Gold Sharks (12 page)

They sailed at first light the following morning. Three hours later, they picked up a pilot and entered the busy Hong Kong harbour. While Big J was accustomed to the teaming traffic of the Far East ports, he was quite startled when the pilot took the wheel and simply barged straight through the mêlée of sampans and junks plying back and forth apparently regardless of the “rule of the road”. There were frequent near misses but the pilot maintained his course regardless; he did however give endless blasts on the horn shouting. “They know! They know!” was the only comment he made; his deadpan expression never changed. Eventually the tug pulled into a large empty basin in an apparently derelict part of the old docks and moored to the crumbling quay.

“This area is soon to be developed and has been cleared for your training exercises OK? You always moor this side of the basin - easier for your crew to go ashore, yes?” The expression didn't change. They thanked him and he went ashore.

Big J spoke to the crew, “Well lads we're here but I can't let anyone ashore yet. We have to meet with their customs and harbour officials first.”

There was a groan.

“How long will all that take?”

“I honestly don't know but don't forget we also have to finish the contract and to set up this bloody training programme. That means no heavy boozing or you'll be off the dive schedule. That means no pay - clear?”

The crew drifted away; they knew the routine but there was always something special about going ashore after a long spell at sea. They were impatient but their disappointment was easily managed. Three hours later, the Customs and the harbour launches appeared in flotilla and pulled alongside the tug. Three uniformed customs officers and two harbour officials climbed aboard.

“Looks like a takeover,” someone commented as they watched the uniformed officials climb up to the bridge.

Big J had changed from his usual jeans and sweatshirt into a pair of neatly creased tan slacks and a shirt with Captain's epaulettes; he was not wearing his regulation hat but it was positioned strategically near the helm.

“It's my bridge, so I don't need to wear the cap. That way I don't have to salute anybody,” he winked to John who was also standing neatly attired in his First Mate's uniform. “They like lots of documents and paperwork. That'll be your job OK?” Big J stepped to the entrance to the bridge. “I'll handle the talking and social stuff - here they come.”

The officials climbed the steep steps to the wing bridge and crowded into the wheelhouse. Big J welcomed them aboard and introduced them to John.

“My first officer, John Lawrence. He has the crew manifests together with any other paperwork you may need,” Big J said, addressing the customs officers. “If I leave him with you gentlemen?” he said smoothly and looked towards the harbour officials, indicating the door to the rear of the wheelhouse. “Perhaps we can go into the saloon to sort out the other matters?”

They nodded agreement and followed Big J.

“I may be the Captain but everyone calls me Big J, OK?” he smiled cheerfully.

“I'm Martin Ho. My colleague Manuel Pestana.”

They all shook hands again and then Big J invited them to sit at the table.

“Now gentlemen - a little refreshment perhaps?” Big J looked at them expectantly.

“Well it's almost noon,” Martin peered at his wristwatch. “How about one of those old colonial traditions: Gin and Tonic I believe?” Martin Ho the taller of the two replied, smiling in innocent anticipation.

Manuel nodded his approval.

“Make that two please,” he confirmed.

Big J prepared the drinks in 250ml. glass tankards; the ice and lemon danced in the sparkling liquid. He placed the drinks on the mat in front of each of his expectant guests.

“Well gentlemen, here's to your good health.” Big J raised his own drink and took a substantial draught. The others followed suit. “Now I'd say that's something the old order had right, wouldn't you?” he concluded with relish and relaxed in his chair.

“That's not all they had right,” Martin whispered, looking anxiously towards the bridge, not wishing to be overheard by the customs officers still talking with John.

Big J noted the gesture and nodded understanding.

“So to business?” He looked at the pad in front of him. “According to our contract, we are supposed to train about a dozen of your people in the use of your underwater vehicles and re-commission your de-compression facility. Yes?” He looked up, raising his eyebrows. “What went wrong with it?”

“You need to understand the bureaucracy here. Because agreements with the multinational oil companies were not properly honoured, they in turn refuse to carry out any support services. Our people think that you can simply jump into an underwater research vehicle and drive it away.” He looked across the harbour in despair. “When the wellhead was damaged and we were unable to fix it, by some miracle the decision was made to subcontract you to complete the repairs, which in turn allows them to save face of course.” He looked towards the other man. “Manuel here has lost seven divers in the last twelve months, mainly because he has been forced by those stupid idiots to dive in unsuitable conditions; they are ignorant of the dangers associated with diving and don't seem to want to understand. Most men have been lost either through our poor deep diving techniques or more importantly because of the lack of the skills to operate the equipment.”

“Yes,” Manuel took up the story. “We have plenty of strong willing men. Good practical divers but they desperately need training to cope with the new equipment and the deeper environment it leads them into.”

“Well I understood most of that when we negotiated the contract but we can only do so much in two weeks,” Big J shrugged his shoulders. “Add to that, we have to do all the training within the confines of the harbour!”

“Security!” Martin exclaimed. “It's because of security. You'll see what I mean when you get started. I tell you, this place is paranoid about security. Who could possibly want anything we have here?” he added sounding despondent.

Manuel came from the Portuguese colony of Macao but had married a young Chinese girl in Hong Kong. They'd decided in their youth that the new order would be good for them. Now they lived in a small but economic high-rise apartment in the north of the City. The elevators broke down regularly and the public areas were filthy. No one seemed to care any more.

Martin was in charge of the harbour diving team. They were perfectly well equipped and trained to service the underwater facilities and work on ships in the harbour but not on the growing number of offshore oil and gas wells. The political and higher authority, he felt, didn't seem to understand the difference.

“We have divers don't we?” Martin had been told. “We don't need these bloated imperialists, when we can send in our own men!”

In fact their military facilities were more than capable of making the repair but they had been specifically ordered, “not to become involved in commercial activities”. “Security reasons” was always the official excuse.

Manuel had therefore been obliged to send some of his own crew to attempt a repair on a gas well in sixty-five metres of water. They'd applied all their standard knowledge to the work but more and more men suffered with decompression sickness - the bends - and worst of all the dreaded narcosis.

The decompression chambers available to them were old and inadequate. The seals were worn and it became more and more difficult to control the recompression pressures.

“Seven men have died over the last twelve months through political pigheadedness,” Martin admitted, angrily ignoring the possibility of being overheard now. “More than anything we need our chamber sorting out and we need the divers trained to use the new gas mixtures and, finally, we must be able to handle our two underwater vehicles. They've been sitting on the quay turning into bits of rusty old iron since the oil company left them to us.”

The two men had hardly touched their drinks.

“OK fellers, so let's see if we can cut through the red tape. I'll get my people to start by examining those ‘bits of rusty old iron' as you describe them and we sort your decompression chamber at the same time. The three surviving divers we had with us last week have proved to be eager to learn and are very good team members. They have learned quite a lot of practical stuff in the time. The other two cocky buggers spent almost all of their time in our decompression chamber. I just hope the stupid bastards have learned a lesson that they'll never forget! Incidentally, do all your other divers speak good English like those guys?”

“Some better than others but I expect they all understand it pretty well,” Manuel replied.

“Good, so we'll start with getting your guys into the basics of the gas mixes and the new gear. Then we launch the two vehicles, if they're still seaworthy. I think we should aim to have everything underway by tomorrow morning. OK with you?”

“Sounds good to me and wonderfully refreshing to hear someone making instant decisions for a change.” Martin looked at Manuel. “OK with you?”

“You bet! The boys have been waiting for this moment like expectant fathers; there'll be no complaints there,” he smiled with confidence.

“I don't know what your plans are for this evening but Hong Kong still has some excellent eating places, if you'd care to join us?” Martin asked hesitantly.

“That's a great idea. The boys will be tasting the spirit of Hong Kong I'm sure, so why not the captain as well?”

They rose and made their way back to the bridge. John had completed the formalities and escorted the officers to the Customs Cutter and was climbing back up to the bridge.

“The customs boys happy?” Big J asked.

“No bother. As soon as I showed them the Chinese government dive contract summary, they simply signed the clearance and left. You're right - they do love lots of bits of official paper; it's called passing the buck!” John grinned, satisfied with himself.

“This is Martin from the HK Harbour Authority and this is Manuel. He's in charge of their divers,” Big J introduced the two men.

John shook hands first with Martin. “Good to meet you both. So we're going to be working together then?” John turned to Manuel, shaking his hand in turn.

“Yes the Captain has already outlined the programme. It's all going to be very exciting. I'm looking forward to it all,” Manuel confirmed enthusiastically.

“We've invited Big J to eat ashore with us tonight. Do you fancy joining us?” Martin asked politely.

“Thank you, but someone has to stay aboard while the others play,” he replied, looking sorry for himself but changed his expression to a smile. “If I may, I'll go the next time, you know, when we go to the really expensive place, OK?” he smiled cheekily.

“That's a date,” Manuel replied happily.

The two men boarded the harbour launch; it pulled slowly away from the tug and headed back towards the main harbour.

“They seem like a couple of decent guys” John commented.

“The problem is John, that they really do expect that we are going to solve all their problems and in only a couple of weeks. Oh well, we can but try,” Big J grinned. “You happy about staying on board tonight?”

“Of course, I'll have a couple of beers with my dinner and watch the local TV on my own,” replied John philosophically, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the mock tears.

“Tears eh? Oh well, how about if I send a couple of young ladies to help you with the dishes or something?” Big J suggested patronisingly.

“Only two?” John laughed. “If only,” he muttered, thinking of his beloved Nancy and visualising her naked in the shower on that last evening before they sailed. He'd felt the baby wriggle in her swelling tummy. Their baby; the miracle of life created by two people deeply in love. He shook himself back to attention. “I'll be fine. Don't you go worrying yourself about me. Anyway I don't suppose Chef will be going ashore either will he! So I won't starve!”

Without further ado, they turned and went down to the deck. They had a long and difficult training programme to get underway - and precious little time to do it in.

w

Smothered in blood as they both were, going straight back to Alex's hotel would have attracted too much attention, so they jogged the four blocks to Ling's own apartment. Unsurprisingly they received a number of startled looks as they hurried through the occasionally busy back streets.

Ling let Alex in and closed the apartment door behind them. His wife, wearing a silk dressing gown and dainty slippers, was ashen faced when she saw them. She didn't scream - just stood aghast with one of her hands knuckled at her mouth. Ling moved up to her and held her in his arms.

“It's Amy, they've killed Amy.” The lady wrapped her arms even more firmly around her husband, ignoring the mess on his clothes, giving and sharing comfort together. After a few moments they separated.

“I'm sorry Alex this is my wife Mui.”

She gave a polite nod of the head.

“I think you need the bathroom?” she pointed to the door across the tiny lobby.

Alex thanked her and slipped inside the modest room. The face staring at him from the tarnished mirror was smeared in dried blood; his hair awry, his jacket liberally daubed with the same reddish-brown mess.

“My God - any wonder we attracted a stare or two,” he said to his grisly image. He washed thoroughly, repeatedly sluicing handfuls of water over his face, trying to wash the memory of that slaughterhouse scene from his mind. The face and hands were relatively easily cleaned, but the jacket would need special attention. He returned to the living room carrying the jacket. Ling had washed in the kitchen and was changing into clean clothes in the bedroom. Mui waited politely for Alex to finish “cleaning up”.