Crude Carrier Read Online Free PDF Page A

names followed by dates. Among them was the Aurora Victorious , and the dates for yesterday and today. “They part of the Victorious ’s crew?” asked Raiford.
    â€œNo, a BP tanker. Contracts are up and they’re being repatted. Waiting for their bus to Doha. Yank, are you? What’s your rating?”
    â€œThird mate. Electronics.”
    â€œAh—tech-o. Given how big you are, I’d’ve thought you were navigation. Alec’s the name—everybody calls me Lexie. I’m the landing manager. Something cold to drink?” He limped toward the bar. “There’s the list chalked up. Prices are in dollars and Qatari riyals. But we’ll take any hard currency. Daily exchange rates are over there.” He pointed at a second television screen that scrolled silently through the world’s currencies measured against the dollar, the yen, the pound, the euro, and the riyal.
    The constantly moving numbers focused an odd feeling for Raiford: despite the solidity of the large and ugly room, it had a quality of impermanence. The barren sand and rock, the waiting men, and his own disorientation gave a sense of being in the aura of something just out of sight, something vast and fluid and continuously changing. It was a something that had created this mirage of installation and humanity. Served by the building, the armed guard, the gabbling manager, the men waiting in silence, that vague something became embodied in the numbers on the screen. And it did not distinguish between the humans and the buildings and the equipment that served it. They were equally interchangeable, equally replaceable. And Raiford was now one of those numbers.
    Lexie talked as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone for a month—and perhaps he hadn’t. Not in English, anyway. “Not many come ashore at the landing here—mostly supernumerary arrivals and departures like yourself. Not a damn thing to do and even less to see. Tankers aren’t tied up long enough for a proper shore leave, so mostly the crews stay aboard and work or sleep. This lot, they don’t speak English—Pakistani, I think they are. Most of the bloody crews anymore are our little brown brothers. Can’t speak English worth a damn. Rossi? Third mate? Never met him, as I know of. Tankers come and go, sometime two or three a day, and like I say, who in his right mind wants to set foot here? Though some of ’em get a little crazy being on ship all the time and they’ll take even this place for a change of scenery. It’s an okay place if you like sand—underfoot, in your clothes, in your teeth. Sand and wind, wind and sand, and mind you the heat never leaves even at night. Golden Dawn ? Never heard of her, and if she’s a small one she wouldn’t come here anyway. What part of the States you from? Colorado? Never been there. Florida, once—Jacksonville. Norfolk, New Orleans, Baltimore. Ports of call, you know. I was in the black gang, back when ships had a black gang. The Victorious ? Two or three times a year she ties up, which ain’t bad for a tub as old as she is. Another drink? Right you are—can’t get enough liquids, can you? Tell you, confidential-like, she ain’t a happy ship. Tough on her crew. Hard work, long hours, and low pay. Every time I see a hand get repatted from her, they’re glad to go. Don’t mean you, of course. You’ll get treated right as an officer and a white man should. Repatted? Repatriated—paid off and sent home. Works her hands hard, her master does, and the first mate’s a regular bulldog, they say.”
    When two Chinese wearing dark blue coveralls and oil-stained canvas shoes carried Raiford’s suitcases out of the lounge, Lexie followed, still talking. The crewmen led Raiford down the narrow pier to a small launch. Under its bleached canvas awning, an officer in a glaringly white uniform with narrow epaulets welcomed him in basic