Free The Black Tide by Hammond Innes Page A

deadpan. ‘Come to think of it, I doubt if it was winter. They were several days in an open boat. Try March or April, seventy-seven. She had her tanks full of arms, that’s why you remember her.’
    Ferrers nodded, reaching down the second volume from the far end of the shelf. I watched him as he searched quickly through the fiche pockets, extracted one and slipped it into the scanning slot. Immediately the VDU screen came alive with information which changed quickly as he shifted from microfilm to microfilm. And when he had finished with that fiche, I put it back in its pocket for him, while he began searching the next. Each fiche, measuring about 6 × 4 inches, was imprinted with rows of tiny little microfilms hardly bigger than pinheads.
    He was over half an hour, working first forwards through 1977, then backwards into ‘76. He worked in the silence of total concentration, and with Spurling’s attention divided between his typewriter and the telephone, they seemed to have forgotten all about me. At one point Spurling passed me a telex giving the latest report on the Petros Jupiter salvage situation. Smit International, the Dutch salvage people, had announced their intention of withdrawing from any further attempt to salvage the wreck. Their divers had only been able to operate for two days since the explosion, a total of 8½ hours. But apparently this had been sufficient to establish the general condition of the wreck, which was now lying in three sections to the north of Kettle’s Bottom with only the skeletal remains of the superstructure awash at low tide. The effect of the explosion, followed by the intense heat generated by the ignition of the five tanks containing oil, had been such that they regarded any attempt to salvage the remains of the vessel as quite profitless. And they added that,in its present position, they did not consider it a danger to shipping. Further, all tanks were now completely ruptured and empty of oil.
    There were three sheets of the telexed report and I had just come to the end of it when Ferrers suddenly exclaimed, ‘Got it! The Stella Rosa . March 20, 1976.’ Spurling looked up and nodded, smiling. ‘Of course. The Stella Rosa .’
    ‘Outward bound from Tripoli to Algiers.’ Ferrers was reading from the scanner, his face close to the screen. ‘Arms for the Polisario – Sam-7s and Kalashnikovs.’ He straightened up, pressing the button that gave him the print-out, and when he had it, he passed it to Spurling. But by then Spurling had the Stella Rosa file out and was running quickly through it; ‘Skipper Italian, Mario Pavesi from Palermo. Ah, here we are. Second engineer Aristides Speridion. No address given. Not among the survivors. First engineer – now we have something – guess who? None other than Henri Choffel, French. He was picked up and is described here as suspect on his past record. He was chief engineer of the Olympic Ore and is thought to have been implicated in her sinking in 1972. At the Enquiry into the sinking of the Stella Rosa he claimed it was Speridion who opened the sea cocks.’ He passed the file to Ferrers. ‘Good hunch of yours.’
    Ferrers gave a little shrug. ‘No indication then that Speridion got away in a boat?’
    Spurling shook his head. ‘No. And no record that he managed to land on Pantelleria. All it says is – no indication that he is still alive .’
    ‘So Choffel knew he was dead. He must have known otherwise he wouldn’t have used the man’s name. And to use Speridion’s name he’d need his papers.’ Ferrers was staring down at the file. ‘I wonder what really happened to Speridion? It says here – At the Enquiry held at Palermo Chief Engineer Henri Choffel stated that he and two of his men tried to stop the flow of water into the engine-room, but the cocks on the sea water inlet to the cooling systems had been opened and then damaged. Speridion had been on duty. Choffel thought he had probably been paid to sink the ship by