Endangered Species by Richard Woodman Page B

eyes of the ship and at once his mood of contentment vanished.
    â€˜Shit!’
    Striding into the wheelhouse he picked up the internal phone.
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜That you, Brad?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yeah, Sec, d’you want some more tea?’
    â€˜No thanks. Macgregor’s on lookout, isn’t he?’ Stevenson asked, cautiously, double-checking his facts.
    â€˜Yeah . . .’ replied Braddock, an edge of doubt creeping into his voice.
    â€˜I can’t see him on the fo’c’s’le, Brad, and he failed to ring for a ship.’
    â€˜Okay, Sec, I’ll take a look.’
    Stevenson put the phone down and stared at the forecastle again in case Macgregor had nipped off for a leak, but theplace remained deserted and now the passing ship was no more than four miles away, a fast container ship, Stevenson could see clearly, the flat surface of her cargo of boxes reflecting the moon in a smooth plane.
    While he waited for Braddock to report back he wondered what story the able seaman would concoct. He fervently wished the
Matthew Flinders
had carried apprentices. This was just the mission for a lively apprentice. Braddock, though no lover of Macgregor, would probably cover for him, clinging to the mistaken solidarity of the peer group. Stevenson could see Braddock’s figure going forward and he was suddenly angry. He hit the forecastle telephone bell, expecting Macgregor to jerk into sight like a puppet, but nothing happened and already Braddock was ascending the forecastle ladder. A few moments later he rang the bridge.
    â€˜I’1l take over the lookout, Sec. Macgregor’s in the shithouse; says he’s not feeling well.’
    â€˜Is he pissed, Brad?’
    â€˜He’s not feeling well, sir,’ said Braddock with flat and false formality.
    â€˜Okay.’
    Braddock would not be so indulgent towards his watch-mate after standing both his own and Macgregor’s stint as lookout, Stevenson thought with petulant satisfaction.
    The passing ship was drawing abaft the beam and Stevenson pulled the
Matthew Flinders
back on her course, fuming at the turn events had taken. Somewhere below him, as immune from apprehension as if he was on the moon, Macgregor was sleeping off his binge. Shackled by duty to the bridge, Stevenson contemplated calling Captain Mackinnon, but old Gorilla had not turned in until very late and he had no wish to burden him unnecessarily. Besides, Stevenson had enough against Macgregor for leaving his post to drag him up before Mackinnon in the morning. Worst of all, and the most unforgivable element of the incident, was that Macgregor’s irresponsibility had ruined Stevenson’s equanimity.

    â€˜Come in!’
    Captain Mackinnon looked up sharply at Stevenson as the Second Mate, dressed in clean whites, complete with cap tucked formally under his arm, pulled the door curtain to behind him.
    â€˜May I have a word, sir?’
    Mackinnon could smell trouble and the cap confirmed it; he nodded and listened while Stevenson explained what had happened during the middle watch.
    â€˜I see,’ he said when Stevenson had finished. ‘And you’re quite sure?’
    â€˜I’m positive the man was not at his post when he should have been, sir. That’s the bottom line.’
    Mackinnon grunted and picked up the telephone on his desk. ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings: pop in a moment, will you please? Alex Stevenson wants me to log that Glaswegian beauty of yours.’
    A few moments later the Chief Officer came in. Mackinnon outlined what had transpired.
    â€˜Right, I’ll get him up, sir.’ Rawlings turned away.
    â€˜Hang on a minute, don’t be too hasty. We’ve got to be sure of our facts these days. What was Macgregor doing yesterday before we left Singapore?’
    Rawlings scratched his head. ‘Well, I think he was out lowering the derricks like the rest of them just prior to sailing . . .’