Steady As She Goes: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 21)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Ricardo is a mechanic,” I told the engineer. “He and his family will be staying with us until we reach Bimini and he’s offered to help you down here.”

  “Help me what?” Heitor asked. “I mostly just keep an eye on things.”

  “Didn’t you say you could replace the bypass filter pump while underway if you had another mechanic?”

  Heitor eyed the young man next to me. “Do you know anything at all about bypass oil filtration?”

  “Si,” Ricardo replied. “To take oil from the sump and slowly move it through a very fine filter and return it to the sump.”

  “Ever change the pump while the engines were running?”

  It was Ricardo’s turn to study Heitor. “No,” he finally said. “It would be dangerous to both the person doing it and to the engine itself.”

  Heitor grinned. “A little dangerous, maybe. But if done correctly, by two competent engineers, not so much.”

  “I’ll leave you guys to talk,” I said. “I have a date with a water maker.”

  I went around the port diesel engine, glancing at the tachometer, oil pressure, and temperature gauges. The engine was chugging along at an easy 950 rpm, with the oil and temperature gauges both right in the middle of the green. There were also panels for each engine that provided information digitally, but simple green and red analog gauges required only a glance, without needing to know what the optimal range was. If the gauge was in the green, it was good to go.

  Opening a hatch, I entered the mechanical room, with all its intricate wiring, cables, and hoses. I closed the hatch behind me and sat down in the spot I’d chosen the previous morning, laying my cover beside me.

  “Now, where were we?” I asked Ambrosia.

  I wasn’t exactly sure if Nils had been right, in that every vessel had a soul. But I’d been on a lot of boats and have owned quite a few. Even boats of the same manufacturer and model had subtle differences in the way they handled and reacted to different waters. I doubted that any two boats were the same and I often talked to my boats.

  Not, long, drawn-out conversations, where I hear their voice responding in my head. I think that’d be borderline nuts. The conversations I had were one way, and usually one sentence, like, “Start dammit!” or “Come on, baby, you can do it, just another few miles.”

  While I studied the hoses, filters, and valves again, I heard Ricardo ask Heitor what I was doing,

  “Don’t bother him,” Heitor replied. “He’s new and chooses to learn the equipment in his own way. Come, I will show you where the pump and filters are; then I will ascertain if you have the ability to help with this project.”

  Their footsteps receded as they proceeded forward and over to the starboard side.

  I stood and moved closer to the reverse osmosis system to peer behind the large cannisters. Each had individual inlet lines attached to a large manifold mounted behind them. The inlet lines from the manifold were also large. The cannisters themselves were six inches in diameter and nearly as tall as I was. Each housed its own pump and membranes.

  A reverse osmosis unit, or water maker, worked like a filter, except the openings in the mesh of the filtering membranes were much smaller—so small that a single molecule of dissolved salt couldn’t pass through.

  Water is made of a single oxygen atom bonded to two hydrogen atoms. Size-wise, hydrogen and oxygen are two of the smallest atoms on the planet, perhaps even in the whole universe. Even when joined together to make water, those molecules are smaller than nearly anything else. A single molecule of something like salt or iron would be much larger. That’s why water is considered the greatest solvent. Given time, it can dissolve anything.

  How they made these microscopic filtering membranes and what they’re made of, I didn’t know. But they were expensive. I had water makers aboard three of my boats—Gaspar’s Revenge, Salty Dog, and Floridablanca.

  Due to the size of the membranes in Ambrosia’s water maker, water moved very slowly through them, as the membranes trapped the salt molecules and any other dissolved elements, producing fresh, pure water. To eliminate having to constantly clean and replace the membranes, the raw seawater entering the system passed through a twenty-micron filter, then a finer one of five microns—which was far less expensive to replace—to filter out any solid matter, like plankton or small bits of seaweed.

  It was a simple enough system, not much unlike the ones on my own boats, only far larger. The system on the Revenge produced enough water that I could fill the cistern above my house in less than two days. Yet, I could remove it and work on it while it rested on my knees. The filter membranes were miniscule by comparison to Ambrosia’s. Her water maker could completely fill both of my largest boats in a single day. Not just their water tanks—the entire boats’ interiors.

  The center cannister had a pressure gauge on top, where the outlet lines joined another manifold to carry fresh water to the ship’s tanks. The gauge had a green section, spanning about ten degrees of arc, at the twelve o’clock position of the analog dial, while the rest of the face of the dial was red. The needle was dead center in the green, indicating the system was operating at the perfect pressure. Too high meant the membranes were full, too low could mean a failing pump.

  The gauge, like all other analog gauges aboard Ambrosia, was redundant. Beside the canisters was a console where performance was monitored digitally, telling the user the current membrane saturation, and expected time until they’d need to be cleaned.

  The back flush pump Heitor had installed greatly lengthened the time between cleaning and replacement, as it moved fresh water backward through the membranes and carried much of the dissolved salt back out into the sea.

  Satisfied, I rose and rested a hand on the manifold next to the pressure gauge. “Thanks for the lesson, ma’am.”

  I patted the manifold, then let myself out of the mechanical room, and headed toward the stairs.

  I raised a hand to Heitor and Ricardo. “Off to work now. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

  Heitor raised a hand in return. “Did she tell you all you wanted to know?”

  “And then some,” I replied over my shoulder as I ascended the stairs.

  I opened the hatch and entered the bridge just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, almost directly ahead of us.

  “Captain on the bridge,” Val said.

  Then, as she always did, whether I had the day watch or the night, she poured strong, black coffee into a fat-bottomed mug. Being wider at the base, it was much less likely to tip over on a moving boat.

  “Thanks, Val,” I said, accepting the steaming brew.

  She handed me the Metis, while Matt continued his slow study of the waters around us.

  “We identified 189 vessels yesterday,” Val said. “So far, only a small number of private watercraft have not been identified by either sound signature or AIS. None of those fit the criteria of what we’re looking for.”

  Matt lowered the binos and turned to face me. “All clear for ten nautical miles around the ship, Cap’n. Ross has only picked up ten new contacts since midnight.”

  “Mondays are really busy,” I said.

  “Oye, Cap’n,” he confirmed. “Devout Catholics make up most of the people of South America. They celebrate the Sabbath on Sunday, and that’s forced on the bleddy heathens.”

  I grinned at Matt, knowing he was as agnostic as they came, but being Cornish, he’d probably had a strong Catholic upbringing.

  “Is the Canopus still shadowing us?” I asked, scrolling through the list of contacts from since I’d checked it last.

  “Just thirty minutes ago, she slowed and turned toward Golfo Cariaco,” he replied. “According to her logs, it’s one of her regular stops, mind.”

  “Good,” I said. “It irritates me to be within eyesight of another ship.”

  “Same ’ere, Cap’n. All night long, whenever I’d look over, I’d get a bit teazy seeing her bleddy lights out ther
e.” He handed me the binos. “I’m goin’ down to the dining room, yeah? I hear tell the new chef is puttin’ together a proper job for the night watch. Call if ye be needin’ me. Otherwise, I’ll spell ye for lunch.”

  Matt left, and I took the binoculars to do my own scan of the waters around us.

  Ambrosia had the newest and most sophisticated radar and navigation systems available, with backups to even the redundant systems. But I still wanted to have a look around with my own eyes.

  I could see nothing but water. Even the high peaks of the northern Venezuelan Andes had fallen far behind us during the night.

  I pressed the private intercom button to my quarters and waited for Savannah to answer. When she did, I asked if she’d like to have breakfast with the crew in the mess hall one deck below.

  “I spoke to Mayra just a moment ago,” she said. “She and their daughters are going there in thirty minutes. Can you wait till then?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “See you down there.”

  “If I may, Captain,” Val began.

  “Yes?”

  “I met the Santiagos’ daughters last night, while I was out on the foredeck stargazing. I spoke at great length with the oldest one, the one who has the little boy.”

  “Giselle? What about?”

  “Many things,” Val replied. “She’s a highly intelligent, organized person, Captain. I think she would make a good assistant on the bridge during the night watch.”

  Exactly what Marcos had said about her, I thought.

  “You mean as assistant yeoman, right?” I asked.

  “Yes. I can show her what I do during the day, and she can do the same for you and Mr. Brand when I’m off duty.”

  “I don’t know, Val,” I said, then jerked a thumb aft. “There’s a lot of sensitive communication going on back there in the op center.”

  “Very little at night,” she countered.

  “True,” I said, rubbing my chin in thought. “And the partition can always be closed.”

  Between the bridge and operations center, there was a folding partition that was seldom used, since only certain people were allowed on the bridge.

  I turned to face her. “But they’re only going to be with us for a couple of weeks, Val. Do you really think she can pick up enough to make it worth the effort?”

  She nodded. “I think so, Captain. Even if she only takes a little of the burden off your and his shoulders for one or two nights, it will help.”

  Finally, I nodded my assent. “If she’s game, make it happen. Work out your own schedules.”

  I looked back at the Metis and checked its chart plotter interface. We were twenty miles from the island of La Orchila, a little over an hour, and our course would take us eight miles south of it. The island was owned by Venezuela and they had an air base there. In recent years, they’d leased part of it to the Russian Air Force.

  “Come right three degrees, helm,” I ordered.

  “Right three degrees, aye,” Axel Troutman replied, adjusting the wheel for a moment.

  “Steady up on course zero-nine-eight.”

  He turned the wheel back the other way. “Steady on course zero-nine-eight, Captain.”

  Looking down at the Metis again, I could see that our projected course would take us almost fifteen miles south of La Orchila’s five-mile restricted area. I didn’t want to have any sort of run-in with the fighter jets I knew might be there.

  While I could just as easily have adjusted our course using the Metis tablet, some things were better left to humans. Axel had a feel for the way the ship handled that no computer could understand. Besides, it was better for everyone on the bridge to know.

  A few minutes later, I turned over the conn to Val and told her I’d be back after breakfast. As I went down to the mess deck, I knew she’d been right. Val worked four hours on and six off, and her schedule and my and Matt’s twelve-hour schedules meant that she was unavailable to either of us at times. Her primary function on the bridge was as a second pair of eyes to monitor everything and everyone, even me and Matt. She was solid and analytical in her job—a great benefit when others might be stressed.

  When I got to the mess deck, Savannah and Alberto were already seated. Finn and Woden had positioned themselves on either side of the main entry hatch and, to all outward appearances, seemed to be napping. Their heads were on their paws, but their eyes were open, and their ears twitched with every sound. Both dogs rose and greeted me by leaning against my legs and offering their throats. I gave them both quick scratches, then made a beeline for my son and my wife, kissed her on the cheek and sat beside her. Finn and Woden resumed their faux naps.

  One of the ship’s stewards, a young woman from Bimini, greeted us with a handful of menu sheets in her hand.

  “Pleased to have you, Captain. Everyone is raving ’bout what Grady and Mistuh Santiago are doing down dere in dat galley. Will you be havin’ breakfast?”

  “Yes, Emma,” I replied. “Tell Marcos we’ll have omelets. Whatever he feels like making will be fine.”

  I knew that Savannah wasn’t a picky eater and Alberto would eat anything that wasn’t moving.

  When he’d come to us almost four months ago, he’d been near death—emaciated from a lifetime of poor nutrition, starved and dehydrated for days in a small boat. Since then, he’d put on weight and maybe even grown a little in height.

  “I will let him know,” Emma said, then hurried off to the galley to give our orders.

  “Anything going on today?” Savannah asked.

  “We’ll be passing La Orchila soon,” I replied. “I changed course to steer clear.”

  “Why?”

  “The island’s a former Venezuelan Navy base with an airport. In the past, it was mostly a place for high-ranking officers to vacation. Even the president had a compound there. But two years ago, they invited the Russians to post some of their supersonic strategic bombers on the island. They haven’t done it so far, but there are Russian fighters there.”

  “Can I go listen with Mr. Ross after breakfast?” Alberto asked.

  “After your chores and studies,” Savannah replied, then turned back to me. “Russian fighters?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “They have a five-mile restricted area around the island, and we’ll pass it nearly twenty miles to the south.”

  Mayra and her daughters entered the mess and came toward our table, with little Fernando stopping to pet the dogs. I rose and asked them to join us. In seconds, Emma had moved a table adjacent to ours, the six of us sat down, and Emma took the women’s orders.

  “Do I have to do math today?” Alberto asked, a bit of a whine in his voice. He was bored and wanted to go play with his new friend.

  I looked at him and grinned. “Math is something you’ll use every day of your life, son. I know it sucks, but sometimes you just have to embrace the suck.”

  “Captain McDermitt is right,” Mayra said. “Without math skills, you would not know if someone were cheating you at the market.”

  “We don’t have a market on Ambrosia,” Alberto countered.

  He’d be ten in a couple of months, and kids at that age would argue that black was white and up was down.

  “How do you think Mr. Ross knows how far away a sound is?” I asked him.

  “The computer tells him.”

  “Yes, but he could do it in his own head if he needed to. Sound travels through seawater a little less than a mile per second. When he uses active sonar and it takes one second for a ping to be sent and then bounce back and be picked up by his hydrophone, that tells him the object is half a mile away.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” Mayra said. “I have always loved solving math riddles. It was one of my minors in college. In Maracaibo I was a teacher.”

  “We’d love to hire you as a tutor,” Savannah said, as Marcos approached our table. “I’m not very good with numbers.”

  Mayra shook her head. “I would
not accept payment. But I would love to help. I teach Fernando.”

  Marcos was smiling as he reached the table. Behind him came Emma and another steward, both carrying large trays.

  He stopped short and bowed his head slightly. “It pleases me that you are here, Capitan. I am very much enjoying working with Señor Grady.”

  The dishes were distributed, and Marcos sat down next to his wife, removing his chef’s hat.

  The omelet was delicious, and I told him so. It was filled with diced peppers and onions, thin slices of pork, and seasonings. I was half-finished when Val’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Captain to the bridge.”

  I rose from the table. “Please excuse me,” I said. “Something’s come up.” I turned to the oldest daughter. “Giselle, when you have finished, would you mind coming up to the bridge? Savannah can show you the way.”

  “Not at all, Captain,” she said, starting to rise. “I can come now, if you like.”

  “No, please. Finish your meal. It’s nothing pressing.”

  I kissed Savannah’s cheek once more, and ruffled Alberto’s mop, then turned and went to the winding staircase.

  “What is it?” I asked, stepping into the command bridge.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting your breakfast,” Val said. “But you seemed interested in the ship Canopus. She’s already coming back out of Golfo Cariaco.”

  She handed me the Metis, already running the chart plotter interface app. On it, I could see the AIS icon for MV Canopus, now fifteen nautical miles behind us.

  “Wonder why she put back to sea so quickly,” I said, thinking aloud.

  Val looked at her watch. “She started to slow fifty minutes ago. They wouldn’t have had time to even get into the port, much less load or unload anything.”

  “Maybe their appointment was canceled,” I said.

  “I don’t think so, Captain,” Ross said. “There’s a slight difference in her sound signature.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, going over to the navigation desk. “I thought a ship’s sound signature was constant.”

  “Yes, sir. It is. But there are very minor fluctuations, like when a ship is fully loaded and riding low in the water, or empty and the props are closer to the surface.”