“Thank you, Captain. What about the other local conditions? Any piracy reported?”
“No pirates, but everything else is going to shit. Over.”
“What do you mean, Captain? Over.”
“Look to the south. That smoke on the horizon is Jakarta burning. Will you take
advice, Captain Garrett? Over.”
“I’ll take all I can get. Over.”
“Then keep the power to your anchor capstan and your engine room ready to answer
bells. We may all want to get out of here in one hell of a hurry.”
*
The only boat available for port and customs duty had been an open forty-foot launch of dubious reliability. The two-hour run from quayside Jakarta to the outlying merchant anchorage at Pulau Seribu had been quite adequate to make Lieutenant Simando sun-scalded, salt-sticky and very unhappy.
With the declaration of martial law in the Indonesian capital, the navy had assumed control of the Port Master’s office and Simando had been assigned to the duty of chief boarding and inspection officer. To his fellow officers, he had made much of the responsibility of the assignment. In reality, however, he knew that he had been given the job only because of his modestly good grasp of English, and because there was no one else available.
In truth, Simando loathed the duty. He was a landside staff administrator with no real grasp of the nuances of customs and inspection law. The foreign merchant officers and their frequent damn-your-eyes attitudes intimidated him, and, at the worst, he was not the best sailor in the world. Nausea was a constant companion aboard the launch and he had lost vast face heaving over the gunwale on more than one occasion.
He was also afraid. With anarchy engulfing the archipelago, being a government official ranging about in a small unreliable open boat was not a comfortable position to be in. Neither the pistol at his belt nor the two lackadaisical Indonesian Marines who accompanied him made Simando feel any better. Bluster was his sole defense.
“Bring us alongside! Smartly now!”
Unspeaking, the insolent Bugi helmsman swung the launch around the counter of the big bulk carrier. Simando didn’t bother to look up at the name painted across the broad stern. He recognized the Panamanian flag of convenience and he could deal with the details when he got aboard.
Besides, his grasp of written English was considerably weaker than with the spoken word.
At least the crew of this ship had been civilized enough to put a gangway and a landing stage over the side. Scaling the towering black flank of the bulker’s mammoth hull on a flimsy rope ladder would not have been a pleasant experience.
A reception committee awaited the inspection party at the top of the gangway, a slim dark haired Caucasian with a third mate’s bars on his spotless tropic whites and a stocky Filipino in seaman’s dungarees.
“Welcome aboard the Galaxy Shenandoah,” the mate said crisply. “I’m Third Officer Carstairs and this is our Bosun, Mr. Devego. How may we help
you?”
“I am Lieutenant Simando of the Indonesian navy. I am here to conduct customs and
inspections of port security!”
The Caucasian frowned. “We were expecting the Jakarta harbormaster.”
“The Indonesian navy now has control of these matters,” Simando barked. “We have all authority here.”
The Third Mate nodded respectfully, “Of course, Lieutenant. We will assist you in every way possible.”
“Very good.” Simando smoothed his artificially ruffled feathers, assured that he would
receive the appropriate respect. “My men will conduct inspections. I will speak with your captain.”
“Yes sir.” The third officer looked to the Bosun’s Mate. “Chief, you will assist the inspection team. Make sure they see everything they
need. Lieutenant, if you will accompany me to the main salon, the captain is
waiting for you with the ship’s documentation.”
“Very good,” Simando replied in a lordly fashion. “I will see your captain now.”
Simando’s insecurity began to creep back as they entered the deckhouse and climbed the four levels to the salon. This vast vessel likely displaced more than the entire Indonesian navy and its captain was apparently something of a driver. The stark white passageways were all freshly painted and the cool blue linoleum that floored them was spotless – definitely a step above the usual merchant ship standards. Any captain who kept a ship of this size in this superb a condition with a small civilian crew must be a formidable personality.
Despite the air conditioning, Simando began to sweat again.
They stepped through a curtained door off the passageway and the flooring went from blue linoleum to blue carpeting. They were in the main salon, what would be the wardroom aboard a naval vessel.
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Simando of the Indonesian Navy. Lieutenant, this is
Captain Garrett of the Galaxy Shenandoah.”
Simando’s jaw dropped. The captain was a woman!
Seawomen and female officers, even captains, were an increasingly common phenomenon within the world’s merchant fleets – but to find one commanding this huge, glistening monster was a shock, especially since this one was decidedly attractive, at least by western standards.
Large golden lioness’s eyes beneath a fringe of amber hair regarded Simando with a disconcerting
directness. “Thank you, Mr. Carstairs. Carry on. I’ll take it from here.”
The woman had been seated behind the large dark maple mess table that dominated
the center of the salon and she rose now, extending her hand across it. “Welcome aboard my ship, Lieutenant. May I have my stewardess bring you a cup of
coffee or a cold drink?”
The Indonesian would have killed for an iced orange soda but he felt his mastery of the situation degrading rapidly. In a single, effortless and totally polite manner, this red-haired demoness had firmly established that he, Simando, was standing on her decks and that she was in charge here.
Simando ignored the extended hand and dropped his eyes. “No, I wish nothing, thank you.”
The Garrett woman – Garrett, that odd name sounded familiar – smiled and used the ignored hand to gesture toward the neat stacks of paperwork on the table.
“I believe you’ll want to see these, Lieutenant. Here are my ship’s papers, my crew documentation and the bills of lading for my cargo. You should
find everything in order.”
Still standing, Simando scowled down at the paperwork, making a show of riffling through the offered files and giving them a close scrutiny. For the sake of face, he wished he could find some flaw in the cool and rather intimidating efficiency he had been confronted with aboard this vessel. Something to challenge the capability of this western female captain. Her sense of calm-eyed surety was growing increasingly aggravating. Unfortunately, Simando didn’t even know what he should be looking for.
“Your arrival in Indonesian waters was not scheduled, Captain. Why do you come
here?”
She nodded toward her cargo manifests. “We’re out of Central America with a load of pulpwood chips for a paper mill in
Amsterdam. The brokerage our owners are dealing with could only scrape together
three-quarters of a cargo out of Nicaragua, but they have a lead on another
five thousand tons of pulp out of the mills on Kalimantan. We were diverted to
Indonesian waters on the chance we can top off our holds. My owners have
instructed me to remain at anchor here until cargo negotiations have been
completed.”
“We know nothing of this,” Simando said stiffly. “You must realize that there are many problems here. Great difficulties. We have martial law. The military of Indonesia cannot be responsible for your business dealings.”
