The Devil and the Deep

By Alan S Dale

Tom Reardon is a Master Mariner but is now ‘on the beach’. Persuaded to manage what remains of a family shipping business, he takes up the challenge. The company’s only floating asset founders in a storm and sinks with all hands including its Captain.

Reardon is puzzled at a government cover-up during the accident investigation procedure. An investigative lawyer joins Reardon and the drowned Captain’s daughter and they present the facts to the British government.

But the case is dynamite with national security in both the UK and the USA compromised. Agents set out to destroy all the evidence, including the people who revealed it. First the Captain’s daughter is struck down. Then the lawyer is the victim of a hit-and-run. Reardon is alone and left to his own inventive devices. He makes hasty steps to disappear. He uses every skill he learned as a seafarer to evade capture and escape with his life and with the evidence.

With the power of the security services in both the USA and the UK chasing him down, there can only be one outcome. Reardon and the evidence must get permanently buried.

But do they?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan S Dale
• Release date: Oct 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301276295

Alan S Dale

Lifelong mariner, Andrew Lansdale has spent more than 50 years in the shipping industry. He lives in South West London or on his yacht in Chichester Harbour. His ambition is to sail around the world.

Book preview

The Devil and the Deep

By

Andrew James Lansdale

The Devil and the Deep

Andrew Lansdale

Copyright 2013 by Andrew Lansdale

Smashwords Edition

The Devil and the Deep

Andrew Lansdale

Copyright 2012 by Andrew Lansdale

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails in the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, There! She is gone.

Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her; and just at that moment, when

someone at my side says: There! She's gone. there are other eyes

watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout There she comes!

And that is dying.

Chapter one.

Tom Reardon stood on the quayside and looked down on the careworn and neglected deck of the Cornish boom trawler as it lay in the mirror smooth waters of the fish dock at Port Brody on the south coast of England's westerly promontory. His eyes lighted on the wholesale corrosion and red-streaked hull and accommodation.

In his many years as a master mariner, his ships had carried all manner of cargoes. Among the cargoes were numerous mineral ores. Iron ore is one of the most widely carried cargoes. It a reddish-brown mineral. It is dug out of the ground as an earth-like, granulated aggregate. It is loaded in Brazil or Canada or Australia and carried in big ships to the steel works of Europe, China, South Korea or Japan. It is mixed with other minerals, heated to almost white heat, other equally innocuous minerals are added. The resulting mixture is pummelled and beaten, squeezed and polished and re-enters the world as a material of great strength and utility: It has lost its reddish-brown tint. It is called steel.

Its only drawback is that it spends the rest of its life trying to revert to the reddish-brown mineral it started life as. In other words, it rusts.

‘Ocean Defender’ was rusty; very rusty. The fishing boat’s catch, Tom knew, comprised mainly of scallops, those beautifully sculptured molluscs which inhabit the sandy underwater plains of the sea bed. Their white shells have been a designer's dream come true and many a curtain-maker, cabinet maker and logo producer has blessed this humble bivalve for providing such a design idea.

Ahoy there, Tom cupped his hands round his mouth as he yelled down at the boat. There was no sign of life. He went to the iron ladder, fixed to the dock wall and with an easy nonchalance, swung himself down the twenty or so slippery rungs and stepped onto the wooden bulwark of the boat. He gave a little jump down onto the teak deck and landed noiselessly, his sailor's senses taking in the sights and smells of a vessel past her prime. He picked up a piece of cotton waste lying untidily in the scuppers and wiped the slime of the ladder from his hands. He looked round again and anticipating its further use, put the waste into the hip pocket of his dark blue overalls and walked aft.

The deckhouse had a steel companionway at the after end and Tom climbed up it to the deck above, where the navigation bridge was situated. His leather boots rang on the metal rungs and then clacked on the deck as he moved forward to the bridge door which opened from the bridge wing into the wheelhouse. He slid it back and raised his voice again.

Anyone aboard? he called. Are you there, Skipper?

A growl vibrated at him from the cabin at the after end of the bridge.

Who wants him?

There was a shuffling sound and a red bloated face appeared round the cabin door, a grimy hand rubbing sleep from bloodshot eyes.

Who wants him? the voice demanded again, louder than before.

I do, came the reply. I do, Tom Reardon. Mr. Brooks told you yesterday that I was coming.

Oh yeah, I remember now. I was expecting you in the forenoon though. His voice rose in a protesting whine. What sort of time do you call this. He glanced down at his watch.

Tom didn't bother to argue.

Where's the galley? I'll put the kettle on. You'll join me, I hope? His sentence ended on a high note so it was more of a direct request than a question. The Captain scratched his large stomach through his off-white singlet and grunted. He turned and went back into his cabin scowling. Tom grinned.

Nothing like starting off on the right foot. he muttered quietly to himself.

The clock on the sailor's church on the dockside chimed the half-hour. It was six-thirty on Saturday morning and at the sound of the bell, the seagulls rose up as one and shrieked their mournful screeching song. Tom went down to the main deck again and stood on the timber doublers which were laid over the deck proper to protect it. This was where the work of unloading the scallops was done and the hardwood decking was scarred and gouged by the baskets, fish crates and fishing gear that were regularly dragged across it. The area had an unkempt and unloved look about it. It hadn't been scrubbed clean for weeks and the scuppers were rusty and unpainted.

He stood at the after end and looked up at the quayside. The sternlines were slack and frayed and one, which had parted at some stage, was tied at the break with a reef knot. He turned, deep in thought, his mouth set in a hard horizontal with disapproval lines marking his upper lip. He opened the door of the galley and the smell of rotten food hit him. He opened the fridge door and the fœtid smell of decay wafted out; the milk carton probably the main culprit since the fridge was switched off at the bulkhead. There was an electric kettle on the stainless steel work surface and Tom filled it from the tap at the dirty sink and plugged it in.

He opened the lockers and found a clean mug and a dirty one. The clean one was a souvenir of Torquay United Football Club, while the dirty one was porcelain with roses on. Although he wasn't a soccer fan, he decided immediately which one he would go for. He took out the tin of Nescafe and the dried milk granules and added them to each mug. The sugar was in a basin on the work surface but was surrounded by little black grains which looked suspiciously like mouse droppings. He would pass on the sugar he decided. The kettle was singing loudly as Captain Brumby came in. He had pulled an old sweater over his vest and wore a continental style navy blue peaked cap on his head, the type you see near the waterfront in Rotterdam or Antwerp.

The sweet sickly chemical smell of the morning after the night before overwhelmed the smell of rotting food as Captain Brumby breathed out heavily. Tom grabbed the mugs, poured hot water into them and made a bee-line for the door.

Let's go on deck. he said unfeelingly. This place is a shithole. I'm surprised you didn't all die of food poisoning.

The Captain spluttered.

Who the 'ell do you think you are, talking to me like that on me own ship? He stood with his ham-like fists bunched and glared malevolently up at the visitor.

Tom stared at him and took a sip of his coffee from the Torquay United mug.

I'm your new manager, Captain, he offered in a low voice. Your new boss.

The Captain's eyes widened in sudden surprise, the bluster gone. Unless you owned the boat, skipper's jobs were few and far between.

Mr. Brooks' letter never said anything about a new boss. It just said that I was to give you every support; that was all. His voice became truculent again.

Well, you can telephone Mr. Brooks, if you like, but he's in hospital right at this moment and will be for several weeks to come. He paused for a few moments for effect. In my book, you only have two options. You can either take my word for it or pack your kitbag and clear off the boat.

The Captain looked at Tom and weighed him up while he took out a packet of Senior Service un-tipped cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. He coughed as the bite of the smoke hit his lungs. His mood had changed by the time he had recovered from his choking fit.

OK, keep calm, I never said I didn't believe you. His voice was rising to a whine again. I only said that Mr. Brooks hadn't said anything to me about it. He took another drag at his cigarette and took the smoke down deep, nearly breaking into a cough again, his cheeks blowing out with the effort of keeping the air down. He cleared his throat and spat a yellow gob of phlegm into the harbour.

A seagull went into a dive for it but pulled out at the last moment with a shriek.

So do you know anything about ships and boats and things? he asked. There was a smugness in his voice.

Everything, said Tom. Everything. When are the crew back. I assume that you're alone on board at the moment?

0600 hours Monday. We sail at six-thirty.

You're going to be busy this weekend then. Tom commented. If you're here on your own, that is.

I won't be here, said the Captain, I'm going home this morning. I'm catching the ten o'clock to Exeter. He stared at Tom Reardon defiantly.

Are you trying to tell me that you intend to sail for the fishing grounds with the ship in this state?

What's wrong with it? Captain Brumby's voice was rising in defence of his vessel.

If you've a couple of hours, I'll tell you. In fact it would be easier to write down what's right with it. Tom said sharply. Just on the afterdeck here, you could spend a whole day getting it shipshape. Look at those mooring lines for example. Have you listened to the weather forecast today. They'd part in any sort of a blow and the vessel would be adrift in the harbour.

Well it's unlikely she'd make the open sea from here. Captain Brumby commented, There's too much in the way.

He gestured to where the other boats were moored; the harbour was crowded.

What sort of bloody attitude is that? Said Tom, his voice rising in anger.

Well, someone would bring her back and tie her up. We're a close community here. We help each other.

Oh, I see, you take it in turns to tie your boats up like this do you? the sarcasm barely disguised in his voice. Who's turn is it next weekend?

He turned and pointed to the scuppers.

Look at this rust, it's appalling. All the steelwork here needs chipping and painting, especially the scuppers and bulwarks. The mooring ropes all need renewing. The deck needs to be scrubbed. The galley needs to be steam-cleaned and the rat-catcher brought in. The fridge needs repairing and I've only been on board twenty minutes.

Captain Brumby opened his mouth in indignation but something in Tom Reardon's attitude stopped him and he shut it again.

Now, you tell me that you and the crew are going to be ashore until Monday morning. If that's the case, you don't sail until this boat is seaworthy. If that means missing a few days scalloping, then so be it.

You can't do that to us, it's our livelihood. You can't take away a man's livelihood, for Christ's sake. Captain Brumby was angry and threw caution to the winds. Anyway, you can't stop us. We'll sail anyway.

Oh can I not? replied Tom Reardon. Just remember who owns this boat. It isn't yours. You command it just so long as Mr. Brooks says you do. Also you'd better remember that the Department of Transport Inspectors work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Captain Brumby looked uncertain. Tom Reardon pressed home his advantage.

A quick call from me and this boat goes nowhere until it's been inspected. he waved the mobile phone in the air. There might also be some question marks pencilled in against your name in respect of your leadership skills.

He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets.

So you've got a choice. Go home and work on the boat next week until it's seaworthy, or work this weekend and sail on Monday. 'The decision is yours' as they say in that quiz show.

Tom Reardon walked away and mounted the bulwark to climb the ladder, but turned back to the Captain, half-way to the top.

How much sea time have you put in, Captain?

Twenty-seven years. You can't take that away from me. he shouted up.

I can take the boat though, answered Tom Reardon and finished his climb to the top. When he looked down from the quayside, Captain Brumby had disappeared into his cabin.

At five minutes before ten o'clock, Tom Reardon was sitting in the station cafe, nursing a cup of tea. The announcement came over the Tannoy. ‘The train approaching platform two is the ten-oh-one service for Exeter St. David's only’. Two minutes later, a short fat figure with greasy hair and a continental style navy blue peaked cap, such as you often see near the waterfront in Rotterdam or Antwerp, went to the window and bought a ticket at the ticket office. Then he hurried out to the train waiting at platform two. It pulled out on time and Tom Reardon muttered to himself.

He's going to have a busy week. he said.

Was that another cup of tea there sir? said one of the waitresses.

No, no, he smiled at her, I was only talking to myself.

The staff grinned at each other behind hands and Tom Reardon walked out in dignified silence.

Chapter two

He drove to his stone-built cottage on the edge of the moor and put his elderly AC in the garage. He had lovingly restored it, stripping virtually everything down to component form before rebuilding it. It dated from a time when the AC Car Company of Thames Ditton in Surrey, hand-made their cars using engines supplied by the Bristol Aircraft Company. They later put huge American V8s in their vehicles, but Tom Reardon preferred the earlier ones.

He let himself into the house and stopped himself from calling out his usual Hello, I'm home.

Much to his unending grief, Daisy, his wife of twenty three years had died earlier that year, but her presence was all about. He went to the French windows in the sitting room and gazed at the garden which she had loved. It was mid-summer and the flowerbeds were a mass of colour. He would never forget one of the last thing she said to him.

I don't think I'll be seeing the garden next summer, Lolly. Look after it for me will you?

She had always called him Lolly, and it had never embarrassed him when she was alive. It embarrassed him now that she was dead though, he thought.

‘Lolly,’ he muttered, ‘What a stupid name. Almost stupid as ‘Ocean Defender’ ,’ and his mind went back to the careworn old ship lying in the harbour. ‘She doesn't deserve to be in that condition.’ he murmured. He pottered around the garden for the rest of the morning. It helped him to clear his mind. He made a sandwich and a cup of coffee for lunch and headed off in his car in the afternoon for his regular hospital visit.

He parked in the Pay & Display car park by the County Hospital and walked up to the ward. The sister and the staff nurses waved to him and he made his way to the bedside of a frail old man who looked out onto the world through sunken eyes, which had lost none of their life and sparkled like little jewels from a pale, yellowish, waxy face.

He was propped up on pillows and looked worse today than yesterday.

The old man heard his footsteps on the polished floor.

Hello, my boy, The voice was firm and strong and belied the frailty. How are you?

Pretty good thanks. he settled into a chair beside the bed and leant back. I went on board ‘Ocean Defender’ this morning: Met the Captain. he was purposely non-committal.

Good, how was she? But he didn't give Tom Reardon any time to reply. Do I take it that you've agreed to take the job then?

Just about. Tom replied, It's going to be a challenge though.

That bad is she? The old man asked and the corners of his mouth turned down. Captain Brumby on the piss again is he?

Tom Reardon nodded.

Such a pity. Said the old man, One of the best in his day. But there again, we all have our days don't we? He grinned past the pain he was in.

Well if you want my frank opinion, Tom Reardon said, I would scrap the boat. Or anyway, sell her. She is in a pretty awful state.

Yes I know, common sense tells me you're right, but I'm a sentimental old fool. He looked out of the windows and pain crossed his face.

Rose, Daisy's mother launched her you know. And Daisy was there as well.

I hadn't realised that. Tom looked at his shoes as he always did when forced to confront his grief.

It's almost as if the boat is all I've got left. She hasn't made any profit for years and I'm convinced that money I've given the Captain for spares and stores had gone straight into his pocket. He spends it all on whisky, I suspect.

OK, Dad, I'll take the job. Tom always called him 'Dad' even though he was his father-in-law. I haven't got any ship to go back to now. The ship-owning company I worked for wrote to say that my last ship would be sold in Singapore 'as is- where-is' so my home until Daisy passed away has gone as well. I've got no other plans.

That's good. Keep it in the family, I always say.

Tom Reardon had known Mr. Brooks, 'Dad', for nearly twenty-five years and he had always been a shipowner. True, he only owned a trawler now, his fleet had shrunk in the same way as the total 'red duster' fleet had shrunk. Nevertheless, shipping ran in his veins.

If ‘Ocean Defender’ is in such a terrible state, don't let her go to sea until she is seaworthy, will you?

No, of course not, I've already instructed Captain Brumby to get the ship sorted before he sails again. Reardon confirmed.

So you'd already taken the job then? Dad asked .

Oh yes, I decided last night. Reardon smiled down at the old man.

I wondered whether you had. He replied, his face crinkling up. Here's an office key for you, I took the liberty of having Jane get your name painted on the door. She will be there at nine sharp on Monday morning.

When he left the hospital, Tom drove to the company's office down in the docks and parked his car in the car park beside the single story stone-walled block.

He fumbled with the keys and managed to get in to the reception area, where there was a desk with a telephone switchboard. One of the lights was flashing. He flicked down the key and said,

Brooks Maritime, who speaking please?

Who's that? came this rather gruff man's voice.

This is the general manager, who's that?

Oh sorry, wrong number, and the telephone went dead.

In your dreams. said Tom out loud. If that was a wrong number, I'm the Pope.

Tom went through the swing doors to the corridor. There was a door marked General Manager and underneath was his name: Captain Tom Reardon. He smiled. He wasn't much given to immodest and boastful behaviour. He pushed it open and turned on the light. It was full of other people's junk, so he turned off the light and walked out. Then remembering something, he went back in again. On the desk was a mobile telephone and charger. He slipped them into his pocket and went out, locking up afterwards.

Reardon got back home and sat down in an armchair to ponder what to do. It was obvious that Capt. Brumby was drinking too much, but maybe he never drank at sea. This was a great imponderable. You couldn't condemn a man for being drunk just the once. But there again, the little ship was in a bit of a mess. Something was affecting his judgement. He sighed and went out to the conservatory where all his belongings had been stowed. He had never had a ship sold from under him before. He had taken shore-leave when his Daisy went into hospital and fully expected to return to his command. He had only packed a few things for the journey. On the day that Daisy had died however, he had received a letter from the shipping company to advise him that the ship had been sold and that his steward had been instructed to pack up his belongings and the agents would forward them to his home.

He stood there looking down at the trunks and boxes. He