Salvage at Steeple Jason, Ed Zaruk [the gingerbread man read aloud TXT] 📗

Salvage at Steeple Jason

Dropping a propeller on an ocean-going freighter wasn’t all that serious, unless you only had one. To have it happen with a storm brewing, and close to land, was the stuff that turned mariner’s hair grey, and made old men out of ships’ captains. Ross Sterling dearly wanted to reach the stricken vessel before dark, especially since he was short one crew member.
Seated on the bridge of his salvage tug, he commanded an all-encompassing view of the early autumn storm through seven thick windows whose wipers were working overtime to clear heavy rain lacing the glass. Behind him, twin exhaust stacks running up the rear corners of the bridge, straddled five rectangular windows giving him a more confined view of the vessel’s long working deck. Ross ran the ship himself while seated in a comfortable black leather chair, all the controls at his fingertips.
King Edward VII Memorial Hospital had radioed Southern Tide

with an update on his injured crewman. He’d be off his feet for six weeks and out of commission for six months. A full recovery was expected, and he wouldn’t even limp. Well in a few days the lad would be home eating his new bride’s cooking. Ross didn’t envy him that, he preferred Jimmy Wok’s meals any day.
Still, that didn’t solve the problem of his being shorthanded, and on a high seas salvage operation in a driving gale at that. Southern Tide’s

bow dropped into a trough, sending a wall of white seawater cascading over the windows.
Chilling air swirled about the bridge as the port door opened letting in wind, rain and salt water. Ben Richardson, life-long friend and ship’s mate, stepped inside, dripping all over the floor. “Bloody wicked out, Ross. Why do these chaps always break down in the middle of a storm?”
“I do believe it is because the money is better.”
“Because, we’ll damn well break our necks, that’s why. I can’t say as I envy doing this short-handed.”
“Look at the bright side, Ben, we’ll have a lot more excitement here than Todd will in the sack with a cast on his leg.”
“I hope he falls out of bed.” Ben took off his hat and brushed back what should have been curly brown hair, but now looked more akin to a cat fished out of a millpond. With water dripping in his eyes, he grabbed a towel from the pile Jimmy Wok kept on the bridge.
Ross nodded toward the radio. “The old boy hasn’t called for fifteen minutes. Give him a shout.”
Ben dried his face, then, while towelling his hair with one hand, picked up the radio microphone. “Maria del Sol. Maria del Sol.

This is Southern Tide. Do you read, over?”
“Si, señor. We still are here. Over.”
“Just checking, old boy. What’s your present position?”
“The radar, it says we are fourteen kilometres from Steeple Jason.”
Ben threw the wet towel in a hamper. “Your drift has increased then?”
“Si, my friend,” the Spanish voice said. “We are coming to shore much quickly.” The channel remained open, quiet but for the sound of static. “My captain, he wishes to confirm that his ship will very soon be close on the rocks of Jason West.”
Ben looked at Ross. “Jason West Cay?”
Ross nodded. “Only found out myself from his last call. I was waiting for confirmation.”
“He won’t miss it?”
“Doesn’t appear to be the case. I was hoping for a shift in the wind. We’d have him in tow easily before he came up on East Cay or Steeple Jason.”
Ben swept his arm around the bridge. “Whole bloody ocean around and he has to drift smack into that little rock. How much time do we have?”
“We could use three hours. It won’t be that.” Ross nodded to the mike. “Ask him.”
Ben looked at the clock, then called the stricken freighter.
The reply was not encouraging. “Señor, we will not miss the small island. We have only two hours.”
Ben turned to Ross, waiting for his reply.
“Tell them we’ll be there in one hour,” Ross said, pushing against throttle levers already set full ahead. “One hour, Ben. It’ll be closer to an hour and fifteen minutes, but don’t tell them that.”
Ben keyed the mike. “Maria del Sol

, at present we are in the lee of Steeple Jason. Our ETA is sixty minutes. One hour, mate.”
“My captain, he says we wait only one hour for you. He does not want to abandon his ship so close to the shore when it is dark.”
“Tell him, that’s not an option. We’ll be there in one hour. Please have a crew ready to receive the heaving line.” Ben set the mike down, not at all pleased deceiving the endangered sailors. He was about to say something when Ross cut him off.
“They need hope more than anything else, Ben. We had to offer it.”
“Quite so.” He dropped the matter. “I’ll need help on the deck.”
“I know. Our only option is to get Karl out to assist you.” Ross hated to leave the engine room unattended under such dangerous conditions, but knew there was absolutely no way Ben could handle the connection alone.
“Hello, Boss.”
Ross turned to greet his cook. “Jimmy Wok, old chap.”
Dressed in white pants and t-shirt, the little North Vietnamese cook moved to set down two mugs of tea. “Very hot, Boss.”
Ben took his from Wok’s hand. Cold fingers stung against the steaming mug. “Ah, hot, hot.” He quickly set it on the chart table.
Ross waited for his to be placed in the right-hand holder by his seat. “Thank you, Jimmy.”
“Yes, thank you, Wok, my good man.” Ben returned to blowing on his fingers. Southern Tide

rolled to starboard, sending Ben’s mug sliding across the Admiralty chart. “Oh, no you don’t.” Wok and Ross laughed as he burnt his fingers a second time.
Ross turned serious. “Wok, we’re going to be dreadfully busy in an hour or so. What can you whip up for us on short notice?”
“Beef barley soup, and sandwich.”
“What, no roast beef, gravy, and Yorkshire?” Ben asked in jest.
“This not Sunday.”
“Oh, very well.”
“Could you bring it up, Wok, please?” Ross turned the wheel, correcting Southern Tide

as she dropped over an oncoming crest. “Don’t forget Karl.”
Quick as a cat, the cook was gone.
An hour later, pelting rain darkened as they began losing the daylight.
Ben looked at the clock. Ross made no move toward the radio.
Two minutes ticked by before the freighter called. “Southern Tide. Southern Tide

. Over.”
Ben answered into the mike. “We’re here, Maria del Sol

. How are things on your end?”
A new voice came on the radio. It spoke with more bass in a strange mixture of authority and fear. “Southern Tide

. This is Captain Eduardo Díaz. Your hour is finished. You are not here.”
Ross took the mike. “I’m no more than fifteen minutes away.” Ross checked the radar for confirmation. It looked good. Two minutes later, he swung out from behind the rocky cay. “Will you stay with your ship?”
“Si, si. Your ship is on the radar now. We will be ready.”
Lightning flashed in the darkening clouds ahead revealing a scene before him that was enough to strike fear into the heart of even the Ancient Mariner. Laying broadside in the seas, the freighter was at its mercy. When each wave drove into the ship’s side, she shuddered momentarily before water rose skyward in an iridescent plume. Blown over her decks, sea spray driven horizontal, looked like slanting rain in an old black and white movie as it was carried across the shadows of her lighted superstructure. The helpless ship then heeled wickedly as the wave rolled underneath her.
Directly east lay their nemesis, Jason West Cay. An outcropping of rock, that even in this weather was home to hundreds of seals, appeared a cauldron of white, where twenty-foot seas spent their last moments in a witch’s brew of boiling water and sea foam. The only thing between the Maria del Sol

and disaster was a thick bed of kelp. And Southern Tide

.
The drama would have one act, there would be no time for a second go at it, and no margin for error. Approaching the freighter’s stern, Ross chanced a glance at the rocky shore, awestruck by its wild fury. He caressed the throttles as he came up on her windward side. Below decks, twin twelve-cylinder diesel engines responded to his commands. Keeping fifty yards between himself and the ship, Ross could see men in life-jackets mustered by the lifeboats. All looking to him for salvation. Some waved. Most appeared terrified. Ross could well understand why.
Lightning flashed in the sky as Ben stepped out into the storm, closing the bridge door behind. He heard no sound of thunder, only the wind’s howling fury driving at him as sea spray and pelting rain blew under his protective gear. Even while standing in a sheltered area where he could usually hear the diesel engines rumbling in the exhaust stacks, a constant moaning of the wind drowned out all other sound.
He made a last minute check of the heaving line he would send over to the stricken vessel. Karl stepped out of the aft door as Ben repositioned the line to keep it from fouling when the tug rolled. The engineer huddled by the winch as a wave of green water broke over the side, surging across the deck ankle deep. Using hand signals, both men worked together paying out the tow cable as the water spilled back into the sea.
Another wave layed the tug over to starboard. Ben lost his footing as water washed him into the railing, the big cable slithering about loose. Struggling to get up, Ben fell again when the ship rolled the other way, sending him back across the slippery steel. He scrambled up next to Karl.
“Damn, this is impossible,” he yelled.
Karl hollered back, “We’ll connect it right off the winch.”
“Without Todd?”
The ship rocked sideways as water shot skyward in a column of angry grey. Driven by force 9 winds, it lashed the two men, drowning out Karl’s inquiry about Ben having a better idea.
Ross slowed while approaching the freighter’s bow, swinging Southern Tide

into the storm. Holding her motionless in the towering seas, he let her slip astern, easing to within yards of the steel hull, and aiming for a spot under the anchor where Ben would fire the line-throwing gun.
Chancing a quick glance to his right he saw Jason’s jagged crags, a line of black in churning white foam. Forward, the view was even more fear-inspiring, waves rising together, their crests curling over, only to be torn into streamers and carried into the darkness before the wave dropped tons of water on the bow. Locked in the ocean’s grip, both ships continued drifting toward the waiting rocks. Ross was sure he