take a summer-laden tanker around those dangerous, stormy, sharp-rocked shores if she were in anything other than tiptop condition. Then, as they proceeded back up the west coast of Africa, they would have to repair the ravages of the southern winter. When
Prometheus
reached Europoort, Richard wanted her to be in even better shape than she had been in when he assumed command. So he drew up schedules of maintenance and penciled in times and dates. He suspected Ben would have drawn up similar lists. They would compare notes later. Now, who should he get to check the paint lockers? He made a note to ask the chief to draw up a corresponding list for engine maintenance, though he suspected it would have been done long ago.
In the absence of much in the way of videos and books—he had already dispatched his own travel reading, C. S. Forester’s
The Happy Return
, to the Officers’ Lounge in the hope of starting a new library there—he drew up a short list for an entertainments committee.
He made notes of what he wished to say during his noon broadcast and checked with Tsirtos for any interesting pieces of international news. There wasn’t even a test match.
He gave his noon broadcast.
And at last he had run out of papers to sign and lists to make and dates to pencil and committees to draw and things to do and so he went up onto the bridge.
John Higgins was busy at the chart table. The Collision Alarm Radar, which observed the position of every ship and obstacle nearby, was set on its closest range and would warn them automatically if anything came too near. A GP seaman stood by the helm—a wheel no larger than the steering wheel of a rally car.
Jezireh Ye Queys lay off the port beam, its low golden shoulder shrugging aside the ripples of mercuric water. A VLCC inbound slid a few miles south to starboard—perhaps three miles—riding high and looking huge. Richard watched her for an instant before John appeared at his shoulder. “Captain?”
Richard turned at once, alerted by something in the Manxman’s tone. “Yes?”
“Take a look at this, would you?”
On the chart table lay a litter of pipe, papers, rulers, dividers, chinagraph pencils, calculators, and a sextant.
John Higgins, the second officer, was an old-fashioned sailor at heart. He had a yacht that he kept in the marina at Peel on the Isle of Man, in an anchorage under that tall, frowning castle—an ocean racer, as if he didn’t get enough of the ocean in his line of work. But then, thought Richard indulgently, as he crossed to the chart table, he himself had kept a yacht when he was John’s age. The yacht that had started it all:
Rebecca.
On board, John was as modern as anyone. Calm, quiet, executive; perfectly at home with the modern machinery and the high-tech aids. But once in a while, Richard knew, some old seadog of an ancestor (a Viking, perhaps, come ravishing after the fair Manx maidens a millenniumago) would peep out of those calm dark eyes; and you would find those small, callused hands of his at some task that sailors had been about for centuries past.
Today he had taken a noon sight of the sun.
“I read it at meridian passage on the dot. Not quite when you started broadcasting. Had Tsirtos check with the World Service pips in case the chronometers were off. Perfect conditions. Perfect sights. Perfect instrument. Never been wrong. Never.” He picked up the instrument lovingly and Richard didn’t like the repetition of “never,” suspecting at once where the conversation was leading.
“So?” he prompted.
“I’ve checked my calculations three times now. Even used the calculator.” An admission of deep desperation.
“But they still disagree with the Satellite Navigation System,” Richard said, giving the Sat Nav its full name, for once.
John nodded. “Look,” he said, sweeping aside the litter on the plastic sheet over the chart. There were two black crosses marked, some inches apart. “According to my sights we’re
Prometheus
reached Europoort, Richard wanted her to be in even better shape than she had been in when he assumed command. So he drew up schedules of maintenance and penciled in times and dates. He suspected Ben would have drawn up similar lists. They would compare notes later. Now, who should he get to check the paint lockers? He made a note to ask the chief to draw up a corresponding list for engine maintenance, though he suspected it would have been done long ago.
In the absence of much in the way of videos and books—he had already dispatched his own travel reading, C. S. Forester’s
The Happy Return
, to the Officers’ Lounge in the hope of starting a new library there—he drew up a short list for an entertainments committee.
He made notes of what he wished to say during his noon broadcast and checked with Tsirtos for any interesting pieces of international news. There wasn’t even a test match.
He gave his noon broadcast.
And at last he had run out of papers to sign and lists to make and dates to pencil and committees to draw and things to do and so he went up onto the bridge.
John Higgins was busy at the chart table. The Collision Alarm Radar, which observed the position of every ship and obstacle nearby, was set on its closest range and would warn them automatically if anything came too near. A GP seaman stood by the helm—a wheel no larger than the steering wheel of a rally car.
Jezireh Ye Queys lay off the port beam, its low golden shoulder shrugging aside the ripples of mercuric water. A VLCC inbound slid a few miles south to starboard—perhaps three miles—riding high and looking huge. Richard watched her for an instant before John appeared at his shoulder. “Captain?”
Richard turned at once, alerted by something in the Manxman’s tone. “Yes?”
“Take a look at this, would you?”
On the chart table lay a litter of pipe, papers, rulers, dividers, chinagraph pencils, calculators, and a sextant.
John Higgins, the second officer, was an old-fashioned sailor at heart. He had a yacht that he kept in the marina at Peel on the Isle of Man, in an anchorage under that tall, frowning castle—an ocean racer, as if he didn’t get enough of the ocean in his line of work. But then, thought Richard indulgently, as he crossed to the chart table, he himself had kept a yacht when he was John’s age. The yacht that had started it all:
Rebecca.
On board, John was as modern as anyone. Calm, quiet, executive; perfectly at home with the modern machinery and the high-tech aids. But once in a while, Richard knew, some old seadog of an ancestor (a Viking, perhaps, come ravishing after the fair Manx maidens a millenniumago) would peep out of those calm dark eyes; and you would find those small, callused hands of his at some task that sailors had been about for centuries past.
Today he had taken a noon sight of the sun.
“I read it at meridian passage on the dot. Not quite when you started broadcasting. Had Tsirtos check with the World Service pips in case the chronometers were off. Perfect conditions. Perfect sights. Perfect instrument. Never been wrong. Never.” He picked up the instrument lovingly and Richard didn’t like the repetition of “never,” suspecting at once where the conversation was leading.
“So?” he prompted.
“I’ve checked my calculations three times now. Even used the calculator.” An admission of deep desperation.
“But they still disagree with the Satellite Navigation System,” Richard said, giving the Sat Nav its full name, for once.
John nodded. “Look,” he said, sweeping aside the litter on the plastic sheet over the chart. There were two black crosses marked, some inches apart. “According to my sights we’re
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