by D. F. Jones
All this was academic stuff; my real problem was much nearer home. I was the “expert,” the bright boy. No one expected me to stop SARAH, but the onus was on me to find out, if possible, what had happened and to collect all the data I could. First question: what had happened? That, I felt, was relatively easy. Despite the seismic, magnetic, and sonar survey, we had drilled into the gas pocket on top of an anticline. Gas in this situation is not unusual; oil men spend their lives looking for just this sort of formation. The big difference was that instead of methane/oil, we had hit a highly concentrated pocket of nitrogen, and thinking of that pillar jetting up into the sky, I for one was very glad. Had it been methane, the flame would be the better part of a thousand feet high. It might have been dangerous not to light it, but ignition would have been a hair-raising task.
But it was not methane. Nitrogen, a nice harmless gas, but quite outside my experience or knowledge in this setting. And there was the other point: pressure. In geophysics, pressure is expressed in kilobars. One is roughly equal to a thousand atmospheres. Pressure increases with depth; man’s scratching around on the earth’s crust does not get much further than the twenty kilobar point—and not often that far. In the core, the molten center of our world, pressure may be more than one thousand five hundred kb.
Our particular pinprick might have run into the five to ten kb. zone, but for sure this was a lot more. How much, I could only guess wildly, but if I collected the right data, the people ashore might come up with a fair estimate. Looking at the bottom of my empty glass, I plumped for something over thirty kb. The only other point was the size of the gas pocket driving SARAH; that was real guesswork….
I could only record all possible data and wait for the pressure to ease; once that had begun to drop, we’d be over the worst. It began to look simple. I poured another tot while I mentally roughed out a program of bathythermograph readings, echo-sounding seabed checks, sonar probes of the submarine column, and air sampling. With a self-satisfied toast and smirk at myself in the mirror, I finished my drink, and then it was time for chow.
During the meal I learned that although the cutter had an oceanographical lab, no scientist was at present carried —in fact, I had his cabin. Afterwards the exec, showed me the lab, and invited me to make myself at home. I eyed the equipment with interest, but hadn’t the heart to tell him that most of it meant nothing to me. Still, it was a fine place to work, and with it I found went a petty officer and two enlisted men, all trained in hydrography. For an hour I planned on paper what I wanted, turned it over to the PO to translate into action, and went back to the bridge.
The captain had evidently decided that I was not going to be difficult, and greeted me cheerfully. I guessed that the strain I had seen earlier varied in direct proportion to our proximity to SARAH.
“Just in time, Doc, we’re coming on to the downwind leg. Should give a new angle on it.”
I joined the captain on the wing of the bridge, and asked him if we could take air samples, but the answer was negative. I made a mental note to pass this one to Suffren to fix with Navy aviation.
Astern, the late afternoon sun was low in a clear sky. If possible, SARAH, eight miles off, looked even more impressive. The sunlit side of the column was brilliant white, shading to slate gray on its opposite side, its top merging into the overcast stretching downwind.
We were moving slowly, a little less than four knots, bare steerage way. Apart from a slight swell from the southeast, blanketed by SARAH’s waves, which had us rolling rhythmically, the sea was calm. I borrowed a cigar from the captain and lit up; I was beginning to enjoy this assignment; the human mind soon acclimatizes itself, and I found that even the majestic, awful beauty of SARAH did not fully hold my thoughts. Bette was there; my vanity hoped she would be impressed by my position and responsibility. I puffed away, regarding SARAH like a Texan watching the first oil well in his backyard.
The captain noticed it first. He straightened up from the rail, mashed his cigar in the deep brass ashtray. He pushed back his cap.
“Godalmighty—it’s hot!” Unease had returned to his voice. “Like a steambath!”
Right then I could have kicked myself. That mist, I had assumed, was composed of fine particles of water, the shattered debris of the thundering jet, and that the overcast was due to slight temperature change and water vapor. Now I knew that basal mist was steam…. The gas, heated by the enormous pressure that had held it, was making the sea boil…. I was debating whether to admit my surprise or cover up—hell, I was the “expert”—when the captain spoke.
“Doc.” His words came haltingly, with difficulty. I looked up sharply. “D’you—notice—anything—else?”
His mouth was open, sweat poured from his face, he was breathing hard, like a man who has walked up four floors.
And then I found that I too was panting, my heart was thumping, and I was nearly sick with fear.
Chapter 4
The captain was far quicker than I. He swung on his heel, looking aft at the twin stacks. In place of the shimmer of heat, a growing cloud of black, oily smoke rolled lazily astern.
Panting, his eyes staring, he pushed past me into the wheelhouse. His movement freed me from my frozen state, and I followed. Those few steps had me gasping.
One glance at the officer of the watch and the helmsman was enough for the captain; they were in no better shape.
He croaked, his voice thin yet urgent. “Steer one zero five—full speed!”
The engineroom phone howled. The officer of the watch had staggered to the engine control console and stabbed at a button. Slowly, like a man wading in molasses, he made it to the phone. “Bridge—engineroom!” He clung to the side of the bridge, his eyes fixed on our swinging bows. “Right. Get him—sick bay.” He dropped the phone; it dangled, banging on the side of the console.
“Man collapsed in engineroom sir—heat …” He could not go on.
“Crap!” gasped the captain. He lurched toward his high chair.
By now I had guessed the answer. On the lee side of SARAH there was a downdraft or eddy; millions of cubic feet of nitrogen had poured down on us, diluting the oxygen content of the air. It was as if we had suddenly been lifted fifteen thousand feet up a mountain, and the black smoke was proof. With the reduced oxygen content, the balance between fuel and air was upset, resulting in incomplete combustion. That smoke was unburned fuel oil.
The captain slumped into his chair and grabbed his microphone.
“Now—hear this!” He paused, gasping. “Captain speaking. Reduce all activity—to minimum—and wait!”
We were gathering speed. A high-pitched whine showed that the gas turbines, fired from the bridge console, were boosting our speed to nearly thirty knots.
“Speed?”
Discipline held the near collapsing watch officer. With a great effort he straightened up from the console. “Sixteen —rising—sir!” The helmsman was hunched over the wheel: without its support he would have fallen.
The alteration of course was a shortcut to the upwind side of SARAH. We would pass closer to it, but that had to be accepted. The Tuscarora rolled and pitched sickeningly as we gathered speed, slamming across the waves.
With one particularly heavy roll, I lost my frail grip, half-staggered, half-fell out of the door, ending up bent over the rail on the starboard wing. I hung on gasping, my mouth dry, filled with a taste of hot brass. Volumes of smoke billowed astern, but even as I watched it began to thin, the gripping pains in my chest eased, my head began to clear. The motion was awful, the ship banging, jolting like a sled on cobblestones, but we were drawing away from that deadly zone. We were clear, as quickly as that.
Half an hour later I was on my back on my bunk, depressed, and sharing a good deal of the captain’s unease. Once clear, there had been a wonderful feeling of exhilaration and victory; life was good, the air like champagne. The OOW slapped the helmsman on the back, told the lad he had done a fine job—which he had—and the lookouts grin
ned and wisecracked. Only the captain was unmoved, sitting silent and thoughtful, oblivious of my congratulations on his fast thinking. Then reaction set in.
This had been no victory, only a mighty close shave. If the concentration had been a little higher, if we had been in it a little longer, if the captain had not been quite so sharp…. Somehow, I realized I was not quite so proud of my civilian status…. We had been very lucky: a lot of fouled-up paintwork, one man with a scalp wound, achieved when he collapsed, that was all. So easily we could have been a live ship with a dead crew, careening on until the ship struck the West Coast….
Turning over, I caught sight of the first batch of bathy readings. It reminded me that, whatever, I should be earning my com—but doing what? I got out a report for Suffren.
SUFFREN FROM GRANT SARAH NOW FIVE HUNDRED FOOT COLUMN AND HOT SUGGEST THIRTY PLUS KILOBARS NO SIGN
YET OF RECESSION STOP WAVE HEIGHT MAY BE BEST INDEX OF POWER CURRENTLY SIX TO SEVEN FEET AT TWO MILES 2/PROGRAM OF BATHY READINGS SEA BED PROFILES IN HAND NO FACILITIES FOR AIR SAMPLING SUGGEST YOU FIX URGENTLY WITH NAVY
3/DANGEROUS CONCENTRATION PROBABLY LOCAL POCKET ENCOUNTERED DOWNWIND AT EIGHT MILES 4/FILMS AND STILLS ARRANGED
I took this masterpiece along to the captain’s cabin. He was in his shirtsleeves, also slaving over a signal blank. He read my effort in silence, added the word SECRET in careful capitals, and inserted the usual Service jargon-ridden address.
“Glad you dropped by, Doctor. I’m drafting one—from another angle. My job basically is the safety of shipping; fortunately, we’re well clear of shipping routes, otherwise we could have quite a situation. If you’ve any views on that side, I’d be glad of them.”
I hadn’t, and this was obviously no great surprise to him. He was proposing a ban on all shipping within a fifty-mile radius of SARAH, which struck me as adequate. The signals were sent for dispatch, and the captain concentrated on our personal situation.
“I didn’t care that much for our experience this afternoon—we might not be so lucky the next time. Do you think we might get the same effect in other sectors?”
“No—I don’t think so. Eddy effects—if that is what it was—seem most probable on the lee side of the column; but if the nitrogen, slowing down and cooling, hits a particularly cold air layer, it might splash down all around, like a fountain. I’m not a met. specialist, but I think the windward side the safest. Still air conditions would be different.”
He nodded, staring hard at me as if to assess the value of my opinion. “Yeah, that seems reasonable. I’ve asked for advice, but for tonight I intend keeping a good ten miles to windward, patrolling on a flattened V course, which will give pretty good radar coverage of the area.” He pushed the cigar box my way.
I took one, smiled. “Let’s hope the wind does not change.”
His answering grin was only skin deep. “If it does, we’ll be all to hell and gone out of this sector! As a precaution, I’ve ordered our diver’s breathing apparatus to be stowed on the bridge. We’re lucky in this class of cutter, we can control the engines from up there, and as long as the OOW is okay, he should be able to get us clear. If the wind shifts, he has orders to flash up to full speed, call me, and point her upwind.”
As I said: a very sharp officer.
The night passed without incident, and the next day we got down to a more comprehensive series of bathy readings. At this time the current ran across the wind, so it was reasonable to run that bit closer. We got within two miles and then the captain called a halt. The noise was deafening. We got a fair number of readings, enough to show that the temperature gradient was highly unusual; it was five to ten degrees higher than the control readings we had taken upcurrent. The point I was trying to establish was the temperature of the gas column, which should, I hoped, give some idea of the pressure.
In the afternoon rainclouds moved in with the veering wind, and we got some very interesting film and data which showed that the jet had an influence on cloud formation up to nearly three thousand feet.
As night fell, we had a met. warning of a hard blow from the southwest, and by midnight it had arrived. We hauled off to our night station, some ten miles southwest of SARAH. The force eight wind kicked up a sea, and we rolled some more, but at least we felt happier, safer.
By first light the wind had strengthened to force nine. At my request we got around to a position at right angles to the wind in relation to SARAH. If any more proof of power was needed, that view gave it. For at least four hundred feet the column still went up, straight as a flagstaff; the last hundred feet or so curved gracefully over, downwind. A column of gas that stands that straight in the teeth of a sixty-mile-an-hour gale is strong….
We also probed a little deeper toward SARAH on the windward side, using the sonar and echo sounder as well as the bathythermograph gear. We got some nice profiles on the echo sounder, but the waves raised by the wind, tangling with SARAH’s, created a very confused sea which had us pounding very uncomfortably, making the sonar almost useless and wave height estimation impossible. As far as we could judge SARAH was as strong as ever.
For another two days the gale tore endlessly in from the southwest. Even if the weather had been better, I felt there was little I could achieve. The Tuscarora‘s officers were professionals and, with the little extra tuition I could give, quite as reliable observers as I was. My daily signals to Suffren made this point with increasing emphasis.
And then, after another day, came a very welcome order: The Tuscarora was to be relieved by another cutter which carried an oceanographer. Twenty-four hours later their helo arrived and winched him down, an operation I watched with smug pleasure. I gave him a copy of the thick SARAH file, wished him a lot of luck, and saw him depart. The relief cutter appeared that evening, and apart from the now daily aircraft, was our first sign of life. With an exchange of unprintably insulting signals we handed over our charge and took our departure, SARAH was going as strongly as ever, we were all heartily sick of her, and few were on deck for a final glimpse as the column faded into the gathering dusk.
That night after supper I took a final look at my SARAH file to make sure it was in good order, if only to make Suffren scratch that much harder when he got around to tearing it to pieces—when I found myself humming a tune, wafted faintly up from the mess deck. A thought struck me which stopped me humming mid-bar.
Since sailing, I had paid little attention to the shoreside news, but now I realized one thing: in all the odd bulletins I had heard, there had been no mention of SARAH….
Chapter 5
I left the Tuscarora in San Francisco harbor with a vague sense of loss. As the boat bore me away, more people on deck gave me a friendly wave than I had a right to expect.
From the jetty I took a cab; halfway to the Institute I saw a woman laughing…. I stopped the cab, called Bette. Out. Cursing in a nautical way, I resumed my journey.
Suffren—for Suffren—was very nice, but I did not seem to have his full attention, which was dampening. I expected he’d drop everything and plow straight into my report, revealing childishly obvious omissions.
Instead, he riffled through the report absentmindedly, said it looked fine, and maybe I’d like twenty-four hours off, then we could run through it. It was very untypical; still, if he felt like that, who was I to argue?
To my credit I did ask how the transfer situation was from ship to lab. He came back from a very long way, assured me it had been completed, then his mind took off again.
Puzzled and a little annoyed at his lack of interest, I wished him a curt good afternoon and headed for the door.
“One thing, Mitch—don’t talk about SARAH.”
That was a surprise, too. Suffren had the very common attitude of scientists to security; he loathed it, yet here he was, pushing it….
“Okay, I’ve got that particular message.”
He gave me the nearest thing to a sharp glance his thick glasses would permit, and I left, puzzled and a litt
le uneasy. Something was biting him, hard. It had to be business, for there was nothing else in his life—but why hold out on me?
Most of my gear from the ship had been dumped in my office, sloppily jammed into cardboard cartons. I got a cab and left for my apartment.
Loaded down, I kicked my way in through a pile of junk mail, all circulars and bills. The place smelled musty, and the corpses of several squadrons of flies did not add to the charm. Green mold in the refrigerator showed that the cleaning arrangements I had set up with the janitor had not so much failed as never started. I switched on the electricity and the battered air conditioner clattered into snarling life. My mind on .other things, I opened a can of warm beer without thinking, and gave the thin, cheap carpet a good shampoo. I toyed with the idea of heaving the rest at the nearest wall, then a better one occurred to me. I called Bette, and this time she was in.
She sounded surprised and, I thought, pleased to hear from me, and wanted to know what I had been doing. Side-stepping neatly, I said all that could wait, and how about dinner that evening? Yes, she would like that a lot. In a very different frame of mind after the call, I even smiled at the fly-specked print of “Custer’s Last Stand,” the artistic high-light of my apartment.
Two hours later, showered and dressed in a musty smelling suit, I met her.
It was the first time I had seen her out of K.D. and hardly recognized her. Her long straight golden hair was free and shoulder length; if you have that sort of hair you don’t worry too much about fashion. She wore a crisp white linen suit that looked as though it had been made for her ten minutes earlier, and under the jacket was a turquoise blouse. White shoes and fine, tanned legs, which I had not seen before, completed a very attractive picture.
To meet someone about whom you have thought a lot in the intervening weeks is always tricky; you have gone your separate ways, perhaps the mental picture you have carried is wrong, you’ can be strangers. We fenced around over a drink or two, with me keeping my distance, conscious of my smelly suit.