Free The Doomed Oasis by Hammond; Innes

Mukalla, that gateway to the Hadhramaut, was a glimpse through a scuttle—a huddle of terraced Arab houses, so white in the sunlight that it looked like an ivory chess set laid out at the foot of the arid mountains. Only at night was he allowed on deck, and he spent hours motionless in the bows of the ship, drinking in the beauty and the mystery of the Arabian Sea, for the water was alive with phosphorescence. From his vantage point he could look down at the bow wave, at the water rushing away from the ship in two great swathes as bright as moonlight, and ahead, in the inky blackness of the sea, great whorls of light like nebulae were shattered into a thousand phosphorescent fragments as the ship’s passage broke up the shoals of fish—and, like outriders, the sharks flashed torpedo-tracks of light as they ploughed their voracious way through the depths. And every now and then a tanker passed them, decks almost awash with oil from Kuwait, Bahrain, and Dahran.
    They passed inside the Kuria Muria Islands at night, and to get a better view of them he ignored his orders and crept up to the boat deck. He was standing there close beside one of the boats when the door of the passenger accommodation opened and two figures emerged, momentarily outlined against the yellow light. They came aft, two voices talking earnestly, as he shrank into the shadow of the boat, bending down as though to adjust the falls.
    â€œâ€¦ the last time I was at the Bahrain office. But even in Abu Dhabi we’ve heard rumours.” The accent was North Country.
    â€œWell, that’s the situation. Thought I’d warn you. Wouldn’t like you to back the wrong horse and find yourself out on your ear just because you didn’t know what was going on.”
    â€œAye; well, thanks. But the Great Gorde … It takes a bit of getting used to, you must admit. He’s been the Company out here for so long.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know about that, old man. I’m new out here, and, as far as I’m concerned, Erkhard is the man.”
    The voices were no more than a whisper in the night. The two oil men were leaning over the rail at the other end of the boat, and David was just going to creep away when he heard the name of his father mentioned. “Is it true Colonel Whitaker’s the cause of the trouble? That’s the rumour.” He froze into immobility, listening fascinated as the other man gave a short laugh. “Well, yes, in a way; the Bloody Bedouin’s got too big for his boots. And that theory of his, a lot of damned nonsense. He’s not thinking of the Company, only of his Arab friends.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. The Company owes him a lot.”
    â€œConcessions, yes—and a string of dry wells. The man’s a dangerous amateur. I’m warning you, Entwhistle—you talk like that when Erkhard visits you at Abu Dhabi and you’ll be out so damn quick—”
    â€œIt’s Gorde I deal with.”
    â€œOkay. But you can take my word for it that it’ll be Erkhard who does the next tour of inspection of the development sites. And unless you’ve got something to show him …”
    The voices faded as the two men moved away, walking slowly and in step back towards the deck housing. David moved quickly, slipping down the ladder to the main deck, back to his position in the bows. He wanted to be alone, for that brief overheard conversation had given him a strange glimpse of the world on which he had set his heart.
    The ship stopped at Masira Island with stores for the RAF, and then on again, rounding Ras al Hadd at night and ploughing northwest into the Gulf of Oman. On the afternoon of the seventh day out from Aden she anchored at Muscat, in a cove so narrow and rocky that David could scarcely believe his eyes; it might have been the Pembrokeshire coast of Wales except that a white, sun-drenched Arab town stood close by the water’s edge at the head of the