The whole incident had taken a mere sixty seconds.
Soon men were seen running to the stern to look and point into the muddy water. There was much shouting and gesticulating. The alarmed captain was on the telephone to the engineer.
“We must have fouled something Chief. What’s the damage down there?” He tried to sound calm.
“Hard to tell but the gearbox could be in trouble. There was a terrible noise from the stern gear. You better organise some divers to check it out while I try to assess the gearbox situation.”
“OK Chief. I’m going to organise some shore lines then I’ll get you some divers.” He slammed the intercom phone back on its cradle.
Being late, whatever the circumstances, with a Syndicate delivery was not an option. There was going to be trouble — big trouble — he told himself. He was trembling with rage as he reached for the ship to shore telephone and called Harbour Control.
Across the basin on the tug, John was quietly drinking a cup of tea and munching a piece of toast when the shore phone rang.
“Good morning,” he greeted the expected caller. It was Manuel, who sounded in an unusually good humour.
“I have a little bit of practical diving for you, if you want it,” h said and waited for a moment. “Charge what you like — it’s an emergency,” he coaxed the silent John.
“Go on then, tell me what it’s all about,” John responded, trying to sound indifferent.
Manuel explained the situation with the cargo vessel on the other side of the basin.
“The vessel single prop has tangled with an unidentified underwater obstacle. They have managed to get a line ashore but remain moored by its prop and rudder. They need to know if you can you do an immediate survey.”
“We can certainly conduct a preliminary survey, then give an estimate of probable external damage. In the circumstances we would require a standard merchant shipping warrant for the payment!” John chuckled under his breath, knowing full well that the vessel was not British registered; in fact it was probably not registered anywhere. “Otherwise we will be looking to the port authority to guarantee payment. Is that OK?”
Manuel knew something of the mysterious vessel and realised that John was being excessively cautious but almost certainly with good reason. It wouldn’t be the first ship to run up a massive repair bill, then quietly slip away never to seen or heard of again.
“OK — standard guarantee from the port. I’ll prepare the paperwork.” In the circumstances he felt reasonably safe as the ship could easily be held until payment was completed.
John advised Big J of the arrangement, who confirmed his approval.
“In the circumstances I think you had better do this one yourself. I suggest that you take those Chinese two lads who’ve been getting on well with the underwater welding. It’ll be a good bit of practice,” Big J smiled. “I bet Alex will be interested in our findings!”
John knew exactly what Alex needed and the report would be a recommendation for dry-docking; whatever they found!
In fact the heavy dredging board had jammed itself between the propeller and the rudder, the latter finishing up visibly out of line with the shaft. The propeller also appeared to be severely buckled, each blade suffering from the impact of the chain and the metal clad board.
The divers cut away the chain and nylon rope then reported to Manuel who was waiting anxiously in the dive boat moored at the stern of the vessel.
“She’s clear now — you can warp her over to the quay,” John called up, pulling away his mask as he spoke. “We’ve cut her free but she isn’t going anywhere with that buckled prop and rudder and they’ll have to come off before the shaft can be tested!”
The captain, standing in the stern of the cargo boat, heard John’s message and turned angrily away in disgust. After visibly taking control of himself, he looked back and called down to the diver still hanging onto the lifeline of the dive boat.
“How soon to sort it out?”
“Sorry Cap; it’s more than we can do underwater; she’ll have to be dry docked to get at the rudder stem and I guess that prop will take quite a bit of sorting.”
The captain nodded his head, reluctantly accepting the inevitable.
“Well thanks for trying anyway,” he called down as an afterthought.
A number of heated telephone calls flashed through the ether as the ship was hauled back to the quay.
Captain Marino was Greek Cypriot by birth and he had been at sea for at least forty of his fifty-five years. A proud and diligent man, he had owned and operated this ship for the last three years, thanks of course to a large interest-free marine mortgage provided by his Syndicate business partners. From experience, he knew how violent they could be when things did not run like the proverbial “Swiss Watch”. So this freak accident was going to be a major problem and the knock-on effect hardly bore thinking about, especially as the clients waiting for delivery of the “special” cargo, were highly sensitive and suspicious people to say the least.
Captain Marino was about to call his controller when the red-faced Scottish chief engineer burst onto the bridge. “We’re all secure Capt, but some harbour official is asking what our cargo is before they tow us to the dry dock. I gave them the standard wink and a nod but they seemed to be a bit determined!” The chief was still puffing from his hasty climb up to the wheelhouse. “What do you think?” he pleaded anxiously.
The chief had served with Captain Marino for over twenty years and was a partner in the business of running the ship commercially, though not in its ownership of the vessel. Two of the deckhands were Chinese, the other Malay. The warlord in the Philippines had provided the armed guards. “I will provide some reliable professional men to ensure the protection and safe delivery of my merchandise,” was how he had described the hard faced mercenary guards.
“Steady Chief, this would be a bad time to have a heart attack!” The captain patted his friend on the shoulder. “I’ll speak to them.”
The captain moved quickly down the companion ladder and approached the two officials standing on the quay.
“Good morning gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Thank you for getting us out of trouble so quickly.” He smiled and shook their hands. “I understand that you would prefer us to unload our cargo before going into the dry dock.” One of the straight-faced officials raised his hand and started to speak. But the captain interrupted him.
“That’ll be no problem. We only have a few alloy crates this trip — Chinese made machine tools, going to Australia in competition with those arrogant capitalists,” he laughed.
The officials looked at each other. “What’s the weight of the crates?” one asked.
“Oh less than twenty tons!” the captain replied casually.
The officials conferred in Chinese, then looked up.
“We think the lock operator may be persuaded to overlook such a light but important cargo!”
The captain pulled an envelope from his pocket, discreetly folded it and placed it in the older official’s hand.
“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.” He saluted and walked back to the ship as the officials scurried furtively away, the envelope containing the two one hundred American dollar bills burning a hole in his pocket.