path. It was only visible for a fleeting moment; then it was gone. He blinked and went closer to the rail to take another look.
Jude hadn’t been imagining things. As it turned out, what he’d seen was a discarded forty-foot steel shipping container apparently lost from another vessel, so waterlogged that it was floating too low on the surface to be picked up by the radar. He quickly alerted Ricky Marshall, the third mate, who relayed the information to the bridge, and the ship changed course a few degrees to avoid the potential hazard.
Marshall was pleased with him, explaining that ships lost containers all the time, running into thousands a year worldwide, and often failed – illegally – to report them. While such floating debris posed no serious risk to the thick hulls of larger vessels like the Andromeda, it was always worth steering clear. ‘You’ve got good eyes,’ he said to Jude. ‘Like to take a tour of the bridge?’
‘Really?’ It would be the first time Jude had ever been up there, and he lit up at the offer.
Marshall smiled at his excitement, and explained that especially observant ABs were often posted up on the bridge, as an extra pair of eyes always came in handy. ‘Plus,’ he added, ‘I hear you’re thinking of a naval career. You might be interested in seeing what goes on up there.’
And so, novice able-bodied seaman Jude Arundel followed the third mate up the steps and walkways to pay his first visit to the real nerve-centre of the ship, where he was introduced in person to Captain O’Keefe. The captain was a large, bearded man with a red face and a disinterested manner, who thanked Jude vaguely for having spotted the floating container and didn’t seem to care one way or the other about Marshall showing him around. O’Keefe returned to the conversation he’d been having with Wilson, the chief mate, who had the wheel. Jude caught a whiff of a scent from Wilson that could have been cheap after-shave, but smelled more like bourbon.
The bridge was the very top floor of the ship’s superstructure, accessible from an outer door and an inner hatch that led through to the rest of D Deck. It was shielded from the elements by tall windows that gave a commanding view for miles in every direction. On its roof was a railed open-air platform called the flying bridge, and extending some eighteen feet either side of it jutted steel observation walkways that overhung the ship’s sides, used for fine steering adjustments while docking.
Inside the control room itself, Jude felt as if he was inside a giant greenhouse. The deck seemed very far below, and so narrow as to create the illusion that the ship must be dangerously top-heavy and about to keel over on its side.
‘This is the conning station,’ Marshall said, showing Jude the bank of electronic equipment at the centre of the bridge. The second mate, Guzman, was lurking nearby, munching on a sandwich and ignoring them as he pored over his charts. ‘All these electronics are what we use for steering, nav and comm,’ Marshall explained. ‘Here you’ve got your GMDSS, short for Global Maritime Distress and Safety System, which feeds continuous weather updates. And this here is the radar,’ he said, pointing at another screen, showing what looked like a greenish-hued circular clock face divided into quadrants, with a continually sweeping hand moving round the centre. ‘The data stream on the right tells you the speed of any vessels we get close to, and their CPA. That’s the Closest Point of Approach – basically how long before its path crosses ours. Keeps us out of trouble.’
Jude was running his eye over the screens, drinking everything in. ‘This would be our position?’ he asked, pointing at a set of coordinates displayed on a readout.
‘That’s right. Updated continually via GPS. So we don’t lose our way.’
‘And that?’
Marshall seemed happy to answer as many questions as this eager young sailor could fire his way. ‘That’s the EOT. Stands for Engine Order Telegraph. It’s how the bridge tells the engine room to alter our speed. The panel next to it, right there, is the watertight door indicator. Every time a hatch seal opens anywhere on board, it lights up, green for open, red for shut. Alerts us if anything’s open that shouldn’t be in heavy weather.’
Fascinated by the wealth of equipment on board, Jude was about to ask more questions when the radar started to blip, drawing the attention of the mates. Wilson broke off from his conversation with the captain. The Guzzler swallowed the last of his sandwich and dragged his bulk over to the radar to take a look.
‘Looks like a vessel coming right towards us, Cap,’ he said. ‘Three-point-six miles astern and closing fast. Moving it some.’
O’Keefe frowned and came over to peer at the screen, together with Ricky Marshall. Jude moved in behind, so he could peek between them at the display. Maybe he was being audacious, he thought, but everyone’s attention was too fixed on the radar to take any notice of him. Onscreen, he could see a green dot moving towards the centre of the circle. As they watched, two smaller dots broke off from it.
‘That’s what I hoped we wouldn’t see,’ Guzman muttered. ‘It can only mean one thing.’
‘We’re going to have company,’ the captain said.
Jude stared at the radar, remembering what Gerber had told him – how pirates no longer limited themselves to short-range raids from the coastline and now used stolen vessels as mother ships to patrol the whole ocean. ‘Are we under attack?’ he asked, unable to help himself from speaking out.
Nobody replied. Ricky Marshall just glanced at him, his jaw clenched. A whole minute passed, then another. The little green dots kept on coming. The two smaller ones that had broken away seemed to be converging on the centre of the circle at a slightly faster rate.
‘Two-point-one miles, Cap,’ Guzman said, looking intently at O’Keefe.
With an effort, Jude detached himself from the huddle at the radar and stepped over to the window. A large pair of binoculars was lying on a table. He picked them up. Again, the others were too focused on the screen to even notice him.
Scanning the distant ocean through the powerful binocs, Jude could just about make out the incoming objects on the water. The larger of the three was still on the horizon and seemed to be a sizeable vessel, while the smaller two were coming in much faster, black dots against the blue with white water visible at their bows. The way they were bouncing over the waves told him they were speedboats, which must have launched from the mother ship.
‘They wouldn’t dare touch a US merchant vessel,’ Ricky Marshall said, but the expression on his face didn’t radiate confidence.
‘Course?’ grunted O’Keefe.
‘Two-twenty,’ Guzman said.
‘Take us one-seventy,’ O’Keefe said, without looking up from the screen. Wilson turned the wheel to alter course.
‘Further out to sea, Cap?’ Marshall said with a raised eyebrow, obviously cautious not to question the captain’s authority too directly.
O’Keefe ignored him. ‘Give me a hundred and twenty-five revs, Guzman.’
‘One-two-five,’ Guzman repeated, getting on the EOT to relay the speed increase down to the engine room.
Jude seemed to have been entirely forgotten for the moment.
