“Captain…” The owner’s voice was irritated. The man had a Greek name, thought Levkas. Why did he never speak in Greek? Had he no pride? “Captain Levkas, can you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I understand your concern, Captain. You must understand me. I vouch for these men. I guarantee they will fulfill everything required of them. In any case, you know there is no time to get replacements out to you. You sail in the morning.”
“I understand that. I understand how tight the schedule is. But you could get new men to Dubai in three days. I have names, numbers. There is the launch which comes out from Ras al Kaima…”
“I don’t see how that would solve anything, Captain…”
“You do not understand the nature of the problem. My crew is a well-tuned instrument, involved in a dangerous undertaking. Each one knows his place. They do not trust this American, or…” An idea struck Levkas. He threw open the door of the Radio Room. Outside, the radio officer, Tsirtos, was talking to the Hong Kong Chinese chief steward “Twelve Toes” Ho. “You two!” bellowed the captain. “Get the mate down here. He’ll be on the bridge…”
But Tsirtos returned a minute or two later to report that Nicoli was not, in fact, on the bridge. Nor was he in his cabin. There had been no officer on watch since Kanwar had disappeared over an hour ago. This was too much for Levkas. With a bellow of rage, he broke off connection with the owner and stormed out of the Radio Room. “Sound for lifeboat drill!” he ordered. “I want everyone up and out!”
Ten minutes later, with the alarm still sounding, everyone was at his assigned post for lifeboat drill. Everyone except Nicoli, Gallaher, Kanwar, and two seamen.
“We’ll search the ship!” announced Levkas, unconsciously slurring his words.
It took them half an hour to reach the Pump Room. Captain Levkas himself swung the great bulkhead door open with a sort of explosion of rage and there were the missing men, grouped around a ladder at the far side of the room. The scene was so natural it didn’t occur to him that anything might be wrong. He looked up, saw Nicoli standing twenty feet up and, calling his name, stepped in.
With a ragged cheer, the others began to follow him in. After the long search, it was the natural thing to do.
Two steps over the threshold, Levkas knew there was something badly wrong. One more, hesitant, step and he knew just what it was. He turned, solid enough to stem the rush, but not to stop it. Tall enough to see over their heads to Martyr’s face outside the door. A terrible roaring began, filling all the room. The first drunken officer tottered away, collapsing, surprised.
“Out!” yelled Levkas, but he knew it was already too late. The face outside the door asked an agonized question, although its lips did not move.
Strange, thought Levkas dreamily; now he was putting all his trust in one of the two men he had said he could not trust at all.
There were simply too many people coming in, away from the door. All his officers now except the chief engineer and the boy Tsirtos. There was no time to repeat the order; to explain to them that they should all turn and get out. The carbon dioxide, heavier than air, would spew out of the door until at first the corridor, and then the Engine Room and everywhere else level with or below here was also deadly. The only real chance they had for rescue came from the deck hatch ninety feet above. And then only if the men immediately outside the door survived.
There were half a dozen of them in here and half a dozen oxygen masks in the Fire Control Room. Christ! if only his head was clearer! Another man sat down, faintly surprised at being unable to catch his breath. Only a millisecond had passed since his eyes had met Martyr’s. There was no choice. What ever the chances of the people inside, the door had to be closed. Almost wearily, Levkas nodded. The massive American’s face twisted with the effort. The great slab of steel swung closed and the flat clang of its closing echoed in the bright room like the chime of a cracked bell. The captain was sealed inside the deadly Pump Room with ten other officers and crew — five dead and five dying fast.
Levkas was already moving, shouldering his way through those few still standing, looking away from their desperate eyes. Useless to all until he got to an oxygen mask and was able to breathe himself. It was years since he had bothered to train for anything like this. He had all but forgotten the rules. Of course he was holding his breath now but had he already breathed in a lungful of the deadly gas, like the others, dying with every new breath they took? Should he hurry and risk passing out from overuse of the little oxygen left in his system; or should he walk more slowly and risk simply running out of time? In the end he walked as fast as he could toward the Fire Control Room. Blackness swirled around the periphery of his vision. Lightning flashed before his eyes. The door, coming closer, suddenly became much taller and he never realized he had fallen to his knees.
All he could feel was the pain in his chest. It was like fire but he would not breathe. He fell forward and gashed his head on the jamb of the door. The blood came out blue. The shock of the fall surged through his system, giving him an iota more strength. As though in a dream, he pulled himself to all fours and crawled. Weaving from side to side, a terrible parody of the numberless drunken staggers of the last few years, he crossed the room until his head hit the wall opposite. By a supreme effort of will he found the strength to reach the masks a mere three feet above him, and he pulled one off the wall. Dizzy with relief, he placed the face mask over his nose and mouth and switched the equipment on.
And nothing happened. It was empty.
CHAPTER THREE
Martyr was a fit man, lean and hard; and yet he was completely out of breath by the time he reached the Pump Room hatchway on the deck. He stood, back straight, head up, gazing at the pearl-bright stars and filling his lungs with oil-tainted air, the backpack caught up from the Emergency Room on his way here held erect before him on the deck. The pause gave him time to think — not about the danger he was going into, but about the man he was going to save.
He had nothing but contempt for the other officers aboard. Oh, Nicoli looked a little better than the rest on the surface; Kanwar and Tsirtos, perhaps, just young and in the wrong company, but there was not one of them who could have called on an instant’s loyalty from him until to night. That one professional gesture. That one silent command from Captain Levkas. That one act worthy of a captain, unexpectedly putting the safety of ship and majority of crew before his own life. That deserved a little of Martyr’s hard-won respect.
And, as senior officer left alive, even in this situation — even on this ship — he had a duty.
He checked the pressure reading on the backpack’s oxygen canister, slipped it over his shoulders, and pressed the mask over his mouth. Then, suddenly full of energy, he knelt and tore the hatch clasps loose.
When he looked down the ladder, at first he felt a swirl of vertigo. The steel uprights looked thread-thin as they plunged ninety feet straight down. The rungs blurred into one another, making the ladder look like a slide. But there was no time for hesitation now. Perhaps he had taken too long already.
He swung one leg over the raised rim of the hatch and placed his foot carefully on the first rung. Then deliberately, hand over hand, he began to climb down. He breathed slowly and evenly, watching the rungs go by. Watching the backs of his hands. Watching the display on his digital watch. It was 00.50 Gulf time when he started climbing down and he never remembered seeing the display change from that reading; but when he checked again, consciously if automatically as he stepped off the last rung, it read 01.00 exactly.