Sail Away

By Barrie Wigley

Sail Away is a suspenseful thriller set against the backdrop of tanker ships at sea.
Brian Ridley is a 3rd engineer in the British merchant navy who joins a super tanker on its way to Japan for a long overdue and major refit. Arriving at the shipyard in Sasebo, he is transferred to a second super tanker owned by the same company half way into being built.
Once at sea on the newly built tanker, Brian is sent to check the forward emergency fire pump, where he discovers what appears to be a bomb. Not sure who on board he can trust, he feigns illness and is airlifted back to England. Once back on UK soil, he contacts MI6 who take his report very seriously.
Now working with the British Secret Service, Brian is dropped back onto the first tanker under the disguise of being a representative of the shipyard. He discovers another bomb. Who is planting bombs onboard these ships?
Brian Ridley and MI6 are caught in a race against time as they try to avert a catastrophe on the high seas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398405707

Barrie Wigley

BARRIE WIGLEY was born in Hampshire, England in 1942. Educated at Guildford College, Surrey, he went on to serve in the Royal and Merchant Navy before working in North Africa and countries of the Middle East including Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. He is married with four daughters, and now divides his time between living in the UK and Thailand.

Book preview

Chapter 1

T

HE TWO MEN SAT OPPOSITE EACH OTHER IN THE DIMLY lit bar, occupying a corner of the room where it was difficult to be seen or heard. The taller and slimmer of the two was wearing a tailor-made, two-piece white cotton suit, a pale-blue open-neck shirt and sported pair of blue-tinted glasses pushed back over his silvery-white hair, carrying the appearance of a person not normally seen in this part of the world, let alone in this sort of place.

The other, a stocky and much shorter man, wore a crop of dark, almost black hair and a similarly dark beard to match. He was dressed more casually, wearing an open-neck, collarless shirt, a thin woollen cardigan, dark trousers, and brown sandals. The man in the white suit was drinking black Moroccan coffee with brandy, while his companion was drinking Casablanca beer from the bottle.

It was early evening, and although it was only the beginning of May, the day had been dry and hot. The men had arranged to meet at the Mambo bar in this, the least conspicuous, part of the town. Most importantly, it was quiet.

So, my friend, you are looking for further recruits for your organisation and the finances to support such a campaign? the man in the white suit enquired.

Yes, that is so.

And what do I get in return for investing in your organisation?

The use of all our training facilities and eventually, the full use of our own private army, the casually dressed man replied.

I may have the need of a small army, or at least a part of one, in the months ahead, the man in the suit mumbled, half to himself and half to his friend while waving to the barman.

The barman stopped wiping the top of the bar with the cloth he had been drying glasses with earlier. He came over to where the two men were sitting. Normally, he would not wait on tables; it was not that kind of place and he was not that kind of barman. But these two men were different; he knew one of them well had heard much about the other.

Same again, the man in the white suit ordered.

The barman went to the bar to replenish their drinks while the two men waited in silence. The barman returned with their drinks to leave them once again to continue their conversation in relative peace. The smartly dressed man took a clean hankie from the top breast pocket of his suit and wiped the rim of his brandy glass.

As I was saying, he continued. I may need the services of a small, private army in the coming months. So, what are your requirements?

We already have forty men. They are good men, but they need further training and we need more, maybe a dozen, and guns with ammunition, plus clothing. We also need about half a dozen qualified mercenaries to train them further. Most importantly, if you want them to perform well, they need to be paid…and paid well.

Sounds like a lot of money, my friend.

Nothing of quality comes cheap, the casually dressed man replied. Especially something on a scale such as this, but it will pay off in the long run, I can promise you. There are people who will pay a small fortune to hire an army of what will eventually be the quality and magnitude to which I have described.

I could build an army of my own for the sort of money I am guessing you will be asking.

Yes, but mine is halfway there. Three-quarters trained, and anyway, do you have the time and most importantly, the resources and the contacts? Remember, you will have to start from scratch.

Of course, you are right; time is not on my side, the smartly dressed man replied, knowing that the other man was correct.

So, how long to get this army up and running in first-class fighting order? And I’m talking nothing but the best, especially if I’m going to be paying.

About four months; it shouldn’t take much longer. And I entirely agree. Both of us want nothing but the best.

So, how much are you asking?

I would say, about a million.

A million what; yen, lira, marks—

Dollars, the other man interrupted. Maybe a little more.

That’s a lot of money.

Not for someone like you.

If I agree, I will need to have some say in the running of the operation.

That will not be a problem; after all, we are both after the same end result. I will introduce you to the most senior of my men and inform them that you are greatly assisting in the financing of our little operation. That way, you know you will have their loyalty and support.

And what security do I get? the smartly dressed man asked.

The security you will receive, my friend will be the fact that you are holding the purse strings.

We will meet again in approximately two weeks’ time, the man in the white suit said. In the meantime, you can make arrangements for my visit to your training facilities. If I like what I see, we will have a deal.

That I will do, and contact you when the arrangements have been made, the other man replied.

Oh, and if I agree, the arrangement will be that I shall transfer a quarter of a million dollars to your account on the first of each month for four months. After this time, I will review my position.

In two weeks then.

The smartly dressed man paid for their drinks and left the bar first, silhouetted by the setting sun, his companion following a short while later.

Chapter 2

I

LEANED BACK IN THE COMFORT OF MY PADDED recliner and let the midsummer sun cascade off my face as it filtered through the apple tree above. It had been a pleasant weekend, half work and half leisure; it was early afternoon on Sunday. I was waiting for Mother to return from the house after insisting she makes us both a cup of tea.

Here we are, she said, placing the tray on the wrought iron table between us. I thought some home-made sponge cake with our tea might go down well.

I shaded the sun from my eyes with the back of my hand as I looked up at her, the sunshine splaying through the slits between my fingers. She had aged gracefully, now reaching several years beyond that of retirement. She still had a fine head of pepper-grey hair that complemented her suntan. Of slim build and only five foot three, she enjoyed reasonably good health for her years.

You know I can eat your sponge cake any time, Mother, I told her. Of course, she knew that, but it was always nice to be told. I had to admit; Mother did make the most wonderful cream and jam sponge cakes. There was no better way to pass a sunny Sunday afternoon.

What are your plans now? she inquired.

I should be hearing from the shipping company any day now, I answered, still shading the sun from my eyes.

I had returned home to live with my mother after separating from my partner and had subsequently joined the merchant navy, serving on supertankers as the third engineer, after many years in the Royal Navy.

My three weeks of leave were already up. I was now on standby. I knew that the shipping company was short-staffed, particularly in the engineering department. I would almost certainly be called upon quite soon,

My mother had been widowed while I was still serving my apprenticeship in the Royal Navy and was grateful for any help, I could give her. I was glad I had managed to spend some time with her, especially as I was away for so much of the time. When I was at sea, and before my partner, Verona, and I separated, my mother relied quite heavily on help from her friends and neighbours. Fortunately, her neighbours were two of the very best.

The sun was beginning to dip over the crest of the house so we moved further up the garden. A tap sounded on the side door of the house and startled a blackbird bathing in the fishpond.

Mr Ridley? a voice called out over the top of the door. Is there anybody there? the voice continued.

Who on earth could that be at this time, and on a Sunday of all days? I mumbled. Coming! I shouted back.

I withdrew the bolt and cautiously peered around the door to reveal a gentleman from the Royal Mail standing there.

A telegram for you, sir, he said, handing me a small, brown envelope. It requires a reply, which is pre-paid, he continued, handing me a blunt pencil.

I took the envelope and tore it open to reveal the telex type print that had been stuck to the form in strips. It read: ‘Reservation made Cromwell Hotel London Victoria Tuesday16th – Flt KL4016 LHR to Rotterdam booked Wed 17th. Please confirm availability’.

I took the pencil and wrote in the prepaid space: ‘confirm – will be there’. I thanked the postman and returned to the garden and my recliner.

What was that all about? Mother asked when I’d resumed the horizontal position.

I explained it was a gentleman from the Royal Mail with a telegram. I was booked on a flight to Rotterdam on Wednesday to join my next ship. I’ve been booked into a London hotel on Tuesday.

How long will you be gone this time? she asked in an uncertain tone.

I’ve no idea, I replied. My guess is between ten and twelve weeks. On the Gulf-Europe run, it usually works out a return and a single trip before having any leave.

Mother didn’t have a car, or a driving license, for that matter. The last time she drove a car was one Sunday afternoon, sometime during the late thirties, when she took her father’s open-top Riley out for a spin, only to complain to her mother on her return as to how busy it had been on the road – having passed two other cars. So, it was the bus, taxis, or again her friends and neighbours that came to her rescue.

I had hired a car for the duration of my leave. This would go back tomorrow.

We enjoyed the rest of the day relaxing in the garden, not saying very much. Mother was used to my long absences. While serving in the Royal Navy for almost twelve years, I had spent as many as eighteen months at a time away from home. It had been Mother who had persuaded my father to let me leave home to join the Royal Navy at the tender age of fifteen and a half years. My father would have preferred me to follow in his footsteps in the banking profession. I, on the other hand, had other ideas, wanting only two things out of life; one was to travel, the other to become an engineer. The Royal Navy seemed the best option, as the Queen had more ships than my father, so Mother won the battle for me and the Royal Navy gained a new recruit.

The sun was dipping below the rooftop of the house when I woke Mother from her catnap and suggested that it was time to retire indoors.

***

I arrived at the four-star Cromwell Hotel a few minutes before 5:00 p.m. and checked in at reception.

I believe you have a room booked for me courtesy of the Norse Line Shipping Company? I enquired of the portly gentleman at the reception while showing him my passport.

Excuse me, the receptionist said, not catching the company name the first time. What company?

The Norse Line Shipping Company, I repeated. Not entirely sure who had made the reservation.

The receptionist looked down a list of expected guests and ran his index figure down the column of expected guests, mumbling under his breath as he did so.

Here we are, eight in all, he said, turning the list around so I could see the names.

You’re the second to arrive.

I glanced at the list, not recognising any of the names, but this was only my fourth trip with the company. I thanked the gentleman, collected my room key, picked up my bag, and headed in the direction of the lifts while glancing at my key fob, Room 416.

I decided to freshen up, have a pre-dinner drink in the bar, eat early, then meet up with any of my colleagues later in the evening, should that be possible. I had no wish to go on the town; if others wanted to do so, that would be entirely up to them.

The lift doors opened with a ping. Stepping out on the fourth floor, I looked at the room numbers on the wall and went in the direction indicated by a rather large, red arrow.

Where the room was basic, it was also clean and comfortable, typical of the sort found in the many hotels used by those wishing to stay in the city for just one night. From the window, I could look down into Cromwell Road and in the distance, I could see the familiar rooftop of Victoria Coach Station.

I unpacked what I considered to be the bare necessities for the evening. I splashed water on my face in the adjoining bathroom, combed my hair, and returned to the reception area.

Where can I find the bar? I asked the gentleman who I’d spoken to earlier.

Over there, he said, pointing to an archway. I followed in the direction he had indicated. I would have a refreshing drink, then eat early, as I had not bothered with lunch. There were only two other people in the bar when I entered; I ordered a rum and Coke. While I was enjoying my drink, the bar was filling up fast. I guessed some were non-residents stopping for a drink on the way home after a long day in the city.

In the restaurant, I found a table for two and asked the waiter for the menu. After what turned out to be a very enjoyable meal of grilled chicken breast topped with lean bacon and cheese, button mushrooms, asparagus, and baby new potatoes, tasting all the better by the fact that the shipping company was picking up the tab, I returned to the bar to see if I could recognise any of my fellow crew members. The bar was now full to bursting, but I managed to squeeze into a small gap at the bar and order another rum and Coke.

Hi, a tall fellow behind me said. "Are you joining the TT Bulford at Euro Port tomorrow?" he inquired.

Yes, I replied. The name’s Brian – Brian Ridley. How did you know?

Oh, just a hunch, you look the sailing type. I’m the second engineer, Ross McIntyre, and you’re the third engineer. Yes, before you ask, I’ve seen the crew list. May I ask, what was your last ship?

"The TT Bidiford," I replied.

TT stood for ‘tower tanker’, a relatively new concept in supertanker design that allowed the superstructure to taper as it rose from the main deck to almost a point at the foot of the funnel, thus reducing the wind resistance when at sea.

"The Bulford is almost identical to the Bidiford, machinery-wise," Ross informed me.

That’s handy to know.

I came down to London this morning, he continued. "Had to call into head office in Fenchurch Street to collect some paperwork to take to Rotterdam. The Bulford is well overdue for her three-year guarantee refit. It is strongly rumoured that it might happen on the coming trip."

Where will that be? I asked.

Sasebo, in Japan, the Kawashima shipyard, Ross replied.

In all my travels, Japan was one of the few places I had never been to, so this could be an interesting, if not enjoyable, trip.

I must say, I rather like the sound of that, I said, raising my voice over the noise that was developing in the bar.

Yes, she’s more than ten months overdue for her refit; that’s before we get there. It’s not the fault of the shipping company, Ross continued. It’s been a problem with Texacom, the leasing company not releasing her. I’ve heard we are to sail to Kharg Island in the Gulf. There, we will pick up a cargo and deliver it somewhere between the Middle East and Japan.

Sounds good, then what?

"I’m told that when we arrive in Sasebo, we are to disembark the Bulford. It is then expected that we will transfer and stand by the building of what is to be our new flagship, an almost half-a-million-ton tanker."

Which is? I asked.

"The Buxford; she is a third of the way into completion. By the time we get to Sasebo, she’ll be halfway finished. Our job will be to familiarise ourselves with the vessel in preparation for carrying out acceptance trials, then take her on her maiden voyage, wherever that may be. However, I stress, this has yet to be confirmed by head office."

I looked down at the empty glass in Ross’s hand.

What are you drinking? I asked.

You buying?

Yes. I’ll have one more before retiring. I believe it’s an early start tomorrow.

Aye, and it’ll be a long day as well.

So, what’s your poison? I asked again.

A pint of cider, thanks.

Once I had got the attention of the barman, I ordered our drinks. We talked a while longer before I said I was ready to retire.

Wishing Ross, a goodnight, I ordered an early morning call at reception and went in the direction of the lifts. Yes, I thought, Ross McIntyre is right; it looks like it will be a long day tomorrow.

Chapter 3

I

AWOKE WITH A START TO THE SOUND OF THE BEDSIDE phone. Picking up the receiver while still half-asleep, I heard a voice informing me it was my early morning call. Thanking the voice at the other end, I replaced the receiver on its cradle. I swung my feet out from under the bedclothes before the temptation to ignore the call came over me.

Having freshened up, I packed my overnight bag, lifted my hold-all from the rack, and left for the reception. After leaving my bag and hold-all where the reception staff could keep an eye on them, I went in search of breakfast. There were a variety of cereals, toast, and croissants, fresh fruit, tea, and coffee, but no bacon and eggs. In all the years I had spent overseas, I had always managed a cooked English breakfast. Here I was in the capital of England and no English breakfast.

The gathering in the restaurant was modest; it was my thinking that even though it was early, most of the guests had already departed for where they were supposed to be going for the day, and here, I was, thinking it was an early start at half-past seven.

Having finished breakfast, I returned to the reception area to wait for my colleagues. I had been told that a couple of taxis had been booked to take us to the airport. I had met the second engineer, and the chief was already in Holland. I was the third engineer, so I wondered who the others were that were joining the ship.

I recalled the first day on my first merchant navy ship, the Blandford, a 350,000-ton oil tanker also owned by