Free Crude Carrier by Rex Burns Page A

disappeared sometime during the second mate’s monologue, but Raiford stayed to watch Shockley fine-tune the pumps’ speed and press a macro on a keyboard that recorded tank numbers, load, and time completed. “How many tanks does the ship have?”
    â€œFifteen for cargo plus a bunker for ship’s fuel. Six center tanks, ten wing tanks. Full cargo capacity is 326,000 deadweight tons of crude.” He looked at Raiford. “Canadian, are you?”
    â€œAmerican.” The red and green lights flickered, numbers changed steadily, needles swung across dials or fell back as pumps adjusted to the valves, and the cargo compartments were filled in rotation to keep the ship level. Except for the steady murmur of the air conditioner and the occasional chatter of a printout from the Sweding machine, the room and the steel world surrounding it were silent.
    â€œHave you been on the ship long?”
    â€œGoing on four years, now. Before that, was third mate on the SS Kuwait Champion .” Shockley eyed the green numerals. “Another couple of years and I’ll strike for first. Which is why I don’t mind filling in for Pressler—gives me a chance to learn the job, eh?”
    â€œThat’s moving up pretty fast, isn’t it?”
    The face tried to hide its pleasure. “Oh, I suppose. But if it can be done, why not? Who knows how long the bloody shipping industry’s going to need crews? SS Keymatic , that’s what will sail the seas before long. Got to build up my retirement while I’ve still got a job, right?” He laughed. “You, now, you might end up being the only soul aboard. No crew, no officers, just the bleeding electronics tech to keep the computers happy. You and that bleeding machine there”—he waved a hand at a keyboard and screen filling a metal drop leaf mounted on the bulkhead.
    â€œThat’s the main computer?”
    â€œNot the main one, no. Some kind of slave terminal. Don’t know how it works. Don’t want to, either. Your job, not mine. You’ll be like the Ancient Mariner, eh? All alone and water, water everywhere, eh?”
    â€œThey can’t sail ships without people.”
    â€œI used to think that too. Can’t sail ships without a black gang. But now there’s no more black gang, no more deckhands. It’s just ‘navigation.’ Question is, how many people will they need? You realize a ship this big carries only thirty-eight men? That’s full complement. Captain to mess boy—thirty-eight men. And mark my words, they’ll be cutting that back soon enough.”
    Raiford let his silence indicate agreement. “Did you know Harold Rossi?”
    In the silent room, Shockley’s pale blue eyes stared at Raiford long enough that he twitched when the Sweding machine chattered out more data. “What’s Rossi to you?”
    â€œI met his parents in the States. They told me he had some bad luck.”
    â€œBad luck, all right. Terrible what happened to him. Nice chap.”
    â€œHow did he die?”
    â€œFell down something, I hear. Didn’t see it.” The pudgy face frowned at the consoles, and the faint fellowship that Raiford sensed as the two men stood together in the stark and plastic-smelling emptiness suddenly ebbed.
    â€œWell, like I say, I didn’t know him. His parents called me just before I left and asked if I’d find out a little more about how and where he died. The letter they got from the owners didn’t tell them much.” Raiford added, “They wanted me to send on his personal effects, too.”
    â€œI see.”
    Raiford watched the man. Shockley watched the gauges. The consoles took all his attention and he didn’t offer any more commentary.
    After a while, Raiford asked, “Do you know what might have happened to his gear?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHis parents wanted me to ask. Sentimental reasons. You