Captain Toro broke things up just before midnight as he went up on to the bridge to oversee the change from the first to the middle watch. Impressed by the professionalism of the captain and his crew, Richard and Robin retired to their suite and fortunately decided not to christen the vast new king-sized bed that occupied a good deal of it. Not tonight, at any rate.
So they were decently dressed in night clothes and contentedly asleep a little under two hours later when Nic tapped on their door with a worried frown and some disturbing news. The radio officer had been roused some ten minutes earlier by the officer on watch. He had taken an urgent radio contact from Long Beach, then he had roused the captain, who had woken the owner in turn. And the owner bore the bad tidings to Richard at once. ‘Major Guerrero has been in contact from Sulu Queen. He needs to speak with you urgently. Apparently Captain Sin has suffered some kind of stroke or seizure. He’s on his way to hospital and the first officer is in charge of Sulu Queen at the moment. Major Guerrero wants to know what they should do.’
Five minutes later, Richard, clad in dressing gown, was in the open section of the bridge they referred to as the radio room. A minute after that, he was talking to Guerrero. ‘I don’t know what triggered it,’ explained the major on a tenuous link that sounded as though an ARkStorm was fighting for possession of the airwaves. ‘I wasn’t on the bridge when he collapsed but I was called immediately. His face was sagging on the left side; he had limited strength in his left arm and I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, though at first I thought that may have been because he was speaking in Chinese. But then the first officer couldn’t understand him either, and he speaks Mandarin, of course — though his English is limited and I’m not sure I understood what he was saying either.’
‘Sounds like a stroke,’ said Richard. ‘He’s on his way to hospital, you say?’
‘Long Beach Memorial on Atlantic Avenue.’
‘Good. Is the first officer there? Put him on, would you?’
There was a sort of shuffling, which just managed to rise above the crackling downpour on the line, then a surprisingly youthful voice said, ‘Nin hao?’
‘Zushang hao,’ answered Richard, slipping into Mandarin as though he were back in Hong Kong. ‘Can you please update me as to the current state of the ship and crew?’
‘Sulu Queen remains in dock. We cannot load or unload until the crane is repaired. Shushu Sin was trying to get permission to move to another dock with a functioning crane when he fell down with whatever illness has overtaken him. Permission has been refused. No other dock can be made immediately available. So we are stuck, unless we wish to sail to another port altogether. The captain has not wasted his time in the interim. The ship is fuelled and our supplies have been replenished. We are ready for sea as soon as there is somewhere to go. The crew apart from the captain are well. Well rested. Well fed too, as the captain has given permission for the full use of kitchen equipment.’
Including the deep-fat fryer, thought Richard.
‘… Except for one thing …’ the first officer continued.
Richard frowned. ‘What?’
‘My Master’s papers are not recognized here. It would be illegal for me to take the vessel out of dock. Perhaps even for me to be in command in harbour.’
That one word, shushu, made more sense then. It was Mandarin for ‘uncle’, although the relationship sometimes went well beyond ‘parent’s brother’ which defined it in the West. Captain Sin had clearly taken the young first officer under his wing and had planned to give him the experience he needed to earn his International Master’s certificate to command freighters and container vessels.
‘Where did you get your papers from?’ Richard searched through his memory for anything at all about the first officer, but he could recall neither face nor name nor — crucially — personnel record.
‘Dalian Maritime University.’
‘That course can only be completed with on-the-job experience and further certification, then final certification as Ship’s Master. You’re getting the experience but haven’t qualified for the further certification. Or the final International Master’s certification. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What about the other navigating officers?’
‘I am the senior officer, sir. I am the best qualified.’
God give me strength, thought Richard. ‘Engineering officers?’ he asked.
‘The chief is extremely experienced, but he does not hold any Master’s papers.’
Richard paused for a moment, breathing heavily through his nose, then turned to Nic. ‘I have to get back. Can I borrow Biddy and the Bell?’
‘If it’s OK with Biddy, it’s OK with me.’
Richard turned to Robin. ‘You see I don’t have any real choice here?’
‘You could call Crewfinders. You set the company up so you know better than most that they could get someone with the correct papers to take command aboard Sulu Queen within twenty-four hours …’ But even as she spoke, the certainty drained out of her voice. She knew she was wasting her breath.
‘I can be aboard within two and a half …’
‘Only if Biddy is willing …’
‘And,’ observed Nic, ‘only if she thinks the Bell is up to handling whatever weather there is between here and Long Beach.’
The story went that someone had once gone into Biddy’s cabin unannounced and had suffered several broken bones as a result. Richard, therefore, volunteered to wake her, and was circumspect as to how he did so. But, in fact, Biddy had taken a shine to him, so he probably could have survived a more direct approach. As things were, he dressed, tapped on her door and waited for an invitation before he went in and began to explain the situation.
‘Where exactly are we?’ was her first question. Unlike Robin, she was wide awake and raring to go the moment her eyes opened. Also unlike Robin, she did not sleep in a Stella McCartney camisole but an olive-coloured military T-shirt which had clearly been designed for a far larger frame than hers.
Richard had come prepared. ‘We’re three hundred and sixty miles south of Long Beach. That’s five hundred and eighty kilometres. I’d give you the name of the nearest settlement on the Baja California but there aren’t any. We’re past the Arrecife Sacramento, the Sacramento Reef, but short of giving you the precise lat-long readings, that’s about it.’
‘That’s OK. The Bell’s got a range of four hundred and fifty miles, more than seven hundred kliks, so we’d have elbow room if we need to skirt round anything. And she can get up to two hundred and seventy kliks per hour if push comes to shove, so a couple of hours should get us there with the better part of an hour in hand. I’ll get dressed and take a quick walk round her, but I’m willing if you’re able.’
‘Right,’ said Richard. ‘Let’s get to it, then.’
FOURTEEN
While Richard packed a few necessities, Biddy dressed and walked around the Bell, checking it just as carefully as she would have done if she hadn’t checked it from nose to tail soon after landing sixteen hours earlier. They met on the floodlit helideck half an hour later, with Maxima still powering southward at twenty knots, her speed enhanced by a brisk following northerly wind, her radar still observing Katapult8 as Liberty tacked from one reach to another, hoping to pull further ahead by the time day dawned in three and a half hours. Richard slung his case into the side door then walked sternwards to join Robin, who had placed herself beneath the chopper’s slim tail and was looking back along Maxima’s glittering phosphorescent wake into the world-wide cavern of utter darkness they had so recently escaped. Even though they were heading downwind at twenty knots, the gale was blowing past them forcibly enough to make her golden curls dance. It could have been coming from a hairdryer or an oven, except it was so thick with moisture that breathing was by no means easy. ‘It’s like being waterboarded in a hot bath,’ she said as he joined her.