features rendered expressionless by dark glasses.
‘I was dialling you, sir,’ said the second officer. ‘There’s trouble in the engineroom. They’ve had to shut down. The coupling between the turbine and the gearing has packed up.’
The Captain was a silent, withdrawn man who seldom if ever showed emotion. Now his mouth tightened and he frowned his disapproval of what he’d heard as he went to the bridge console.
Soon afterwards Freeman Jarrett, the chief officer, arrived in the wheelhouse. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked the second officer in his challenging probing way. Jarrett was breathless. Typical of the man, thought Foley, that he’d run to the bridge. Never missed a trick. Had to be in on everything. Foley and Jarrett had two things in common. Their dislike of each other and their admiration for Sandy. The last emotion had a good deal to do with the first because Sandy was Foley’s wife; one of four women making the round voyage in Ocean Mammoth.
Briefly, in an undertone, his eyes on the Captain because he disliked the chief officer’s stare, Foley explained what had happened. Jarrett was muttering something about why had he not been informed immediately, when the Captain interrupted. ‘Bring the ship’s head twenty degrees to starboard, Mr Foley.’ Without turning to look at the chief officer he added, ‘Mr Jarrett. Tell Cadet Middleton to report to the bridge at once.’
The chief officer went to the phone while Foley turned the knurled knob of the auto-pilot and soon the gyro-repeater began ticking off the degrees as the ship’s head swung to starboard. A few minutes later Foley reported, ‘She’s twenty degrees to starboard now, sir. Heading zero-four-two.’
‘Good. Steady her on that. She’ll carry steerage way for five or six miles.’ The Captain didn’t explain that he wished to get the ship further away from the land and the drift of the Mozambique current, but they knew that. Now he stood in the centre of the bridge, hands
clasped behind his back, silent, massive, looking straight ahead. A sallow youth with dark untidy hair arrived on the bridge and he and the Captain went round the screen to the chartroom. The officers knew of the Captain’s insistence that Middleton should always be on the bridge with him, whatever the time of day or night. The young man was due to write his DTI examination for Second Mate in a few months’ time and the Captain was said to be giving him every opportunity of experience on the bridge.
The chief officer had his own ideas about Captain Crutchley’s motives.
By two o’clock that afternoon much had happened. At a conference in the Master’s suite with Benson the second engineer and the chief officer present, the chief engineer, Hamish McLintoch, had explained the problem. The coupling between the main turbine shaft and the gearing had failed. The cause of failure appeared to be a collapsed bearing.
‘In Malim’s watch.’ The Captain was thoughtful. ‘Was there no warning?’
‘He says not.’ McLintoch narrowed his eyes. ‘But I have my doubts.’
The chief engineer went on to explain that failure of the bearing had fractured the coupling. This had resulted in overspeed of the turbines during which the HP rotor had stripped its blades. No doubt the casing blades would also be damaged. In other words, a major breakdown had occurred and the ship was without power on her main engines. There was a spare coupling on board, and spare casing blades, but a new HP rotor would have to be flown out from Europe. Fitting of the new coupling, the rotor and casing blades would have to be done in harbour.
The Captain asked if the ship could reach Durban under her own power. The chief engineer said she could steam at about seven knots using the LP stage of the main turbine only, but that would entail blanking off the HP stage and by-passing it with temporary steam lines. It was a complicated operation and would take several days. It was then agreed that since the ship was less than eighty-five miles from Durban, an ocean-going tug should tow her in. Captain Crutchley knew that the costs would be borne by the marine underwriters.
His next move was to talk by radiophone to Durban’s Port Captain. He reported that his ship, the VLCC Ocean Mammoth, bound for the Persian Gulf in ballast, had experienced a major breakdown. He gave the ship’s position and asked if a salvage tug was available to tow her into Durban.
The Port Captain said there was, but added, ‘What is your length, draught and tonnage?’
‘Three hundred and fifty metres,’ said Captain Crutchley. ‘Draught in ballast ten point three metres, gross registered tonnage one hundred and sixty-two thousand, dead weight tonnage loaded, three hundred and twenty thousand. Complement, thirty-six crew, four passengers.’
‘And you are entirely without power on your main engines?’
‘That is correct.’
There was some delay before the Port Captain continued. ‘I can’t permit any ship of that size, without power, to be towed into the harbour. You’ll understand, Captain, that the risks are too great.’
‘I appreciate that, sir. We will over the next few days blank off the damaged HP stage and steam on LP. That will give a manoeuvring speed of seven knots. All we need. These ships handle well. If you can let us have tugs to assist, and the weather’s fine, there should be no problems.’
It was agreed that on arrival off Durban the ship would anchor within the precincts of the port until her engineers had restored power to the main engines. Then, with the assistance of tugs, she could enter harbour and berth at No. 1 Pier on Salisbury Island.
‘Have you finished cleaning your tanks?’ enquired the Port Captain.
‘Yes. They’ve been cleaned and inerted so there is no risk of explosion.’
‘Thank you, Captain. Who are your agents here?’
‘Lars Hammarsen and Company.’
‘Right. I’ll be in touch with them. In the meantime please ask them to arrange for the services of the salvage tug. They’ll have to see to guarantees and so forth.’
‘Certainly,’ said Captain Crutchley. ‘I will do that.’
They discussed a number of other matters including a safe anchorage. The conversation ended with expressions of mutual esteem, the Port Captain having remarked that Ocean Mammoth would be the largest vessel ever to enter Durban harbour.
Captain Crutchley next put a call through to his marine-superintendent in London, discussed the breakdown and reached agreement on the steps to be taken. That done he informed the Durban agents by radiophone of what had transpired and asked them to arrange for the despatch of a salvage tug.
He and his officers then settled down to wait while their new ship, outward bound on her second voyage from Rotterdam to the Persian Guif, lay helpless and drifting on a calm sea under a hot sun, her crew as listless as the weather.
Down in the engineroom the ship’s engineers were already busy by-passing the damaged HP turbine. The chief engineer had told them they would have to work day and night until the task was completed.
In the office which formed part of his ample and luxurious suite, Captain Crutchley was writing a report on the day’s events. He wrote slowly, stopping often to wipe his eyes and clean his glasses. The report was addressed to Nicolas Kostadis, marine-superintendent of Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd., the man in London to whom he had just spoken. A strange company, reflected Crutchley, registered in the Bahamas, operating offices in London, directors and financial control in Zurich, and each ship of the modern fleet – four supertankers and six bulk carriers – registered in Famagusta, a port they would never use though they flew the Cypriot flag. It was very much a flag of convenience. Ocean Mammoth’s officers and engineers were British, the remainder of the crew Cape Verde Islanders except for the Goanese stewards.
Captain Crutchley sighed. It was difficult for a seaman to comprehend the complexities of modern ship-owning. One thing he did understand, however, was the crew mix. Britain was well down in the European maritime pay league, indeed only just above Spain. It would have cost the owners a lot more to operate their ships with German, French, Scandinavian or even Greek crews. He consoled himself with the thought that he was very much better paid than he would have been in a British ship. Money was important to Captain Crutchley.
At half past four that afternoon the Port Captain reported the departure from Durban of the Seahorse, one of two deep-sea salvage tugs stationed on the South African coast, the most powerful of their kind in the world. He gave the tug’s estimated time of arrival at the tanker as eight-thirty. Captain Crutchley thanked him and said the ship would in all respects be ready to be taken in tow when the tug arrived.
At the Captain’s request, Foley – the ship’s navigating officer – gave him the times of sunset and moonrise. The sun would set at 1803, the moon rise at 0313. The Captain, impassive and formidable at his desk, nodded acknowledgement. Foley, knowing the tow would have to be passed during the hours of darkness, wondered how the Captain felt about it, but since Crutchley said nothing and the dark sun-glasses masked his eyes there was no way of knowing. Strange man, thought Foley. Within the protective cocoon of his stateroom he led the life of a semi-recluse. Yet when a decision had to be made, when sound judgement was needed, when firm control was essential, he never failed. To the men the Master’s silence, his apparent unawareness of those around him, was strange, almost awesome.
As the second officer turned to go the Captain spoke for the first time. ‘Navigation and not-under-command lights to be switched on well before sunset, Mr Foley. When the tug is sighted the maindeck is to be floodlit. The third officer is to report to me when these things have been done.’
Chapter 2
A number of officers were having their evening meal in the saloon when Tim Feeny the radio officer appeared at the door. He looked round hesitantly before going over to the chief engineer to whom he spoke in a low voice. McLintoch showed surprise, got up and went with Feeny to the adjoining lounge. There they had a brief conversation. When Feeny had gone, McLintoch went to the door of the saloon and
beckoned a steward.
The man came across. McLintoch said, ‘Ask the third engineer to come to my office right away, please.’
They’d had a real showdown that morning in the engine control-room. It had been an abrasive, stupid row and Malim knew he’d gone too far. He still had a vivid picture of McLintoch rushing into the control-room shouting, ‘What the hell are you up to now?’
Partly because he was absorbed in shutting down the engines and partly because he resented being shouted at, particularly in front of subordinates, he’d ignored the chief engineer and that had been disastrous. With a warning growl McLintoch had come up to the control position and pushed him aside. Malim, anger overcoming fear, had seen red, lost his temper and retaliated by shoving McLintoch away and re-establishing his position at the controls. A white-faced, enraged McLintoch had turned on him. ‘By God, Malim. You’ll answer for this.’
Jerry Whitelot, the fourth engineer – in the control-room by chance when the breakdown occurred – quickly explained to McLintoch what had happened while Malim, his mind now blurred by the row, went on with the shutting down assisted by a junior engineer. Soon afterwards McLintoch had left without a word to either of them, presumably to report to the Captain.
Whitelot said, ‘You must be out of your mind, Jonah. He’ll clobber you for that. Christ, you can’t shove the Chief about in his own engineroom.’
Malim knew that his behaviour had been stupid and childish and he bitterly regretted it. Nevertheless he was determined to defend himself. ‘You heard him shouting at me. Shoving me off the console like that before I had a chance to explain.’ His voice was still shaking with emotion. ‘Okay. I’ve been a bloody fool. I know I was crazy. But I couldn’t take it. Especially with you and that fiver looking on.’
Whitelot shook his head. ‘You can’t win, Jonah. You know the Chief’s temper. Blood pressure or piles or something. He’s got it in for you, so why give him the chance. He’ll make mincemeat of you.’ Whitelot’s laugh was a hoarse croak. ‘Jesus! I thought you were going to thump the old sod. So did he. That’s why he cleared out.’ He paused, wiping his hands on a piece of cotton-waste. ‘You know he’s never forgiven you for that condenser balls up last voyage. It’s that and his complex about all the other problems we’ve had in the engineroom.’
