“Okay, so someone is trying to sink us so that they can steal whatever James Reilly has in his private vault.”
“But even if we did sink, it would take months to gain access to the vault. You see, the door is stronger than any bank vault, and would take months to break.”
“How does it open under normal operations?”
“He has a secret room onboard and there he maintains a digital fortress…”
“A what?” Tom asked.
“A digital fortress. Basically, it works like this. The system constantly transmits a code every thirty seconds to the vault door telling it that everything is okay. If it fails to do so, even once, or the ship stops moving, the door seals shut.”
“What if someone destroys the computer?”
“Then the digital fortress fails to transmit and the vault locks. So, you see, it would take a lot more than a terrorist act or accidental sinking of the ship, for someone to steal the contents of James Reilly’s vault.”
Tom considered this for a moment.
“Was there something particularly important about his last most recent deposit, do you think?”
“Could be. He never tells me, but he had additional security this last time, and he told me to make certain that I arrived four days ahead of schedule, and then left without loading any other cargo until we reached Newcastle.”
“Oh shit!” Tom said. “The Hayward Bulk is going to the bottom. Whatever James Reilly has stored down there. It’s going to the bottom too, where no one can protect it in this weather.”
Tom watched as Captain Ambrose’s smile distorted into a look of surprise.
“Why in the world would he try to sink us?” The captain was serious when he concluded, “Cyclone Petersham will do that for him soon enough.”
“How soon do you think?” Tom asked.
“Four hours, at most.”
“So, that’s it then. We’re all dead men?”
“No, there’s lifeboat ready and waiting for us to be evacuated into well before we reach the reef. I’ve already sent a man out there to prepare it.”
That man then came through the door, soaking wet from the harsh storm outside, his face displaying an emotion far more painful than that of profound fatigue.
“Is the lifeboat in order?”
“No…”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean that it’s missing.”
“Shit, where does it normally rest?” Tom said.
“Mid ship, on the starboard side.”
“Show me.”
The man looked at the captain who nodded his approval, and Tom quickly followed him to where the lifeboat should have been.
The crewman stopped at the spot where the large lifeboat would normally have been secured to the deck, a spot where no wave, no matter how large, could possibly knock it overboard. The mooring chains were all intact and the electronic winch was hanging alongside the railing.
“This lifeboat wasn’t inadvertently washed overboard,” the crewman said. “Someone has intentionally scuttled it, and has murdered us all in the process.”
“Can you see it anywhere in the distance?” Tom said.
“No. Not that it would make much difference. It’s not as though we could possibly retrieve it now that it’s in the water.”
The two of them each tried to spot it with their binoculars, which proved to be relatively useless in the storm. It was almost impossible to see much past the deck railings, let alone try to pinpoint anything on the surface of the turbid sea.
Tom had good eyesight, but in this weather he struggled to locate the missing lifeboat in the violent seas.
Then his eyes caught sight of something.
It was dark, and at first he dismissed it as being impossible. His eyes lost it as the next wave crested, but he managed to spot it again.
This time, he was able to ascertain exactly what he was seeing.
And, what he saw reaffirmed his worst nightmare.
“A submarine?” Captain Ambrose sounded more shocked than anything else.
“Yes,” Tom replied.
“But why would it surface here, in the middle of this cyclone?”
“It must take guts to surface a submarine in this weather — guts or desperation. Either way, I think it’s safe to say that our saboteur managed to successfully escape from the Hayward Bulk.”
“But will he still sink her?” Ambrose asked.
“He wasn’t carrying enough equipment on board to sink her. I’m starting to wonder if his plan was simply to stop our engineers from repairing the impeller, and in doing so, force the Hayward Bulk on to the reef. In shallow waters, it will be easier to retrieve whatever he was so intent on accessing.” Tom then looked at the GPS and asked, “How are we doing time-wise? Do you think we’ll make it?”
Captain Ambrose showed him on the GPS monitor just where the reef would most likely tear open the hull of his ship. It was still 32 nautical miles away, but with the strong easterly winds, the Hayward Bulk was drifting at a rate of a just over 8 nautical miles per hour.
“Four hours? That’s the best estimate that we’ve got going for us?” Tom checked his math.
“That’s correct.” Captain Ambrose’s face showed that he’d already accepted the fact that he’d would be dying aboard his ship.
“How long do you think it will take them to change the impeller?”
“Under normal circumstances?” Ambrose laughed. “A couple of days.”
“And given what’s at stake?”
“I have no idea. Even skipping every safety check, I don’t see how it could be done in under eight hours.”
“Okay, so we need to cut our rate of drag by half.” Tom considered the question, as though he were struggling to complete a difficult crossword puzzle. “Surely there’s something else we can throw overboard to create a bit more drag?”
“Both anchors have slipped, there’s very little we can do now.”
“Do we have any more chain?” Tom knew he was being hopeful.
“Every last piece of chain we did have, has already gone overboard.”
“Okay, you’re the captain, Ambrose, you must have spent years trying to reduce every inch of extra drag to please Global’s shareholders. What else might slow your ship down?”
“Barnacles, wind, currents…” The Captain started to list all the things which had troubled him throughout his forty year career.
“Okay, so can we recreate any of those things now?”
“No.” Captain Ambrose looked at him as if he were an idiot.
“Where is the current going?”
“Away from the coastline, at a rate of half a knot.”
“So, then the wind is pushing us at 7.5 knots, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t we simply reduce our exposure to the wind?” Tom smiled, as though he believed that he’d found the solution to their problem, all by himself.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this Mr. Bower, but this is a bulker — we hold all our cargo down below. Apart from what’s left of your little helicopter, nothing else is on deck.”
“I realize that. But when I was flying in, I noticed that we’re showing more than sixty feet of freeboard. That’s a lot of exposure on the port side of the ship. If we could somehow reduce that, wouldn’t it buy us some more time?”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” The Captain’s approaching death loosened his tongue and his question was laced with more than a little sarcasm. “Stop at the next port and pick up some more cargo?”
“Can we begin to sink her?” Tom asked in complete seriousness.