Free Crude Carrier by Rex Burns

electronics officer, sah.” He explained to Raiford, “Mr. Shockley is second mate.”
    â€œPleased.” A quick handshake whose softness went with the small paunch swelling beneath the T-shirt. He turned quickly back to the illuminated diagram that made a large and intricate pattern in the center of the flickering lights. “Served much time aboard tankers?”
    â€œFirst time ever. On any ship.”
    â€œOh?” The second mate pulled his eyes from the control board for an instant and he looked more closely at Raiford. “The owners must be getting desperate.”
    Raiford shrugged. “They needed someone fast and my name was on the list. Regular replacement was sick or something.”
    â€œAh.” His eyes went to Raiford’s stocking feet. “Well, you’ll want a proper kit. Johnny’ll take you to the ship’s slop chest. Mind the prices—company sets them and they’re damned high, so buy only what you need.” Then, “I’m second deck officer. That means I supervise the loading. First officer’s duty, normally, but …” He ended with a lift of shoulders that said it didn’t make any difference as long as the job got done. “We’re a fully automated tanker. Automated navigation and steering, automated engine. Automated loading system. If something goes awry with the electronics, you’ll be kept damn busy I can promise you.” He spoke to Raiford, but his eyes stayed on the lights and the rows of dials labeled with pump and valve numbers and functions monitored: speed, suction pressures, quantities, ballast level, cargo level, ship’s trim. “You’ll be kept busy anyway, what with the maintenance and routine servicing. No pleasure cruise, this.”
    â€œThe electronics give you a lot of trouble?”
    â€œWell, she’s old, the Aurora is. But the circuitry manages to hold up right well. Knock on wood—if you can find any. Sensors and switches are always the problem. Corrosion. Salt. That’s why I keep a close eye on the loading. That’s what this is, the loading control room. This computer here is the Lodicator. Tells the valve controls how to do the job. How much ballast out of which tank, how much oil into which tank, and when. Stuck valve, and everything becomes a hell of a mess. The diagrammatic tells me how well the ship’s answering. Sweding machine here”—he nodded at another console—“gives a projection of the ship’s stability based on the current loading pattern. These are the override switches for manual control. Ticklish time right now: getting up to ullage—full on the tanks. Load up to twenty thousand tons an hour of warm, light oil. Only twelve thousand of this stuff, though. Heavy. But the computer does it all: fills each tank to ninety-eight percent capacity, distributes the load so the ship stays trim and won’t go brittle or capsize, opens and closes valves to the center cargo tanks and the wing cargo tanks in the right order. That’s what these lights are on the diagrammatic—red open, green closed.”
    Raiford had a chilling thought. “Who programs the computers?”
    â€œDone ashore. Computer gurus ashore figure that out. Home office sends out the software and programs we need at each port. Don’t vary too much: the load’s always crude oil. But we do get different types of crude—we’ll be going up to Al Ju’aymah to complete loading, and that’s a different weight and type. Lighter. Have to keep that separate from the Halul crude—that’s one of the things that makes this part of the loading plan so ticklish. A tank of ballast beside one full of heavy crude puts a lot of shear strain on the old hull. Damn good thing the Gulf’s a calm sea.”
    â€œYou mean we could sink?”
    â€œHappens. Don’t want to, of course.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Johnny had