San Andreas

‘For’ard. Carpenter’s shop. Lead cable passing through a bulkhead. Clips on either side seemed to have worked loose where it passed through the hole in the bulkhead.’

Bowen said: ‘Normal ship’s vibration, weather movement—doesn’t take much to chafe through soft lead.’

‘Lead’s tougher than you think, sir. In this case a pair of hands helped the normal chafing along. Not that that matters. Inside the lead sheathing the rubber round the power cable has been scorched away.’

‘Which one would expect in a short?’

‘Yes, sir. Only, I know the smell of electrically burnt rubber and it doesn’t smell like sulphur. Some bright lad had used an igniting match-head or heads to do the trick. I’ve left Ellis on the repair job. It’s simple and he should be about through now.’

‘Well, well. So it’s as easy as that to knock out a ship’s electrical power.’

‘Almost, sir. He’d one other little job to do. There’s a fuse-box just outside the carpenter’s shop and he removed the appropriate fuse before starting work. Then he returned to the fuse-box and shorted out the line—insulated pliers, ditto screwdriver, almost anything would do—then replaced the fuse. If he’d replaced the fuse before shorting out the line it would have blown, leaving the rest of the electrical system intact. Theoretically, that is—on very rare occasions the fuse is not so obliging and doesn’t go.’ Jamieson smiled faintly. ‘Fact of the matter is, if I’d had a cold in the nose he might have got away with it.’

The phone rang. Captain Bowen lifted it and handed it over to Patterson who listened, said: ‘Sure. Now,’ and handed the phone back. ‘Engineroom. Power coming on.’

Perhaps half a minute passed, then Captain Bowen said mildly: ‘You know, I don’t think the power is coming on.’

Jamieson rose and Bowen said: ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know, sir. Well, first of all to the engine-room to pick up Ellis and the bridge-megger and then I don’t know. It would seem that old Flannelfoot has more than one string to his bow.’

The phone rang again and Bowen, without answering, handed it over to Patterson, who listened briefly, said: ‘Thank you. Mr Jamieson is coming down,’ and handed the phone back. ‘Same again. I wonder how many places our friend has jinxed and is just waiting for the opportunity to activate them.’

Jamieson hesitated at the door. ‘Do we keep this to ourselves?’

‘We do not.’ Bowen was positive. ‘We broadcast it far and wide. Granted, Flannelfoot, as you call him, will be forewarned and forearmed, but the knowledge that a saboteur is at large will make everyone look at his neighbour and wonder what a saboteur looks like. If nothing else, it will make this lad a great deal more circumspect and, with any luck, may restrict his activities quite a bit.’ Jamieson nodded and left.

Bowen said: ‘I think, John, you might double the watch in the engine-room or at least bring two or three extra men—not, you understand, for engine-room duties.’

‘I understand. You think, perhaps—’

‘If you wanted to sabotage, incapacitate a ship, where would you go?’

Patterson rose, went to the door and, as Jamieson had done, stopped there and turned. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why, why, why?’

‘I don’t know why. But I have an unpleasant feeling about the where and the when. Here or hereabouts and sooner than we think, quicker than we want. Somebody,’ Captain Bowen said as if by way of explanation, ‘has just walked over my grave.’ Patterson gave him a long look and closed the door quietly behind him.

Bowen picked up the phone, dialled a single number and said: ‘Archie, my cabin.’ He had no sooner replaced the receiver when it rang again. It was the bridge. Batesman didn’t sound too happy.

‘Snowstorm’s blowing itself out, sir. Andover can see us now. Wants to know why we’re not showing any lights. I told them we had a power failure, then another message just now, why the hell are we taking so long to fix it?’

‘Sabotage.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

‘Sabotage. S for Sally, A for Arthur, B for Bobby, O for—’

‘Good God! Whatever—I mean, why—’

‘I do not know why.’ Captain Bowen spoke with a certain restraint. ‘Tell them that. I’ll tell you what I know—which is practically nothing—when I come up to the bridge. Five minutes. Maybe ten.’

Archie McKinnon, the Bo’sun, came in. Captain Bowen regarded the Bo’sun—as indeed many other captains regarded their bo’suns—as the most important crew member aboard. He was a Shetlander, about six feet two in height and built accordingly, perhaps forty years of age, with a brick-coloured complexion, blue-grey eyes and flaxen hair—the last two almost certainly inheritances from Viking ancestors who had passed by—or through—his native island a millennium previously.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ Bowen said. He sighed. ‘Archie, we have a saboteur aboard.’

‘Have we now.’ He raised eyebrows, no startled oaths from the Bo’sun, not ever. ‘And what has he been up to, Captain?’

Bowen told him what he had been up to and said: ‘Can you make any more of it than I can, which is zero?’

‘If you can’t, Captain, I can’t.’ The regard in which the Captain held the Bo’sun was wholly reciprocated. ‘He doesn’t want to sink the ship, not with him aboard and the water temperature below freezing. He doesn’t want to stop the ship—there’s half a dozen ways a clever man could do that. I’m thinking myself that all he wanted to do is to douse the lights which—at night-time, anyway—identify us as a hospital ship.’

‘And why would he want to do that, Archie?’ It was part of their unspoken understanding that the Captain always called him ‘Bo’sun’ except when they were alone.

‘Well.’ The Bo’sun pondered. ‘You know I’m not a Highlander or a Western Islander so I can’t claim to be fey or have the second sight.’ There was just the faintest suggestion of an amalgam of disapproval and superiority in the Bo’sun’s voice but the Captain refrained from smiling: essentially, he knew, Shetlanders did not regard themselves as Scots and restricted their primary allegiance to the Shetlands. ‘But like yourself, Captain, I have a nose for trouble and I can’t say I’m very much liking what I can smell. Half an hour—well, maybe forty minutes—anybody will be able to see that we are a hospital ship.’ He paused and looked at the Captain with what might possibly have been a hint of surprise which was the nearest the Bo’sun ever came to registering emotion. ‘I can’t imagine why but I have the feeling that someone is going to have a go at us before dawn. At dawn, most likely.’

‘I can’t imagine why either, Archie, but I have the same feeling myself. Alert the crew, will you? Ready for emergency stations. Spread the word that there’s an illegal electrician in our midst.’

The Bo’sun smiled. ‘So that they can keep an eye on each other. I don’t think, Captain, that we’ll find the man among the crew. They’ve been with us for a long time now.’

‘I hope not and I think not. That’s to say, I’d like to think not. But it was someone who knew his way around. Their wages are not exactly on a princely scale. You’d be surprised what a bag of gold can do to a man’s loyalty.’

‘After twenty-five years at sea, there isn’t a great deal that can surprise me. Those survivors we took off that tanker last night—well, I wouldn’t care to call any of them my blood-brother.’

‘Come, come, Bo’sun, a little of the spirit of Christian charity, if you please. It was a Greek tanker—Greece is supposed to be an ally, if you remember—and the crew would be Greek. Well, Greek, Cypriot, Lebanese, Hottentot if you like. Can’t expect them all to look like Shetlanders. I didn’t see any of them carrying a pot of gold.’

‘No. But some of them—the uninjured ones, I mean—were carrying suitcases.’

‘And some of them were carrying overcoats and at least three of them were wearing ties. And why not? The Argos spent six hours there wallowing around after being mined: time and enough for anyone to pack his worldly possessions or such few possessions as Greek seamen appear to have. It would be a bit much I think, Archie, to expect a crippled Greek tanker in the Barents Sea to have aboard a crewman with a bag of gold who just happened to be a trained saboteur.’

‘Aye, it’s not a combination that one would expect to find every day. Do we alert the hospital?’

‘Yes. What’s the latest down there?’ The Bo’sun invariably knew the state of everything aboard the San Andreas whether it concerned his department or not.

‘Dr Singh and Dr Sinclair have just finished operating. One man with a broken pelvis, the other with extensive burns. They’re in the recovery room now and should be okay. Nurse Magnusson is with them.’

‘My word, Archie, you do appear to be singularly well-informed.’

‘Nurse Magnusson is a Shetlander,’ the Bo’sun said, as if that explained everything. ‘Seven patients in Ward A, not fit to be moved. Worst is the Chief Officer of the Argos, but not in danger, Janet says.’

‘Janet?’

‘Nurse Magnusson.’ The Bo’sun was a difficult man to put off his stride. ‘Ten in recuperating Ward B. The Argos survivors are in the bunks on the port side.’

‘I’ll go down there now. Go and alert the crew. When you’ve finished, come along to the sick-bay—and bring a couple of your men with you.’

‘Sick-bay?’ The Bo’sun regarded the deckhead. ‘You’d better not let Sister Morrison hear you call it that.’

Bowen smiled. ‘Ah, the formidable Sister Morrison. All right, hospital. Twenty sick men down there. Not to mention sisters, nurses and ward orderlies who—’