The Coffin Ship

by Peter Tonkin

  “That may have been the situation then, Captain. But now they’re dead and you’re here…” Martyr’s voice was calm but tinged with irony.

  “Right, Chief! Now I’m here. And I give you fair warning, you and anyone else who thinks what ever Levkas and his men were up to might still be going on…” Richard paused for breath, and let his voice sink a decibel or two. “No matter what was going on then, what’s going on now is that I’m bringing Prometheus to Europoort, and nothing—and nobody—will stop me.”

  By 17.35, Richard was back in the Radio Room, leaning against the doorjamb, his bright blue eyes wandering vaguely over the clutter of untidy wiring, green metal, plastic fascia, and flashing lights that made up Tsirtos’s den. He had already been to the sick bay, again, and the bridge.

  “No word from the owner?”

  “No, sir. I’ve checked all the numbers he gave me, but no one can reach him.”

  “And the other number? His agent in Dubai?”

  “No reply. I think they must have gone home for the day. Shut up shop.”

  Richard’s mouth thinned. This was unsatisfactory, to put it mildly. They were an officer short on an almost skeletal crew. It was usual enough for an in de pen dent to sail with only three deck officers for bridge watch, but Richard was used to the Heritage way—four deck officers apart from the captain, plus at least two more partially qualified trainees: Prometheus, though perfectly legal, felt undermanned to him. Both the owner and his nearest recommended agent were unobtainable. He ought to wait until he could contact one or the other. But Demetrios had specifically, if unusually, ordered a fast voyage, and Richard simply wasn’t prepared to go charging round the Cape with only two deck officers.

  “Okay,” he said, unconsciously sealing his fate. “Get me Angus El Kebir. Here’s the number of his Dubai office.”

  Demetrios’s agents might knock off early. Crewfinders did not.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Angus El Kebir was not used to being intimidated. There flowed in his veins the blood of desert princes and of Highland chieftains. At the court of his father’s third cousin he wore—as was his right—the tartans of his mother’s ancestors.

  Offspring of an Arab prince and a Scottish governess, both now deceased, he had been educated at Fettes College in Edinburgh, where he had learned to admire industriousness and look down his long hooked nose at sloth; so, when the time had come for him to fulfill some kind of function in the world, he had scorned the thought of sponging off his princely relatives and hitched instead his rising star to that of Crewfinders, and that of his old school friend, Richard Mariner.

  Yet now he found himself sitting, trapped, in his tiny Dubai office, trying his best to hold the cold gray gaze opposite, stroking the fullness of his bright red beard, and thinking like a fox at bay.

  “There is the Shamaal,” he temporized at last. “You cannot even reach her in the Shamaal.”

  “Oh, come on!” The accent was even more clipped than his own; impatient where his was conciliatory. “You’re stalling. You know I have every right to be aboard. I have come to you simply because I cannot contact the owner or his agent. If you won’t get me out, I’ll charter a helicopter and fly on out myself.”

  Could this most unwelcome visitor also fly helicopters? Angus would not be at all surprised. There seemed little the offspring of Sir William Heritage would not do, if driven.

  “I did not say ‘Would not,’” he placated. “I said ‘Could not.’ Prometheus will in all probability be through the Strait before the Shamaal clears. To take a helicopter down into the Arabian Sea would be expensive, even for you. Besides, you must know this is none of my business. Richard is there simply as this man Kostas Demetrios’s employee. It has nothing to do with Crewfinders or with me.”

  Robin Heritage jumped up out of the chair, too full of frustration to remain seated. A long hand swept a boyish lick of golden hair back out of those cold gray eyes. Angus shifted uncomfortably under the searching stare that seemed to see into his soul like the gaze of a jinni in a fairy tale—that saw how completely he was prevaricating.

  It was just this glare, so he had heard, that had made the young Heritage something of a power in the City. The old man, so they said, had yet to recover from the shock of the collision; but this youngster was pulling it all back together for him.

  Trained at sea, through the Heritage fleet, with a surprising range of papers to show for it; trained also, if briefly, at the London School of Economics and at the Wharton School, here was a mind of unusual quality. Here was a power in the shipping world not lightly to be crossed.

  But Angus could not sacrifice his friend. “Now look…” he began, trying charm as a last, desperate, tactic.

  “Don’t bullshit me! I came to you as much out of courtesy as anything else. I can drop onto Prometheus by parachute if I want and Richard Mariner will be hard put to do much about it. Demetrios might own the ship, but by God I own the cargo; all two hundred fifty thousand tons of it. I own it as of 09.00 GMT yesterday morning and I have the right to ride with it if I choose.”

  “Hardly marine lore…” He faltered. The icy glance said it all: Robin Heritage had forgotten as much marine lore as Angus would ever know. Thank Allah and the Shamaal, he thought. Thank Him also for the fact that Richard had not got in touch.

  Angus knew better than most what Richard had suffered during these last few years. He suspected very precisely what it must be costing his old friend to be back at sea again after all this time. He saw all too clearly the resemblance to the dead Rowena in the determined young face opposite. He saw the bitter twist to the lips every time they mentioned Richard’s name.

  There was no way Robin Heritage would get onto Prometheus if Angus El Kebir could help it.

  Robin saw this clearly enough in Angus’s strange, light eyes and drove a fist down onto his desk in a gesture of frustration.

  The impasse was complete.

  The telephone rang.

  Doctor, nurse, and pilot had been sitting patiently in the little Sikorsky for over half an hour when Heritage showed up.

  “You flying out to Prometheus?” The doctor nodded toward the pilot as though he didn’t speak English. The pilot turned and looked back. “If the sand clears,” he said.

  “They need a replacement for the man you’re bringing back.”

  “You?” The pilot looked at the perfectly pressed whites, innocent of badges of rank or seniority.

  “Yup. Me.” The cool, confident voice allowed no room for argument.

  “On your own head,” said the pilot equably. “But that’s a bad ship. Unlucky.”

  Robin climbed fully aboard. “You have a Florida accent.”

  “Fort Lauderdale. Born and bred.”

  “Ever fly the Bermuda Triangle?” The question seemed innocently asked, but the point was made. Some people pay more attention to superstition than others.

  Robin dumped the bulky suitcase beside the doctor’s medical supplies and came far enough up the Sikorsky’s short body to see that the right-hand seat was empty. “Mind if I sit up front?”

  “Can’t say’s I do.”

  Something about the way Robin’s capable hands and feet rested on the controls prompted the pilot to ask, “Ever flown one of these?”

  “No.”

  For some reason, the American felt mildly surprised by the simple negative. But there was more.

  “I learned to fly helicopters in En gland. Westlands, mostly. I’ve never flown a Sikorsky, though this looks almost identical to some I have been up in.”

  “Well now, if that’s the case…” The pilot grew expansive, warming to his passenger’s quiet English modesty and charm. “I’ll see about giving you a lesson as soon as this wind drops.”

  In the event, the wind veered almost immediately and the sand cleared rapidly from the south.

  Within half an hour the Sikorsky was following the fading petticoats of the sandstorm north as fast as the pilot dared—given the odd u
nexpected buffet and jump that caused both doctor and nurse to make some very strange noises indeed; and the danger of sucking too much flying sand into the engine and taking them all for an unscheduled swim.

  The pilot flew almost the whole way out, but it was Robin, given a flat calm, clear air and a floodlit landing pad—almost perfect conditions—who brought them down in the end, drifting the Sikorsky sideways gently and expertly to match the tanker’s speed.

  As soon as they touched down there was bedlam. Four men rushed down the bright-lit deck bearing a fifth on a stretcher, paying scant attention to the clouds of sand still whirling under the idling rotors. The side door of the Sikorsky slammed open and the doctor and nurse rushed out to meet their patient, equally oblivious of the sand. The pilot gave Robin an impressed thumbs-up and was gone to see what he could do to help.

  Robin was left alone for a moment, like a yacht with the wind taken out of its sails. Movement seemed too much to demand of muscles still thrilling with the excitement of landing. Was this such a good idea after all? What would Richard say? Nothing pleasant; that was for sure. Did that matter a damn? Nope. One thing was certain: there was no point in coming all this way, then vanishing again.

  The hesitation lasted perhaps a second.

  Everything was gone out of the body of the helicopter to make room for the stretcher. This included Robin’s luggage. There was nothing to do but to leap down onto the sand-cloaked metal and get out of the way as the doctor pushed past, already attending to his patient.

  The sand was settling now, revealing an effulgent white bridge, big as a block of flats; revealing the distant, more shadowy lines of the ship. She hadn’t seemed all that big from the air.

  Suddenly the pilot was there. “Doc says we got to go or the boy’ll be dead before we land. Pleasure to’ve flown with you. You have a delicate touch…”

  He paused in the doorway, looking back. He might have been going to repeat his warning; going to suggest a change of mind. Their eyes met and he shrugged. “Your cases are up with the second mate. Captain’s on the bridge. Take care.”

  Robin raised a hand in reply.

  Ten steps toward the bridge and the pilot had completed his preflight checklist. The engine coughed warningly. Robin hunched forward and broke into a run. The Sikorsky fired up. The rotors caused another storm, clouding everything with red sand from the deck.

  The side door to A deck was open an inch or two and someone—John Higgins—was waiting just inside it. Robin tumbled through in a rush and a choking cloud and they faced each other—much the same height, uniforms pink and faces like childrens’ made up to be Red Indians because of the sand sticking to them.

  John launched into his speech of welcome: “Welcome aboard. I’m John Higgins, second mate. I’ve had your cases taken up to the third mate’s cabin, and…” He paused. His short briar pipe drooped comically as his jaw slackened with surprise. “Good God! You’re…”

  “I know I am,” said Robin pushing past him; nervous suddenly, and uncharacteristically rude. “I know where the third mate’s cabin is. And I know where the captain is. Thank you.”

  Ten minutes later, washed and brushed, the new third mate arrived on the bridge. The deck officers were all there. John Higgins, frowning with concern; Ben Strong, his face devilish with laughter—one glance showed that John had reported to Ben and the information had stopped there.

  Richard turned. He looked older; tired; so distinguished.

  In the grip of feelings far too complex even to begin to examine, Robin strode toward him, watching the color drain from his face.

  Richard stood, ashen, and watched the exact image of his dead wife approach him across the shadowy bridge and stop.

  Only when she smiled did he realize that this was Robin, not Rowena.

  “Hello, Richard,” she said.

  Richard closed the door with his back then leaned upon it, looking at her as she turned to face him. The owner’s suite was large—as large as the captain’s—but it seemed tiny now, far too small to contain the pair of them. He remained, apparently at ease, tense as a coiled spring.

  She turned and there was no pretense of ease about her. “You want rid of me,” she accused. “But you can’t send me away.”

  He let his breath out, hissing, between his teeth. He hardly trusted his jaw muscles to loosen or his numb lips to frame the words. He certainly did not dare to deal with things on her tumultuous level. “It’s been a long time,” he said.

  She stopped. Her eyes narrowed calculatingly. She had not expected this. Outrage, anger, hatred even; coldness no. Calmness certainly not.

  But only Richard knew how fragile that calmness was.

  They faced each other in silence across the narrow room. “A long time,” he repeated quietly.

  “Are you going to let me stay?”

  “I’m working it out,” he answered.

  “You want rid of me, the same as always,” she challenged again.

  “Not the same as always, but this time, at first glance, yes! I’m thinking. This is no place for you.”

  “An unlucky ship?”

  One corner of his mouth curled up. Almost a smile. “Perhaps.”

  “You need a third officer.”

  “That I do.”

  “And I am qualified.”

  “Eminently.”

  “But…What I am…My sex…”

  He hesitated. There was no denying it. Pictures from the video and the magazines flashed through his mind. What if anyone who found such things exciting were still aboard?

  But even as she threw down the challenge, so she raised her chin and he recognized that look—something that existed in natural leaders. Some quality he had seen in her father but never in her sister. A power he had never seen in her before, nor ever even suspected she possessed.

  “Not only that, no…” He was suddenly fighting for time and they both knew it. Like a duelist more interested in testing competition than easy victory, she turned away and let him compose himself.

  Let him face the inevitable question: Why not?

  Why should he not let her do as she planned? She was capable. She was available. She was here. In many ways she was a better officer than he was expecting. She would strengthen his command considerably.

  But would she weaken him?

  And was she actually strong enough herself?

  Had this Robin Heritage been the son that old Sir William Heritage had always wanted—a young man equally qualified, even with all the hatred that lay between them—would he have been hesitating now?

  No, he would not.

  He stopped hesitating, therefore.

  When she turned back, she saw it in his eyes and her face became almost incandescent as she smiled.

  Next morning, 11.00 local time, they were all on the bridge again, but Robin was on watch.

  Salah Malik stood still by the wheel, eyes scanning instruments and then horizons in easy rhythm, hooded against the dazzle of the sun. Robin stood at his shoulder, hands clasped behind her back, rocking gently on the balls of her feet, calm, collected, confident.

  Ben and John were at the chart table. Every now and then one of them would look at the Collision Alarm Radar, though there wasn’t much to see. Both of them, of course, were really watching the new third mate. They would have been here watching any newcomer on first watch—especially one as important as this—but the facts of who Robin was, and what, added extra interest.

  Only Richard was not watching her. He had arrived half an hour ago—precisely when expected—checked the lookouts on the bridge wings, checked logs, speed, course, and heading, all the things he would normally check, and sat himself down as usual. He paid his third mate the same courtesy as he would have given any other: he was on the bridge and responsible; she was on watch and in charge.

  It had taken hours more of heated—impassioned—discussion, far into the small hours of the morning, to make him accept the situation, even though—as she had pointed out t
o Angus El Kebir—she held all the high cards.

  And, she suspected, he had seen beneath what she was saying to some of her hidden, secret, desperate reasons.

  But it was done: save that her bags were in the owner’s suite, as befitted her relationship with the cargo, she was the third mate.

  Richard’s mind was full to bursting, for all the languid mien of his long body. Leaving aside the memories that Robin had brought with her, there were all the normal worries of running a ship; all the peculiar problems of running this one. The strange chief. The sorry state of a ship listed as A-1 for Lloyd’s. The unreliability of apparently first-rate equipment. The last crew. The drink on the bridge. The pornography. As he had said to Martyr, he suspected all too vividly what might have been going on in the past. But now things were different. Regular. And he would do his utmost to ensure they remained that way.