The woman shook her head. “I never expected the Indonesian military would be so responsible. And they aren’t my business dealings, Lieutenant. Those are matters for the owners to deal
with. I just follow orders. However, I do hold the Indonesian military
responsible for the safety of my ship and crew while we are in your national
waters. Your country’s internal problems are yours and not mine.”
Simando’s jaws clinched on the retort that the Indonesian navy was too concerned with trying to defend their own shipping to be bothered with a pack of damn kasar freighters. But such an admission would be an even more catastrophic loss of face. “I will inspect your cargo,” he said, tossing the unintelligible documentation back onto the table, abruptly changing the subject as an escape.
For the first time, Captain Garrett looked slightly perturbed. “My cargo? Why? I’ve told you that all we’re carrying is bulk pulpwood chips. You have the bills of lading right in front
of you.”
“I will see your cargo!” Simando insisted, pleased to be able to at last disconcert this woman. He would not be the only person to be inconvenienced this day.
The woman rolled her eyes toward the overhead, an expression universal among
merchant masters around the world. “As you wish, Lieutenant. Come with me.”
Leaving the salon, they descended to the bulker’s weather decks once more. Captain Garrett moved briskly and Simando puffed a little to keep pace with the woman. He also strove mightily to ignore the fluid sway of her hips as she clattered down the ladderways ahead. Damn these western females who refused to acknowledge their place.
Going forward from the deckhouse, they reached a point adjacent to the first of the freighter’s huge raised cargo hatches.
Here, a smaller personnel hatch had been set into the steel decking. Its dogging levers had not only been hammered tightly shut – a massive padlock had been added. Heavy industrial grade duct tape, marked with the international chemical hazard symbol, sealed the hatch and a criss-cross of adhesive chemical test paper had been tacked across it. Obviously, whatever lay under that hatch was more than a little furious.
“I thought you said you carried only the wood?’ Simando exclaimed, goggling at the ominous portal. Looking about, he noted more sealing tape and chemical warfare test paper stripped around the seams of the cargo hatch.
“We are,” Garrett replied calmly. “Raw pulpwood chips from a tropic environment. Before we can unload in Europe,
the whole cargo has to be thoroughly fumigated for ecologically hazardous
pests. We’d started the procedure before we were diverted here. To interrupt the process
now, I’d have to stand offshore for a couple of days to purge my holds and unseal my
deck hatches and I’m not going to do that until I’m assured I have a cargo to load. Methyl bromide costs money.”
“M … meth …?” Simando couldn’t recognize the word. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Captain Garrett nodded casually and took a step back from the hatchway. “I can have my crew set up a containment tent over the personnel hatches and I
can provide seawater hoses for decontamination afterwards, but you’ll have to provide your own chemical suits and gas masks. I can’t accept the liability of letting you use our emergency gear. I’ll also need a signed release of responsibility for anyone going down into the
cargo spaces. And if you get into trouble down there,” she added grimly, “don’t expect me to order any of my people to go in after you. They’re not being paid that much.”
Simando took his sodden handkerchief from his pocket and blotted at his cheeks.“ I have seen the manifests,” he muttered.
Amanda watched from the rail as the chubby Indonesian officer descended the gangway, moving with a sweaty eagerness to be free of her ship. His two-man inspection team, who had spent the bulk of their time “inspecting” the galley while being feted by a friendly cook, followed him down to the battered launch.
Amanda took a deliberate breath. This had been, and likely would continue to be, a tricky bit, commanding a freighter that never actually carried any freight.
When the Shenandoah had been built, her designers had considered installing at least one functional cargo hold, but the space couldn’t be spared. There was simply too much to shoehorn into the hull. Shenandoah’s cargos would exist only as a set of masterfully cooked books back at Galaxy Maritime and a stream of synthesized manifests from the documents section.
Should the Indonesian port authorities endeavor to verify her contracts, bills of lading and ports of call – an unlikely probability given the current chaotic state of affairs – the telephone calls and faxes would somehow go astray. They would be answered by someone else, somewhere else, who would pass the Galaxy Shenandoah with flying colors.
Amanda wasn’t exactly sure how that was supposed to work, but she suspected the fine hand of either the Christians In Action or No Such Agency and possibly both.
Amanda leaned on the cable railing, deliberately letting herself be seen from the launch as it pulled away from the stage. Did the coxswain look up and let his gaze linger on her for an unusually long moment? Possibly. And could it mean more than a man studying a rather exotic looking foreign female? Possibly again.
That was why Amanda had brought her ship into Indonesian waters under its true name and colors rather than under any one of half a dozen alternative identities. That was why she had also made herself prominent as her captain.
Even the most minor events within the maritime world of Indonesia would eventually leak back to the Raja Samudra. Harconan would soon learn that she had returned to the archipelago, theoretically in disgrace and as a free agent.
She lifted her gaze from the departing launch to the heat-hazy horizon. Would he smell a trap? That was entirely possible. She knew Makara to be as cunning and suspicious as a barracuda.
Still, might he also be bold enough to make a run at this particular bait? Either for revenge or possibly for other reasons? Amanda shook her head in bemusement. She simply couldn’t imagine herself as a fair Helen capable of launching a thousand ships, or even one Bugi pinisi.
That was out of her hands. She could only stand poised to reel in the hook if the opportunity presented itself.
She turned and stepped to the deck phone mounted beside the superstructure door. Lifting the receiver from its watertight box, she double-clicked the talk button to access the all-ship system.
“This is Captain Garrett,” she said deliberately, keying the voice identification circuit. “The Executive Officer, please.”
“This is the Exec,” Dix Beltrain’s voice responded promptly.
“Our guests have departed, Dix. You may secure from hush mode and below deck
isolation. Weather deck security protocols will remain in effect.”
“Very good, ma’am. Will do. Be advised that, while our Indonesian friends were here, the Remora reported in. She’s sitting on the bottom underneath us at this time. Request permission to flood
the moon pool and bring her aboard.”
“Proceed with the recovery at your pleasure, Dix. How did the SEALs make out?”
“Chief Gillespie reports four-oh, ma’am. No problems, no hostile contacts and the cable taps are in place and
operational.”
“Very good. I’ll be joining you in the Combat Information Center presently.”
Amanda hung up the phone and returned to the deckhouse. Descending one level below the main deck, she moved forward through a narrow side alley to the heavy transverse bulkhead that separated the stern section from the cargo spaces.
Here, a small oval watertight door was set into that bulkhead. According to the ship’s blueprints, it was a service access for one of the wing ballast tanks in the upper corner of Number 7 hold, such ballast tanks being a standard aspect of a bulk hauler’s design. Accordingly, the hatch was locked and prominently marked with the injunction that it must remain sealed at all times while the ship was at sea.
Before Amanda could activate the concealed voice authorization lock, the service hatch, heavy frame and all, swung outward with a sigh of hydraulics and a trio of navy seamen in dungarees and baseball caps swung through, heading to their duty stations in the stern.
“By your leave, Captain,” the senior man said politely.
“Carry on, Mr …” Her eyes flicked to the name tape on the seaman’s shirt, “Shmitsky.”
She could never be as close with this crew as she had with that of the Cunningham or with her old hovercraft squadron. There were simply too many personnel aboard, over two thousand in all. But she must make the effort. She must let this polyglot band of strangers know that their Captain did, in fact, give a damn about every one them.
There was no ballast tank beyond the hatch, just a short stretch of gray corridor with flush mounted access doors for systems bays and offices on either side, the paintwork and stainless steel fittings gleaming under bright florescent lighting. It was a corridor such as might be found on any naval vessel in the fleet.
The air was warm and stuffy. When hush mode was in effect, the ventilation and air conditioning in the hold spaces had to be throttled back to survival minimums. That state of affairs wouldn’t last for long. Already Amanda could feel the vibration radiating up through the decks as the auxiliary power rooms over the keel brought their generator sets online and cooling drafts sighed from the duct grills.
