James Long - Sixth Column

‘You don’t take care of it maybe?’

‘Oh yes I do.’

‘You have a radio?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t call?’

‘We were calling. It stopped working some time after we left England too.’

The Captain snorted in a way that suggested he wouldn’t like to have Johnny as an engineer on his ship.

‘Do you know what could have happened? You could have hit the bridge. You could have gone over the side. You could have gone over the bow and we would have run you down. You could have set my ship on fire. Your petrol has gone everywhere. All down into the containers. It is very lucky it didn’t blow.’

‘Captain Lammers, I am very sorry if you feel I put your ship in any kind of danger. It was our only hope of saving lives, particularly with a disabled passenger in the back.’

‘Your lives against my ship? That makes it OK, you think?’

‘There wasn’t much time to think. I suppose I didn’t think we could do much damage to the containers.’

The Captain snorted.

‘Look, Captain, we think there’s just a possibility that someone might have interfered with the plane.’

‘Oh, I see. That is a good excuse.’

‘We took good care, I promise. Anyway at some point the authorities will want to inspect it. Can it stay there until you get to port?’

‘Is there a choice? What can I do, push it over the side?’

‘Where is your next stop.’

‘Mobile.’

‘Mobile, Alabama?’

‘That’s right.’

Oh shit, thought Johnny, couldn’t it have been Ireland or France or somewhere simple? Mundane complications began to multiply in front of him, telling the insurers, telling his co-owners. Having the plane sail off to America was not an easy way to start the process.

‘That’s a long way,’ he said. ‘Our Civil Aviation Authority will want to look at it.’

‘You want my engineer looks now. Sees if you’re trying to get out of the blaming?’

The CAA might not like it, Johnny thought. On the other hand who’s to say whether there’d be anything left to find if or when the Cessna reached Alabama?

‘Thank you. That would be very helpful.’

That was when the radio operator butted in.

In Hastings, Jeremy Randall, housebound with acute arthritis, passed the long days in his Victorian terraced house up on the town’s highest ground by scanning the wavebands on his expensive receivers, logging and passing on to the news agencies anything interesting he picked up. The agencies paid him a tiny tip-off fee but it kept him in cigarettes and just once in a while, when he gave them a big one, they’d be more generous. When he heard the ship’s call he knew this was just such a one. When he heard Sir Michael Parry’s name, he couldn’t believe his luck. He started dialling.

The first call came through on the ship’s RT five minutes later. It was the Press Association and it was only then that it occurred to Johnny that this was going to be the stuff of headlines.

‘Chopper’s ten minutes out,’ said the Captain, ‘I’m ringing slow engines. He says he’ll pick up Sir Parry first. Doctor is on board. You want to talk to these Press guys?’

‘No, I don’t, thanks.’

‘So I talk, yeah?’

‘If you like.’

The Captain retired to the back of the bridge and seemed to be getting quite a lot of mileage out of the interview that followed.

Anxiety dragged Johnny back down to the sickbay. Jo looked up as he came in. ‘He’s been groaning a lot. Hasn’t said anything. I hope they’re not going to be long?’

‘Just a few minutes now,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring. Sammy was taking Sir Michael’s pulse.

‘Not good,’ he said.

To give himself something to think about and – if the truth were known, to get away from that dreadful, still, white face – he went to get their bags and Jo’s chair out of the Cessna. There was a metal stair rigged, fore and aft, angling up the side of the containers. On top, a man in overalls had forced the buckled engine cowling back and was deep in the innards of the machinery. The folded wheelchair had been stuffed back in the front of the plane by their rescuers. He pulled it out then had trouble opening the hatch to the baggage compartment which had been crushed in from the bottom by the impact.

He took their four small bags out, finding he could easily fit the other three inside his own, then he saw the life-raft and, thinking about his deposit, considered for a moment taking that too. He went to pick it up, remembered how heavy it was and decided it could stay there as another problem for the insurers to sort out. That was when he noticed that the serial number painted on the top of the raft’s casing seemed to be melting and trickling down the case, leaving a messy, smeared black waterfall behind it. He bent to investigate, saw a blob of some sticky substance which had dripped down on to the paint. He wiped it off with a finger and poked his head in to investigate where it had come from. Just as he registered the corroded remains of the radio antenna, eaten through into two rough stumps where it should have run evenly along the side of the compartment, the acid jelly on his finger bit into his nerve endings like a score of razor cuts.

He yelled, wiped it off as best he could but it still hurt like hell. The engineer working on the engine straightened up. ‘What is wrong?’ he said. Another Dutchman.

‘Acid,’ said Johnny, ‘acid on my finger.’

The man had the fuel hose off the carburettor. He held up a metal can.

‘Stick it in this. Quick.’

‘In petrol?’

‘This is water. Go on.’

He did and felt the pain start to ease as he rubbed the diluted jelly off his skin. There was a red, raw area already blistering.

‘You are right, though. It should have been petrol,’ said the man, ‘but it really is water. It all came from your carburettor and your fuel lines.’

‘How could that be?’

‘Bad petrol?’

‘I checked. Anyway it couldn’t have run for all that distance first. How much did you take out?’

‘Two litres, maybe. There is still more there, I think.’

‘Good God. Please, keep some in a clean jar. The investigators will want to see that.’

He showed the engineer the remains of the antenna and the man whistled.

‘Could you put some of that jelly in a glass jar too, for the investigation?’

‘Sure. You want I take photos?’

‘Please.’

Heather was right. Sabotage was now the only possible conclusion. Johnny got the chair and the bags down on deck and went up to the bridge.

‘Your engineer has found a lot of water in the fuel, several litres.’

‘Bad fuel, huh?’

‘No. Not as simple as that. The plane couldn’t have got this far with so much of it in the tanks.’

‘So?’

‘So, I don’t know, but someone used acid to put the radio out of action.’

‘You have enemies?’

‘Perhaps I do.’

‘Ach, well,’ the Captain said gruffly, ‘I am glad for you my ship was here. It was good flying and I can tell the story to my grandchildren.’

He was called to the radio again, said a few words and then waved a hand at him.

‘I’m talking to the chopper now,’ he said and listened for a long time.

Johnny considered what they should do. Get his father to the hospital and see what they had to say. Presumably it would be Portsmouth or Southampton. They’d have to weigh it up. If things were under control there would still be time to jump on a ferry, get Heather and Jo to Cherbourg before the end of the conference even if he had to stay behind with his father.

‘Understood,’ said the Captain, ‘we will maintain steerage-way into wind. Handling party will take the stretcher to the top of the containers.’ He looked at Johnny then away. ‘Other three are OK. Bruises, that’s all.’ Another silence as he listened. ‘OK, I tell them.’