Death of a Supertanker (3 page)

The pilot, not lacking in experience of sea captains, got on with the business of conning the ship, the biggest he’d ever handled. He knew pretty well what was going on in Crutchley’s mind: the resentment of a Master that he was required to accept responsibility for the safety of his ship while it was to all intents and purposes under the command of a stranger; a stranger who had less than thirty minutes earlier come on to the bridge for the first time.

As
Ocean
Mammoth
moved slowly down the harbour between the ships berthed alongside at the Point and Addington, and those at the bulk-handling facilities beneath the Bluff, then on towards Salisbury Island, past the ships at the Island View and Fynnland oil sites, Captain Crutchley was the victim of a deep depression. The rhythm of the voyage, of his life, had been interrupted by the breakdown. God knows, he thought, how long we shall be here and to what it may lead. He had no desire to be in port or in touch with the shore. It was far better, infinitely safer, to be at sea. A ship at sea was now the only environment with which he was totally familiar, the only one in which he felt secure and unexposed.

The harbour they were entering, its placid waters basking in the warmth of sub-tropical morning, the quays and ships
alongside
beginning to hum with activity, the long low ridge of the Berea looming over the concrete towers and blocks of the city skyline, the palms fringing the Esplanade stirring in the breeze, the distant clamour of traffic, the sounds of a city moving into high gear for the day ahead … these things, far from pleasing, filled him with foreboding.

He and his ship had already suffered enough: the humiliation of breakdown; of submitting to a tow; the three dismal days at anchor outside the port with a tug standing by because the ship was without power; the invasion of his privacy by the
busy-bodies
who’d come out to the ship for one purpose or another – that had been the first assault. Now came the second: the pilot on his bridge, the tugs ahead and astern emphasizing the impotence of his command; in half an hour, when the ship had berthed alongside, there would be a third assault: more port officials,
ship’s chandlers, marine surveyors, engineering contractors and consultants, shipping agents, workmen, and of course the media … SABC broadcasts from Durban were already carrying reports of the breakdown; of the impending entry into Durban of the biggest ship ever to visit the port; of the serious pollution caused by tankers along the South African coast and in the Southern Ocean, and the particular threat posed by VLCCs – the
supertankers
– should they meet with disaster. It was old hat to Captain Crutchley but its regurgitation was disturbing … all these people, he reminded himself, would soon stream aboard, bringing with them new problems. Sooner or later they would want to see him, to ask questions, to have documents signed, to justify their existence in one way or another, even if it were no more than to pass the time of day in the expectation of a drink. There would be strange faces, unfamiliar voices, unusual situations to be
contended
with each day. What, he wondered, lay in store for him and his ship?

Others on the bridge – Simpson the third officer, and Middleton the cadet, for example – felt rather differently. For them the breakdown was a welcome variation of a boring routine: an exciting beginning to the uncertainties and adventures which the minds of young seamen always associate with the shore.

McLintoch and Benson, like the Captain, resented the enforced visit. The breakdown had already involved them in a lot more work and worry than usual, and they had no doubt there would be more to come.

For the Cape Verde Islanders the interruption was an
unwelcome
or at least a dubious event. They were at sea to make money, to support their families in the harsh poverty of their tropical islands. ‘More days more dollars’, was their philosophy. But they were seamen and there would be, they knew, the customary attractions of a big port – women and drink – and that meant spending money. At the back of their minds lurked another less pleasant reality. They were dark skinned and would be up against the problems and humiliations of apartheid. So, too, would the Goanese stewards.

Captain Crutchley moved to the starboard wing of the bridge and remained there while the pilot and tug captains, working as a well-drilled team with maximum skill and minimum fuss, edged
Ocean
Mammoth
into her berth at No. 1 Pier. Heaving lines were thrown, nylon pennants snaked down to the jetty followed by
steel wires, dock hands slipped them over bollards, the
supertanker’s
mooring winches began to heave, the tugs to push, and the massive hull was inched slowly alongside.

The group of waiting men on the jetty far beneath the bridge wing, their faces turned upwards, their briefcases at the ready, suggested to Captain Crutchley that his gloomy forebodings were not unfounded.

The Zurich offices of Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd. were in what had once been a large private house in a side street off Seefeldstrasse. The only indication of its changed character was the discreet brass plate on the wall beside the front door.

The boardroom – it had been a drawing-room – was at the back overlooking a pleasant old-world garden of lawns, trees, flowering shrubs and a fountain. It was an elegant room, the highly polished mahogany table at its centre and the tall chairs round it reflecting light from crystal chandeliers set in a rococo ceiling. The tranquillity of the garden seen through french windows was in marked contrast to the tense atmosphere of the boardroom.

The chairman, an elderly German from Frankfurt with
iron-grey
hair and a deeply lined face, sat at the head of the table; the managing-director, Kurt Raustadt, on his right; the
deputy-chairman
on his left. Three other members of the Board were present and two officials: the marine-superintendent, Nico Kostadis, who had flown over from London that morning, and the managing-director’s secretary, a good-looking woman of indeterminate age.

‘So Hammarsen and McLintoch now agree, do they?’ The chairman tapped impatiently with a gold pencil on the blotter in front of him.

‘Yes. I phoned them again this morning,’ said Raustadt. ‘They recommend acceptance of the lowest tender: Marinreparat. They are well-established ship repairers with plenty of experience. Head office in Hamburg, but they’ve had this South African subsidiary for some years now.’

‘What’s their estimate of the time necessary to complete repairs?’

‘Five days from receipt of the new HP rotor delivered on board in Durban. They say they can …’

The deputy-chairman, a bald hunched man with a rasping voice, interrupted. ‘When will the rotor arrive there?’

‘That’s the problem. There isn’t one immediately available. The intention is to cannibalize a laid-up VLCC which has the
same turbines. This means a delay of about a week.’

The chairman leant forward, his jaw thrust purposefully towards the speaker. ‘It’s five days since the breakdown. So we’re talking of a delay of, say, nineteen or twenty days in all. Right?’ He resumed his pencil tapping. ‘You know what that means, gentlemen.
Ocean
Mammoth
cannot now arrive in the Gulf before the OPEC price increase. The charter party specified completion of loading in Bahrain before the fifteenth. There is no possibility of meeting that deadline.’

‘So?’ The deputy-chairman pursed his lips, turning his head to regard the chairman with tired red-rimmed eyes.

‘So we inform Akonol that we cannot comply. Circumstances beyond our control. That still leaves us with the problem of
Ocean
Mammoth
broken down halfway to the Gulf. And no prospect now of getting a cargo.’

‘We’re covered against any claim from Akonol.’ The
managing-director
said it smugly, smoothing his sleek black hair with the palm of his hand in a way which suggested sensual pleasure. ‘No performance through breakdown clause. And of …’

‘Yes, yes.’ The chairman interrupted with sudden irritation. ‘We know that. And we’re covered by the underwriters for towage and repairs but not for loss of earnings – and that item runs into millions of dollars. The central difficulty remains. The breakdown simply underlines it. We have an acute cash flow problem. We ordered the four VLCCs when the market merited such a decision. The ships have been delivered, two are employed, one is already laid up – now we have
Ocean
Mammoth
stranded in Durban without any chance of picking up a cargo in the Gulf. We shall have to get her back to the UK and lay her up. May I remind you that we borrowed two hundred and fifty million dollars to pay for those ships. Since their delivery the tanker market has collapsed. The ships can no longer earn the money necessary to service the loans, let alone repay them.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of despair.

‘I warned against this possibility when first we discussed building them,’ said the director from Paris, a thin birdlike little man with yellow skin. ‘I warned then of the consequences if the market should fall. But you reassured me.’ He paused, his tone hesitant. The chairman was an influential man. He had no desire to offend him.

‘That market has not fallen, my dear le Febre. It has collapsed.
A somewhat different matter, and something no one could have foreseen. Of course I reassured you. I always do, because you have no heart for decisions and that is sad in an entrepreneur.’ He smiled thinly, pleased with the courteous nature of the rebuke. ‘However, recriminations do not help. Let us get back to the point.’

The Frenchman made small grumbling noises, sat back and prepared a cigar for lighting. During the subsequent discussion it became clear what the point was … the breakdown of
Ocean
Mammoth
had provoked a crisis in the affairs of Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd., whose finances were already stretched by the servicing and repayment of loans for the new supertankers. The company’s principal creditor, a consortium of Swiss banks, had a few days earlier exercised its right to increase the rate of loan interest. The breakdown was, in a sense, the final nail in the coffin unless the loan could be reduced substantially. The Board had bleakly to admit that the prospects of that happening were remote.

Immediately after the meeting the chairman and the
deputy-chairman
, with Nico Kostadis and the managing-director, met in the latter’s office. There they engaged in long, earnest and confidential discussion before deciding that nothing could be done until Kostadis had assessed the situation in Durban. It was agreed that he should fly out to South Africa the next day. In the
meantime
the chairman undertook to approach the consortium to ask for less onerous terms for servicing and repaying the loan. It was appreciated that the chances of his accomplishing anything were precarious now that the news of
Ocean
Mammoth
’s
breakdown was out. But delaying action had become imperative.

Time, reflected the chairman as he went out in the cold wet night to the waiting Mercedes, time was what they were gravely short of. Kostadis would have to work fast.

Five days after the breakdown, life on board
Ocean
Mammoth
in Durban had acquired a not particularly agreeable pattern of its own. The days and nights were unseasonably hot and humid and though this made little difference to the air-conditioned accommodation, it was sticky and enervating in the engineroom and other parts of the ship. Communication with the shore was not easy for the crew. An indifferent bus service, or taxis which were
expensive and difficult to get, involved an eight-mile detour round the southernmost reaches of the harbour. Captain
Crutchley
had arranged with the agents for a launch service to cover the comparatively short journey between the Point Ferry Jetty and the ship, but it was a limited one and the last trip was at
eleven-thirty
each night.

The sounds in
Ocean
Mammoth
and the feel of the ship had changed. The hum of the turbines, the straining and creaking of the hull, the noise of the wind and sea, and the slow majestic roll had gone. Now the ship was still, small noises were amplified by the background of silence, so that footsteps on deck, the sound of crewmen laughing and talking as they worked about the ship, had become noticeable. There was an intermittent but distant banging and hammering in the engine spaces where the shaft coupling and damaged turbine were being dismantled by the contractors, and ship’s staff were using the opportunity to do maintenance work on auxiliary machinery; and in the
accommodation
radios and stereos poured forth endless streams of ‘pop’.

Though the ship was in ballast the smell of oil fuel hung over her, pungent and acrid, like an unseen mantle. By the fifth day the interest, and for some the excitement, of an unexpected arrival in a new place had worn thin. The confined life on board, the sense of isolation from the city and its community, so close at hand yet so distant, were beginning to tell; tempers were fraying and friction among the men was affecting the behaviour of the women. They became touchy, bitchy, and tension between them grew steadily.

Sandy Foley opened the door, came into the dayroom and
stopped
for a moment to frown at her husband who sat at a desk writing. He wore nothing but a pair of shorts and, irritated though she was, she thought how fit and strong he looked.

‘Why do they have to empty the pool now of all times?’ With an impatient gesture she threw a bathing towel into a corner, slipped off her bikini and stood in front of a window looking over the harbour towards Congella. He sensed that a storm was coming from the way she ran her hands down her hips as if smoothing away invisible creases.

‘Ask Freeman Jarrett. He made the decision.’

‘No he didn’t. I’ve just asked him.’ She picked up the
Cosmo
politan
and lay naked on the settee, the depth of her sun-tan revealed by the whiteness of the skin where it had been protected by the bikini. ‘It was Benson,’ she went on. ‘He said it was leaking and had to be done.’

‘Well? What’s wrong with that?’

‘I don’t believe it was leaking. It’s absurd. There’s nothing to do in this lousy ship but for that pool.’

‘You can still sunbathe.’

‘Next to an empty pool. What’s the point?’

‘Well, for God’s sake don’t take it out on me.’

‘I’m not.’ She rolled over on her stomach. ‘Think I’ll go ashore after lunch. Swim at the beach.’

‘Why not. You’ve done that most days anyway.’

She looked up frowning. ‘What d’you expect me to do? Sit in this wretched old tank all day chatting up Doris Benson and company? Well, I’m sorry. That’s just not on.’ With a sudden change of mood she turned her head, smiled provocatively. ‘Anyway, why don’t you come with me?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Your boy friend Jarrett wants me on board. Nico Kostadis arrived in Johannesburg this morning. Due here mid-afternoon. Everybody has to be around.’

‘Why?’

‘To create a good impression. To show Kostadis what a great guy he is, etcetera.’ He left the desk, went to the refrigerator and poured himself a Coke. ‘Want one?’

‘No thanks. And he’s not my boy friend. I wonder what Kostadis is like?’

‘Human dynamo. Rat-racer, they say. Tell you what. I’ll come ashore in the six o’clock launch. Meet you at the Royal at six-thirty. We’ll have dinner and do a flick.’

‘Oh, super.’ She rolled off the settee, stood up, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘Darling. That’s nice of you.’ She wriggled, pressed her body against his. ‘Love me, George,’ she whispered. ‘Please love me.’

He picked her up, took her to the sleeping cabin, put her on the bed and lay down beside her. He kissed her breasts and whispered, ‘Know what …’

The R/T on the cabin table blared unexpectedly. ‘Two-Oh. Two-Oh. Come in.’ It was Jarrett’s voice.

Foley swore, went across to the table, picked up the set. ‘I read you, Mate.’

‘Come along to the cargo control-room, Two-Oh. Make it snappy. We’ve a problem.’

‘Okay. I’ll be along.’

Foley groaned, put on his shirt, shoes and hard hat, and hung the strap of the R/T round his neck. ‘That bloody man‚’ he said fiercely. ‘Can’t stop chasing me.’

‘This goddam ship,’ she agreed. ‘Isn’t it typical? Not a shred of privacy. That R/T never lets you alone, day or night. Can’t you do something about it?’ She picked up the magazine again. ‘Sorry, darling. Not your fault. But it drives me berserk.’

He looked at her in despair, shrugged his shoulders and left the cabin. When he’d gone she stopped reading, lay staring at the deckhead. Next time, she was thinking, next time I’m alone with Freeman Jarrett he’ll hear about this. She gave a little chuckle and turned on her side.

During the afternoon a launch came out to the ship from the Point Ferry Jetty. In it were Lars Hammarsen the agent and Nicolas Kostadis the marine-superintendent. He had arrived from Zurich that day. They were met at the head of the gangway by the chief officer and at once taken to the Master’s suite where Captain Crutchley and Mr McLintoch were waiting for them.

Since both men knew the marine-superintendent well, the formalities of greeting were soon over. Kostadis lost no time in explaining the Board’s concern at what had happened,
emphasizing
that the breakdown could not have come at a worse moment, a fact well known to his audience. They proceeded then to discuss the cause and explicit nature of the breakdown, McLintoch expressing the view that it would not have occurred had the third engineer kept a sufficiently sharp eye on the
systems-state
consoles. Kostadis questioned the chief engineer about the work so far done by the contractors. McLintoch told him that Marinreparat were adhering to the schedule prepared in
consultation
with him. Work was going ahead steadily and the task of fitting and testing the new rotor when it arrived should not exceed the estimate of five days. During this discussion the Goanese second steward, Figureido, arrived with tea, served it quietly and left as unobtrusively as he had come.

After tea, at Captain Crutchley’s suggestion, McLintoch took Kostadis to his own office where they went more thoroughly into the technical aspects of the repair work. Later they joined a
number of ship’s officers in the bar-lounge, Kostadis having expressed a desire to meet them.

The marine-superintendent was a lean man with deep-set eyes in a long pale face, thick greying hair and a prominent nose. He combined a relaxed manner with darting eyes and an unusually quick mind. Before coming ashore to take up the duties of
marine-superintendent
he’d served in the company’s ships as a chief engineer. He had, while at sea, sent a confidential report direct to the chairman – whom he’d not met – alleging certain
malpractices
by the then marine-superintendent. Not long
afterwards
that official was dismissed and Kostadis took his place.