by Ian Slater
“I’m sure we’re all cognizant of that fact.”
Farley nodded. “Very good—but there is one other matter.”
“Well?” asked Gerrard, his irritation mounting.
“Quite apart from a rescue attempt—if the captain decides to make it—I feel that in order to thwart any such future disaster, we must insist as forcibly as possible that the whole supratanker question on the west coast be reexamined—in fact renegotiated with the Department of External Affairs. If necessary the Canadian Coast Guard, or even the navy, might have to enforce territorial sovereignty. In any event, rescue or no rescue, the Americans and the Russians should certainly foot the bill for the entire cleanup.” Farley looked around at his colleagues. “If it can be cleaned up.”
There was some mumbled, halfhearted agreement by several of the cabinet members. Though they agreed in principle with Farley, they nevertheless thought his remark imprudent, if not downright opportunistic. But Farley quickly disabused them of this notion when he pulled out a sheaf of large color stills from his briefcase and passed them around.
The aerial photographs showed wide patches of oil which had advanced to within a few miles of the verdant Alaskan islands. Not far beyond lay the Alaskan and B.C. mainland. Black tongues of oil were licking towards the coast. In and around the crude, the red-and blue-dyed octanes gyrated and eddied in the currents like different-colored ices melting in a vast chemical pudding. One member, noting how close the spill was to the shoreline, asked anxiously, “When were these taken?”
“Three hours ago.”
“Jesus! What’s the scale?”
“One inch to ten miles. You’re looking at a hundred-mile front. That’s only a small fraction of it. We’re not sure how small yet, because of the tides and the smoke cover. What we do know is that every spill in the Northeast Pacific is catching fire like a string of firecrackers.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Not a damn thing. I’m afraid,” said Farley, passing a still on to Bern, “it’s up to our American friends. All we can do is pray.”
Bern was shocked by the proximity of the spill. Though they had been discussing its extent when the President had called about the Vice-President, Bern had not realized just how close the slick was. “My God. Just as well it’s not too heavily populated out there. A flash fire anywhere along that shore would wipe out a town in a matter of hours.”
Farley spoke with a tinge of sarcasm which even now he could not resist. “Well, of course there is Vancouver—that only has three million.”
“I meant further north,” Bern retorted.
“I’m talking about the whole bloody coast,” said Farley. “These pictures were taken north, off Prince Rupert, but in a few days the situation’ll be nasty in the south if those winds rise. It’s been a dry, hot summer. Once those B.C. forests catch fire, there’ll be a bloody inferno.”
“And the same for Washington State,” said someone, tired of Farley’s petty vindictiveness.
“Quite,” put in Bern. “In fact, it’ll be very bad for the three contiguous western United States—especially California. Less chance of rain there, too.”
Farley glanced over at the minister for external affairs. “Well, you see the point about the tankers; they’re too bloody close in.”
Bern nodded. “Yes, you’re right,” he said quietly. He paused, then looked straight at Farley. “I’d hate to be out there—wouldn’t you?”
Farley nodded in return. Fair was fair. “Yes,” he said, “I sure as hell would Poor bastards.”
Gerrard patted Farley on the back, then called out, “Gentlemen!” There was silence. “Gentlemen, I take it then we are agreed on the instructions to give the submarine. Important as the pollution problem is, we must give the rescue attempt our immediate attention. My secretary is waiting to transmit the message to Admiral Jolley at Maritime Command. And in any case, without wishing to be mercenary about it, in the light of what Mr. Farley has just shown us, the rescue mission may well elicit a much more favorable response from Washington apropos the cleanup. Those in favor?”
Every hand was raised. The Prime Minister smiled. “Thank you. I will notify Washington accordingly.” He surveyed the room, his face suddenly alight with his famous conspiratorial grin. “I suggest we adjourn until we have more detailed information on the spill. I’ve been informed that Washington is sending satellite pictures. They should arrive shortly.”
His secretary whispered and the P.M. held up his hand. “Oh, yes—before you go. The minister of defense has asked me if the press is to know of our decision. I would advise ‘no comment’ until I check with President Sutherland.” He looked sternly at Farley. “He has enough trouble on his hands, and with the flack he’s getting already, he may wish to keep it quiet, at least for a while. I’ll let you know for sure when we reconvene. That’s all.”
As the room emptied and the last member filed out, Henri Gerrard, looking as fresh as if he had just shaved and breakfasted, turned to his secretary and asked quietly, “Has the message to the sub been sent?”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. Maritime Command sent it thirty minutes ago.”
“Good,” said Gerrard, stuffing his pipe with his favorite cherry blend. “If Farley ever finds that out, he’ll have a fit.”
Sutherland put down the red receiver and announced, “The Canadians are going in.” There was an audible sigh of relief in the Operations Room. He turned to Henricks. “Bob, have Admiral Klein radio the Vice-President. ‘My lov—’ ” The President flushed. “ ‘My regards.’ And tell them to hang tight. A sub’s on the way.”
Ten
O’Brien knocked sharply on the captain’s door. Kyle, sleepy-eyed, swung off his bunk and instinctively reached for his cap. In his dream, he was still ashore. When he realized where he was, he replaced it, got up, and doused his face with cold water. Still waking up, groping for a towel, he asked his executive gruffly, “What is it?”
O’Brien handed him Admiral Jolley’s message from Maritime Command. Kyle had a habit of moving his lips when scanning messages. Now his mouth was a thin, hard line, and a small muscle worked at the hinge of his jaw as he read:
RR RCWEWW
DE RCWEW 171
ZNR UUUUU
O
FM MARPACHQ ESQUIMALT
TO SWORDFISH
BT
SECRET OPS 143 FOR COMMANDING OFFICER
SUBJECT: VICE PRESIDENT OF UNITED STATES
1 PRIME MINISTER INFORMS US THAT US VICE PRESIDENT ENCIRCLED BY FIRESPILL LAT 57° 19′ NORTH LONG 136° 17′ WEST
2 SWORDFISH ORDERED TO PROCEED WITH ALL POSSIBLE HASTE TO ABOVE POSITION AND RESCUE VICE PRESIDENT AND COMPANION ABOARD FISHING BOAT
3 REALIZE RISK INVOLVED GIVEN YOUR SUBMERSAL TIME BUT NO OTHER MEANS AVAILABLE
4 SHOULD YOU CONSIDER RESCUE HOPELESS YOU HAVE PERMISSION TO ABORT
5 MARPACHQ WILL PREPARE ALL POSSIBLE ASSISTANCE
6 GOOD LUCK
BT
He stood silently for a moment. Then he coughed and looked up almost defiantly at O’Brien. “Well? You’ve got the coordinates?” He said it as if he were upbraiding a junior officer the first time out. O’Brien found his tone irritating, but he couldn’t help admiring the Old Man. Admittedly the captain had been a little grumpy lately, but now here they were, instructed to rescue the Vice-President of the United States of America, the most important order either of them might receive in his career, and all old Kyle could say was, “Well?” as if his executive had wakened him unnecessarily from his afternoon nap.
O’Brien smiled. “Yes, sir, we’ve got the coordinates.”
“Then we’d better get going—don’t you think?”
“I guess so, sir. What speed?”
Kyle thought for a moment. Should he group up, full ahead together, linking up the sub’s batteries and motors in series, which would give him maximum speed but at the cost of a high drain on the batteries? Or should he limit the rate of drain to fu
ll ahead together and keep some reserve power for later on? Keeping a reserve wouldn’t help the Vice-President, but if they didn’t reach her in time, they would need some reserve to get out from under the firespill. With or without the Vice-President. “We won’t group up. Just keep it full ahead together.”
“Yes, sir.” O’Brien saluted briskly.
He knew as well as the captain the condition of the batteries and oxygen. They had been under the spill for five hours, and while they didn’t yet know its dispersal pattern, the sub’s power and oxygen would very soon be so low that they would have to surface regardless. Before they had received orders to rescue the Vice-President, they had counted on being well beyond the spill. Now they would be going back into it. It all depended on the dispersal rate. If it was slow enough, they could safely come up. If not, they might find themselves covered by fire, in which case they wouldn’t be saving anybody. Not even themselves.
Despite the risk, O’Brien felt a surge of exhilaration. It was the nearest he had ever come to active service, and it wasn’t until he was halfway down the passageway that he realized how different the crew’s reaction might be. He turned abruptly. “Captain?”
“Yes?”
O’Brien glanced around to check that they were alone. “Sir, I thought that—well, being as how the ship’s company has been out so long and all, we might turn…”
There was a long pause. The captain frowned. “Secretly?”
“Well—yes, sir.”
At any other time, Kyle would have rejected, and rejected rudely, the suggestion that prudence might best be served by turning his sub surreptitiously. The very fact that he was entertaining his executive officer’s suggestion was a measure of Swordfish’s low morale on this cruise.
The administrators ashore often had difficulty understanding how the morale of any crew could drop almost in direct proportion to the time they were out, hitting rock bottom only days away from returning to base. But Kyle knew why. He had seen it happen many times before, and ironically it was at its worst in peacetime. In war the constant common danger from the enemy above and below brought men closer. In peace, when new men, already spoiled by the comforts of home, were away from home for long periods, perhaps for the first time, small problems and irritations festered and spread under the pressure of close confinement. Whenever Kyle had wanted to explain this to a desk sailor who had got his idea of roominess aboard a sub from Hollywood, he usually found some pretext for inviting him below decks. It didn’t take long for the message to sink in when the visitor learned that the captain’s cabin, the most spacious aboard, was no bigger than a double cubicle latrine, and often didn’t smell much better after an extended patrol.
O’Brien spoke again. “It goes against the grain, sir, I know, but—”
“But you’re probably right,” said Kyle irritably. “This time round anyway. They’re going to know sooner or later, but perhaps it’s better later. No use asking for trouble.”
“I didn’t think so, sir.”
“All right, do it as quietly as you can. Just inch it around and make the final turn as the watch changes. That should throw them off. No one knows where the hell he is when he first comes on watch.”
“Yes, sir.”
Although it was not yet nightfall, the control room, squatting below the conning tower, was “rigged for red” because of the heavy smoke layer which would make parts of the surface look as black as night through the periscopes. As he stepped into the blood red glow, O’Brien’s earlier sense of excitement gave way to caution. Only yesterday the captain had confided to him once again that he was worried about the crew. Although he was a generation younger than Kyle, O’Brien well understood his concern. He too found it difficult to get used to the “democratization” of the navy.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he gave orders to make a series of incremental turns and counter-turns, which he hoped would not alert the crew to the sub’s unscheduled change in course.
Clara Sutherland was trying to work up some enthusiasm for the small filet mignon and wondering where her appetite had gone, when she heard a tap on the study door.
“Come in.”
Sutherland entered, looking old in the soft yellow light of the lamp which stood behind Clara like a bonneted maid awaiting instructions.
“Have you eaten?” she asked gently.
“No.”
“Should I ring for something?”
Sutherland gazed around the room without interest, his eyes finally settling on a Van Trier snow scene of an old cabin set amid a clump of bare beech trees. The detail of the cracked bark in the painting never failed to amaze him. He always felt he could walk right into the waist-deep snow, up to the old farmhouse, and seek solace from the cold. It would always remind him of Clara, no matter what happened.
“You can have my steak if you like,” said Clara. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Neither am I.”
She held out a plate of toast. “You should have something—to keep up your strength.”
Sutherland took a piece of toast and slumped down in the Colonial-style rocker. “Have you been watching it on TV?”
“Yes. It looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“The satellite pictures are much worse.”
“Aren’t they the ones that have been on TV?”
Sutherland frowned irritably. “I mean the NASA clips,” he said, his voice sharp.
“I’m sorry, I thought—” Clara began apologetically.
Sutherland lifted his hand above his left eye. The pain was getting worse. “Have you an aspirin?”
Clara began to forage through her purse.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll ring for one.”
“No, no. I have one here somewhere.” Her voice was almost imploring. “Will a Midol do?”
“All right. Is there any coffee?”
“I don’t think you should mix—”
“Mix what?” he snapped.
“Nothing,” she said quietly.
Sutherland let out an exasperated sigh.
There was a soft tap on the door.
“Come in,” Sutherland snapped.
The instant Henricks entered the study, he sensed his boss’s annoyance at the intrusion.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but the people at Interior are pressing me about whether they should cancel the ball this evening, considering the circumstances.”
“Hell no!”
“Ah—they’re worried that—well, by the time we get a handle on this firespill, it might be pretty late.”
“So it’ll be late!”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“But you’re tired,” put in Clara. “Can’t you postpone it?”
“No, I will not postpone it. How can I? It’s the Sheik’s last night here.”
Henricks looked awkwardly at the Van Trier.
“I’ve told you before, Clara, and you, Bob,” the President continued, “I’ve told my whole staff that that is precisely what the President shouldn’t do in times of crisis. I must do everything as planned—to the letter. Any variation would be interpreted as meaning that—well, that events are overtaking us.”
Which is exactly what is happening, thought Henricks; but he simply nodded loyally. Sutherland closed his eyes. “Anybody who opposes my administration would like to see me driven to bed. Well, they won’t. I’ll be at that ball. Besides, what does the Sheik say?”
“Well, being the guest of honor—”
“So he’s attending?” cut in Sutherland.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Then of course I’ll have to go. Tell Interior I’ll be there. It might be late, after midnight, but I’ll be there to propose the official toast. We need that sheik’s oil, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
After Henricks withdrew, there was a long silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Suth
erland cut off a piece of steak as if it were part of some unpleasant reptile and chewed it, barely moving his lower jaw, loath to admit that he was suddenly hungry. Finally the silence was too much even for Clara, who was used to being and feeling alone. “I wish I could help,” she said hopefully.
He cut off another piece of steak, more slowly this time, furious that he could find no excuse for his ill temper in the face of his wife’s desire to please.
“You can,” he said.
Clara smiled. “How?” she asked.
Sutherland let the fork drop onto the china plate with a crash, his hand darting above his eye again, though this time it was less from pain than from humiliation. “You can stop being so damned—so damned nice. Just say what you mean. We have to talk about it.” He pushed the plate away as if it were crowding him. “I just can’t think properly. I just can’t give my job all the attention it needs if you and I can’t be honest.”
Clara said nothing for a moment, looking out from the darkness of the study at the lawn, emerald green beneath the floodlights. “I’ve always understood that,” she said, for the first that evening unable to stop her hurt from showing.
Sutherland rose angrily from his chair, reaching for a Kleenex and instead pulling out a whole train. He stuffed them back. “I know, I know—of course you understand, but—well, that’s not enough. We have to bring it out into the open—especially now, before the papers start in on me. Before they start building public opinion against me. I can’t veto public opinion, Clara—for you or for me.”
“What do you want me to do, Walter?”
He turned abruptly away and walked towards the long French windows. He looked out at the great dome of the Jefferson Memorial, then swept his eyes over the expanse of lawn toward the tranquil pond stretching out before the Lincoln Memorial. His voice was firm, but so quiet that Clara had to strain to hear him above the steady, deep ticking of the pendulum clock. “I think we should talk about Elaine. I think—” He hesitated. “I think we should come to some arrangement.”
The sound of the clock filled the room. Clara fingered the arm of her chair nervously, pulling at a loose thread. “Don’t you think we can just forget it?”