Before he could dial the phone, it began buzzing; it was Barry Conroy, the ship’s chief gas engineer. He was calling from the operations room five decks below, where his crew monitored and controlled the ship’s complex network of pumps, refrigeration systems, and compressors.
“Tom here,” Bevis said. “I was just about to call you. Are you seeing anything unusual in your readouts? Holy Cow! Yes – I’m seeing a lot of venting from up there. Okay. Keep us updated. The captain should be on the bridge in a couple minutes.”
“Bad news, Sir?” Duff asked.
“Sounds like it. From the sensor data, it looks like a spill.”
Duff didn’t know a lot about LNG systems, but he knew a spill involved a leak of liquid methane, not just gas. That meant a risk of fire – or worse, an explosion. He hoped the fire suppression systems were managing it.
Captain Pettigrew arrived and immediately asked, “What did Barry say?”
“He thinks there’s a spill, sir,” Bevis replied.
“Get him up here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain picked up the binoculars, but had no better luck. Holy crap, he thought, that’s a heck of a lot of gas.
There was nothing to do but watch the clouds of gas billow and blow back toward the bridge until the gas engineer arrived. The captain looked at his watch: it was 15:42. What was keeping him?
“Here, sir,” Conroy said, joining them on the bridge. He immediately sat down at one of the control stations and rapped away at the keys until he was looking at the same readouts he’d been studying in the control room.
“What have you got?” the captain asked.
“It looks like a pretty bad spill, sir. I’m guessing one of the access ports to a feed line is open.”
“Open? How could that happen?”
“I don’t know, sir. Some kind of malfunction, obviously. That’s an eight-inch pipe. With the pressure as it is in the tanks, that means thousands of gallons an hour are pooling up there and boiling away.”
“Can’t you isolate that section of pipe remotely and turn it off?”
“I’ve already tried, Sir. Nothing seems to be responding down there.”
“Can you send a crew forward to manually close it?”
“No Sir. It would be far too dangerous.”
“How about the fire suppression system? Can it handle that much volume?”
“It should. Let me see what I can tell from the sensor data.”
The engineer’s keys rattled again. “No!”
“What?” the captain asked.
“The suppression systems are down, too!”
Duff was sweating now. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he’d just noticed something.
“Sir!”
Captain Pettigrew turned toward him. “What now?”
“It looks like we’re down a bit by the bow, Sir.”
All three of the officers clustered around the instrument Duff was pointing to. He was right. The ship was more than two degrees out of trim. “What the devil?” the captain said. “Get me a reading on the bow ballast tanks.”
The second mate sat back down at his station. How could this reading be accurate? “According to the gauges, there’s eight feet in the bow tanks and rising, Sir.”
“Damn it!” The captain grabbed the phone to call the ship’s chief engineer. “Howard, what’s going on in the bow tanks? Well, find out!”
The four men stared ahead, stunned. Most of the first hundred and ninety feet of the vessel was taken up by a set of enormous ballast tanks; there was another set in the stern. On its return trip, the ship would weigh hundreds of thousands of tons less than it did fully loaded with LNG. Unless it took on water ballast in those tanks, it would be dangerously unstable. But it was fully loaded with LNG now and already low in the water.
“Bevis, what happens if those tanks fill all the way up when we’ve got a full cargo?”
The second mate sat down at his control station again and ran some calculations. “Sir, it looks like we’ll have water breaking over the bow.”
The phone buzzed and the captain grabbed it. “What do you mean you can’t close the sea cocks? Well, keep trying!”
Pettigrew jammed the phone back in the cradle and tried to collect his wits. Nothing that was happening made any sense. A valve in an LNG line that shouldn’t be open and couldn’t be closed; a fire suppression system that was inoperative; and ballast tanks that had decided to fill themselves up a thousand miles from shore.
“Sir …” It was Bevis. “Sir, we’re four degrees down by the bow now. If the tanks fill completely, my guess is we’ll be down by about fifteen degrees.”
“I know that.”
Bevis hesitated, but felt he had no choice but to push the point. “And we’ll be up by the same amount in the stern.”
“Damn it, man, what’s your point?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m the safety officer. It’s my job to always have an evacuation plan in mind. The lifeboat isn’t rated for more than a hundred twenty-foot drop. It’s getting close to that already, Sir. And there’s another concern: as the stern rises, the angle of the lifeboat slides will decrease. The boat might hang up instead of fall if the angle’s not steep enough.”
The captain swore again. He’d only been worrying about losing steering control if the propellers and rudder rose above water level. He’d forgotten about the free-fall lifeboat, mounted on inclined rails high above the stern of the vessel. It was fireproof and rated to sustain the shock of smashing into the water after shooting down those rails and through the air. In theory, it was the perfect design to make a rapid escape from a floating bomb – yank the release control, and the speed generated by the boat’s fall would propel it hundreds of yards away from the ship after it hit the ocean surface. But those inside had to survive that fall first.
He made up his mind. “Radio in our position and send a mayday. Then give the order to abandon ship. I’ll meet you at the lifeboat.”
Pettigrew’s office opened onto the bridge; he stepped inside and looked around. What should he take? He grabbed his laptop and shoved it into its computer case. What about all his paperwork? Too much to gather and too little time. An ear-piercing klaxon horn began pulsing just outside the door; he was needed elsewhere. He took the picture of his family off his desk and stared briefly into the eyes of his wife and two small children. Then he slid it in next to his laptop and left.
Some of the crew were already clustered around the lifeboat when he arrived; others were clattering behind him down the metal stairs leading to the narrow grating that gave access to the lifeboat; below his feet, the milk-white wake of the ship raced away astern.
The launching contraption looked like the plunge section of a roller coaster and stood as tall as a three-story building. The red-orange lifeboat was more reassuring, built like a battleship and totally enclosed. A pair of heavy plexiglass windows spanned the boat under a raised roof in the stern, protecting the steering station underneath. One by one, the crew climbed through the hatch in the side of the lifeboat as Bevis counted them in.
The chief engineer was the last to arrive. “Status?” Pettigrew asked.
“I took her up to full throttle, Sir. That way we’ll separate from the ship faster.”
“Good. Get aboard.”
The ship was seriously out of trim now. It had taken on a slow, sick roll as a quartering sea struck its bow, making it difficult to scramble up and through the lifeboat hatch. Pettigrew guessed they were making more than twenty-five knots now; the roiling water they would soon crash into looked like it was a mile away. He clambered backward through the hatch and took one last, long look at his ship before pulling his head and shoulders inside and dogging the hatch down tight behind him.
The insid
e of the lifeboat was cramped and dim. Strings of red emergency lights glowed bravely along the sides.
“All right! Is everybody strapped in?” Pettigrew called out. A chorus of “aye, ayes” responded, and he realized he wasn’t. He fumbled with the harness that would bind him to a seat that looked like it belonged in a space capsule and was designed as it was for the same reason. It was contoured to the shape of a human body and would support him from head to toe to help him survive the shock of the boat hitting the water.
“Okay – hold on!” he yelled. He pulled the lever next to his seat and immediately felt like he’d been shot from a cannon. The acceleration forced him back into his seat and took his breath away. Time seemed to stand still. When were they going to hit the water?
Then they did.
It seemed as if all Pettigrew’s sensory inputs were suddenly compressed into one single, thunderous, red overload, followed by violent surging, shaking, and rocking. Gradually, their forward motion slowed until they were at rest, rolling slowly and silently from side to side. Pettigrew tried moving his limbs; they all worked, although his body felt like jelly. The taste of blood in his mouth told him he’d bitten his tongue when they hit the water. And it was dark.
He struggled to get his wits back.
“Can anyone feel water around their feet?” Pettigrew called out. No one responded. Good. “Bevis! Call the roll and find out if everyone’s all right. Johnson, take the helm.”
The boatswain unstrapped himself and made his way back through the crew to the stern, and the emergency lights came back on. By the time the twenty-third crewmember confirmed he hadn’t been seriously injured, Pettigrew felt the reassuring vibration of the lifeboat’s engine. He unstrapped himself and joined the boatswain on the steering platform. Good; he could see a regular flash of red light reflecting on the deck outside. Hopefully the lifeboat’s EPIRB radio beacon was also working.
“Bring her around till we can see the ship,” Pettigrew said.
It was strange to see the horizon from so close to the ocean; his eye level was just six feet above the water – a twentieth of what he was used to. He held his breath as the boat turned until the Uluru finally came into view. She was three-quarters of a mile away with her stern bizarrely high in the air and bow now awash. She must be slowing, too, with her twin screws half out of water.
But something else looked strange; the ship looked too short. With a gasp, he realized the Uluru was going down. Silently, he and the boatswain watched as, at first imperceptibly, and then faster as it gained momentum, the Uluru foreshortened until only her stern could be seen. Half a minute later, only the bridge deck and the stack, no longer smoking, were visible. He looked down at his watch: 15:52. Ten minutes ago, he’d been standing on that bridge. And ten before that, everything had been normal.
He looked up and there was nothing to be seen. Nothing except the rolling waves and the unbroken horizon.
* * *
The meeting room was unusually crowded and quiet when Barker arrived and tapped the microphone to confirm it was on. Everyone already knew the basic details from the news. The scope of the latest attack had made a strong impression.
“Okay, so let’s start with the damage assessment,” Barker said, pulling up a slide. “There are – or I should say were – about four hundred LNG tankers in the global fleet, and thirty-four of them just went to the bottom. Because they were generally the largest, more than thirteen percent of all seagoing LNG carrier capacity has just been taken offline. It will take years to replace those ships. Until they are, there will be energy cost hikes and probably local shortages as well.
“In each case, electronic and mechanical ship systems were coopted to create an emergency, leading the crews to abandon ship. It appears there was no loss of life.
“Now, here are some of the more interesting facts. We did a preliminary analysis to see if we could find any pattern to explain why certain ships were hit, and not others. Besides the capacity of the ships, the main element the targets had in common was they were all in the deep ocean. In fact, most went down over deep-sea trenches, so there’s no hope of salvaging any of them, or their cargoes.”
“So, what do you make of that?” Shannon asked Frank after the meeting. “If the goal is to offset climate change, why hit natural gas? That’s one of the cleaner fuels. And what about all the gas in those ships – is that going to escape and hit the atmosphere all at once?”
Frank didn’t want to admit it, but his confidence in his own theory had been shaken; he couldn’t block out the mental image of one of those enormous ships gliding downward into the ocean depths, picking up speed all the while until it finally collided with the sea floor. Surely that would burst the LNG tanks wide-open?
“I don’t know, but I’m going to try and find out the answers tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It took several hours of research, but by the time he was done, Frank felt vindicated. He had also learned a lot more about the behavior of methane than he had ever expected to.
“Here’s the story,” he told Shannon when they met at the SCIF the next morning. “First of all, none of that methane is going to end up in the atmosphere. That’s because LNG is stored in tanks kept more than two hundred sixty degrees Fahrenheit below zero. So, when the tanks ruptured on impact with the sea bottom, all that LNG would have immediately become encased in really thick ice.
“And it turns out that when methane gas meets seawater, instead of dissolving, it turns into a slushy material called clathrates – there are billions of tons of the stuff already on the sea bottom. Apparently, it forms naturally when methane gas seeps up out of the sea floor. That means when the LNG gas from the ships eventually warms up, it will convert into clathrates and stay out of circulation forever. Right there, the attack struck a meaningful blow against climate change. And the global supply of LNG where it’s needed will stay down by over thirteen percent until the ships are replaced – if all of them ever are, with more renewable energy sources coming online all the time. I bet when we run the numbers, it’s going to work out just right against the impact of the Ross shelf breaking up.”
“But what about the fact that it was LNG, and not coal or petroleum, this time?” Shannon said. “Won’t that mean that dirtier fuels will be burned to make up for the loss?”
“I thought about that and decided the answer will be just the opposite. It would take way too much time and money to convert a natural gas plant back to coal on a temporary basis and then back to natural gas, when the ships are replaced. It would be cheaper to make up the difference permanently using wind and solar instead. Meanwhile, the energy shortage will drive fuel prices up, and that will make clean energy even more competitive. That should lead to more investment in solar and wind farms. So, it makes sense after all.”
“You’re right. That all adds up. Does it tell you anything new?”
“Mostly it confirms what I already thought. What’s new is I’m beginning to think the robotic elements behind the attacks go a lot deeper than I did before.”
“Because?”
“The whole attack program just keeps getting bigger and bigger. It would take hundreds of analysts and hackers working full-time to determine what targets to hit, find a way into each one of them, design the exploits, rate the carbon impact of the attacks, and then pull them off in synch with each other.”
“Which would mean it would have to be a state actor, right?”
“That’s what you’d think. But like we discussed before, all the likely suspects are also victims. Logically, it might suggest some sort of eco-terrorist group might be responsible. The problem is, I don’t know how you could pull together the kind of talent necessary to do that without the CIA and NSA getting wind of it. Or where the money would come from.”
“How about the nuclear power industry? Not a single nuclear generatin
g site has been hit yet.”
“I know. But the permitting, design, and construction times are so long it would be fifteen years before a new plant comes online, and we’re dealing with a current crisis. And anyway, in fifteen years, alternative energy should be so cheap no utility would want to be stuck with another nuclear facility.”
“Well, then, how about a solar or wind developer or manufacturer?”
“That would make more sense, sure. But no single manufacturer could possibly pull off attacks like these. And it’s hard to believe a group of them could agree in secret to work together. And anyway, management usually has a big aversion to going to jail.”
They were in front of his apartment now. Shannon gave him a sidelong look and changed the subject.
“I’d love to kick this around further. How about we grab a bite somewhere?” Before he could answer, she added, “You know, you blew me off the last time. Do that twice, and a girl could start to feel like there was something wrong with her.”
Frank opened his mouth and then shut it again. He’d need a really good excuse this time. Maybe scuba lessons would work?
But she was too fast for him. “Great!” she said, putting the car back in gear. “There’s a place not far from here I’ve been wanting to try, and I hate sitting alone in a restaurant. I bet you do, too.”
There was nothing to do but give in. Now that the moment had passed, he realized he wasn’t sorry Shannon had cut off his escape. “What kind of food do they have?” he asked.
“It’s an Asian-American fusion place. They just opened last week, and it’s gotten good reviews.”
A dozen blocks later, she parked the car. “What a week,” she said. “I envy you being able to work off-site every day. It’s been a madhouse the times I’ve had to be back at the NSA. New information flying around every which way and the folks on the Hill pressuring the director for results he can’t deliver. Of course, he’s pressuring everyone under him for the same reason, and so it goes down the chain until it gets to people like me. I thought Friday would never get here, so I could let my hair down a little.”
The Turing Test: a Tale of Artificial Intelligence and Malevolence (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 4) Page 8