Firespill

by Ian Slater

  “No. I don’t think we can, Clara. It’s become a wall between us. We’re not talking anymore—or at least we’re not really talking.”

  “You know I don’t hold it against you.”

  Sutherland swung around. “Goddamn it, Clara, can’t you see what I’m telling you? It’s—I’m telling you I still love her.”

  He turned back to look out the window. “I’m trying to be honest with you, but you won’t let me. You insist on slipping behind all your nice words every time I try to get you to face basic facts.”

  “You’re angry because I’m not angry, Walter. Talking about it won’t make me angry, if that’s what you want. To make you feel better, I mean—to make you feel less guilty. You have to do what you want.”

  This time his tone was one of anguished triumph. “You think I should feel guilty—for not telling you before?”

  “I don’t know if you should,” Clara said firmly. “That’s not for me to say. I know that you do feel guilty. But I see no point in dredging it up to hurt either of us any more.”

  “At least,” he said bitterly, “you admit you’re hurt. At least you’re being honest about that.”

  Tears were starting down Clara’s cheeks. “I love you—that’s why.”

  Without turning around, he knew she was crying. She did love him—he knew that—and he knew the game he was playing, trying to dissolve her civility so that he might rationalize not only his past affair with Elaine but any future liaison. Suddenly he felt very ashamed. “I’m sorry, Clara,” he said in his gentlest tone, adding, “You know she’s trapped in this thing.”

  “I know.”

  “God help me if the media dig up anything. They’ll accuse me of trying too hard to save her. It’ll be a real bitch for you.”

  “I’ll ignore it.”

  He smiled fondly at her. “You probably will.” He took her hand, the first time he had done that in months. “Tell me why you aren’t bitter.”

  “You make me sound like Joan of Arc.”

  “You are.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” she said happily.

  “Any other woman would have been—I’m sure of that. Why aren’t you?”

  “Because if I let myself have that, I’d lose you altogether.”

  After a few moments he asked, “Is that why you’ve avoided her so much?”

  “No. I didn’t avoid her to make it easier for you.”

  “Why then?”

  “I don’t like her. I never did.”

  Sutherland didn’t answer.

  Clara squeezed his hand. “Do you think they’ll rescue her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

  “I hope they do,” she said.

  Sutherland looked out into the night at the looming bulge of the Jefferson dome, then over at the Lincoln Memorial, and finally at the towering white obelisk in memory of Washington. Where, he thought, are the monuments to the wives?

  O’Brien was knocking at the captain’s door again.

  “In.”

  “We’ve got some trouble, I’m afraid, sir. The whole crew knows that we’re going further into the fire zone.”

  “How did they find out?”

  “Damned if I know. I turned her about without a quiver. Not even Radar knew what I was doing. I did it as the watch changed, just as you suggested.”

  The captain ran his hands through his thinning hair as O’Brien continued, “I think the engine room boys must have guessed something was up. They formed a delegation as soon as they figured we’d definitely changed course.”

  The captain rinsed his mouth to rid himself, at least temporarily, of the dieseline taste of the sub. “Who’s at the head of it?”

  “Lambrecker, sir.”

  Kyle put the glass down and turned, massaging his temples. “Delegation? Jesus Christ, what a navy. Delegations! All right, I’ll see him in the control room. Let the others hear what I have to say.” And he added with an unconvincing smile, “Might do some good.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As O’Brien stepped over the sill, Kyle reached inside his locker for his cap. And because caps, like uniforms, were not usually worn at sea, O’Brien knew that Kyle was intent on denying Lambrecker the slightest informality.

  “Bud?” There was a friendly intimacy in the question.

  “Sir?”

  “Any doubts in your mind—about going further in?”

  “No, sir—but…” His hand moved in an evasive gesture.

  “Go on. Say your piece.”

  “Well, sir, I wish some people would do their fishing closer to shore. This has been a long trip.”

  “I agree.” Then, changing the subject, Kyle motioned ahead towards the sick bay. “Better check our medical supplies after you send Lambrecker up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Brien took the lead down the passage. The captain felt a twinge of envy at his subordinate’s youthful ease and confident stride. “You think they’d try to rescue her even if she wasn’t Vice-President?” he asked.

  O’Brien’s forehead bunched up as he pondered the question. “Don’t think so.”

  The captain nodded to himself. “Neither do I—not anymore. No one gives a damn nowadays,” he added bitterly, and headed for the control room, closing his eyes for a moment to accustom himself to the dim red light.

  He stumped to the table wedged in the middle of the ten-by-twenty control room, between the attack periscope forward and the search periscope aft, bent down, and studied the chart. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the green circle which represented the area of the spill. A seaman coming from the radio compartment just aft of the control room handed him a weather report. He glanced at it, then at the chart, wrote down wind direction and speed, and drew an arrow from the sub’s position to the estimated location of the perimeter of the slick. He dropped the marking pencil, mumbling to himself, “Gale-force Arctic front anticipated within twenty-four hours. That’s all we need.”

  He looked about him, checking that everyone was in position. Forward and to the right was the electrician, in charge of internal communications. In the forward left corner stood the petty officer, chief of the watch. Behind the chief, midway down the left side of the room, sat the bow planesman, controlling the sub’s depth; then the stem planesman, who set the angles of descent and ascent. In the left-hand aft comer was the trim operator, responsible for the lateral movement of the sub, while the auxiliaryman stood in the right aft comer beyond a line of levers something like a railway change station, ready to open and shut the ballast tanks which would cause the boat either to surface or dive. Hogarth, officer of the watch, was walking about the control room, casting a watchful eye over the scores of gauges whose black needles constantly darted to and fro like swarms of frightened gnats.

  The captain’s head shot forward as he felt a man’s breath on his neck. He swung around to face Lambrecker. The seaman was standing all but motionless, with a surly twist to his lips that seemed to register a petty delight in looking down on the smaller man. And although this evening he appeared somewhat anxious, the aggressiveness of his stare, even when he was standing rigidly at attention, showed everyone that he was absolutely unafraid of the officer before him.

  After ten weeks on patrol, Kyle was convinced that the man was far more dangerous than anyone realized. He was the most senior seaman on the sub, but loyalty to old acquaintance, ship or man, meant nothing to him. If he bothered to believe in anything, it appeared to be only that familiarity did indeed breed contempt, for everyone but himself. Perhaps, thought Kyle, even for himself. He was what experienced officers colloquially, though without the slightest trace of humor or affection, referred to as a “hard case,” and he would no doubt have been transferred long before had not the new regulations made such a move virtually impossible without overt evidence of persistent insubordination.

  As he looked at Lambrecker’s jeans, which to him epitomized the insolent sloppiness of the �
��new breed,” Kyle’s stomach went into a knot. “So, Lambrecker. What is it this time?”

  Lambrecker made a point of not looking at the captain. It was a measure of his disregard for anyone in command. “The men are concerned. Sir.”

  Kyle pointed to the radar screen illuminating the area of the spill. “So is the world, Lambrecker. No one exactly enjoys having a floating inferno at large. The people of British Columbia, Washington, and Oregon, and I guess one or two other Americans are ‘concerned, ’ as you put it.” The captain gestured towards the chart. “And if this fire continues its free ride on the Alaska Current and gets blown into the California Current, then the whole western seaboard of North America could be barbecued. Are you, ah, concerned about that?”

  Lambrecker looked past the captain as if talking to the rows of gauges on the bulkhead. Lately they had all started to look like Morgan’s face, grinning stupidly at him. Keeping him trapped. “What’s that got to do with us going further into the fire zone? Why can’t the Americans do it? It’s their problem.”

  The bow planesman looked hard at the deck, trying to avoid catching the electrician’s eye, expecting the captain to explode. But Kyle disappointed them with his determination to stay calm. He picked up a pair of dividers and busied himself with the chart, not bothering to look up at Lambrecker. “We run on orders—or didn’t you know that, Lambrecker?”

  Lambrecker was still staring at the gauges. “All right, sir, so it’s an order—but why are we going further into the fire? We’re running out of air and our batteries need recharging. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Kyle quickly saw that if he allowed Lambrecker’s insolence to go any further, his authority might be seriously undermined. He was now afraid that his calmness would be interpreted as outright weakness. He slammed down the dividers and faced Lambrecker with ill-disguised menace, his voice rising. “Listen, Lambrecker, you’re here before me under sufferance. I haven’t got to justify a thing to you. I’ve put up with you because of the new boys’ policy of “feedback’—put up with you for three thousand miles of bitching, complaining, and inciting the men to damn near riot. But feedback doesn’t mean insubordination, sailor. Now get back to your post or I’ll have you thrown in the brig. Understand?”

  Lambrecker’s voice was calm. “I still don’t see why we have to go into the fire. Sir.”

  Beads of perspiration had broken out on Kyle’s forehead. “You’re dismissed, sailor!”

  Lambrecker smiled condescendingly down at the captain. “But sir—I don’t understand—you haven’t explained—”

  O’Brien, standing a few feet away, was afraid Kyle might hit Lambrecker. Instead the captain, his face almost purple under the red light and his voice quavering, shouted, “Mister O’Brien!”

  “Sir?”

  “This man is under arrest. I want him in the brig—right now. This instant.”

  “Yes, sir. Come on, Lambrecker. Move!”

  Kyle glared about the control room, then barked at the young third officer. “Hogarth, if there are any more complaints about us going further in, you inform me. Immediately!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Kyle wheeled abruptly and left for his cabin as Lambrecker, smiling contemptuously, was escorted to the sub’s tiny four-by-four-by-six office. The newcomer, Nairn, was assigned by O’Brien to stand guard so as to prevent any of Lambrecker’s old associates from getting near him. Although Naim had talked to him the first day, Lambrecker had hardly said a word since. After he’d sobered up, his generosity in giving Naim the lower bunk had given way to a moroseness that always teetered on the verge of hostility towards the officers and to almost everyone else except for a handful of old-timers.

  As O’Brien, sitting on a mess seat near the galley, made the entry on the charge sheet, Lambrecker’s mood changed. He believed he had to handle the lieutenant differently. With the captain you played it cool, needling him and throwing him off balance by treating him as no more than your equal. With the lieutenant, however, the cool approach wouldn’t work. He would just beat you down with his own quiet confidence. You couldn’t get the lieutenant upset. You had to appeal to his common sense, and there wasn’t any time to lose.

  Lambrecker punched one of the small metal cabinets. “You hear what the captain said, Bud?”

  The first officer, still filling out the charge sheet, was startled by the sudden familiarity, but he didn’t look up. “My name’s O’Brien, Lambrecker. Lieutenant O’Brien.”

  “You hear what he said, Lieutenant? He said to take me to the brig.” O’Brien didn’t answer. “Isn’t any brig on this sub or any other. You and I know that, Lieutenant—everybody knows that. Even the green boys. Everyone except the captain.” Lambrecker paused, watching O’Brien’s reaction. “Doesn’t that tell you something, Lieutenant?”

  O’Brien, though not in the habit of talking about fellow officers with the men, saw that Naim was listening intently, so he answered casually, “It was a slip,” and then, before he could stop himself, he added, “He’s been too long ashore, that’s all.”

  Lambrecker’s eyes glistened triumphantly. His arm shot out. “Right—exactly right!” He pointed a finger at O’Brien. “ ‘Too long ashore.’ That’s why we’re in trouble, Lieutenant. That’s exactly why we’re in trouble—why we’ve got to get home fast.”

  O’Brien, his head bent, kept writing, taking care to complete a sentence before replying, “You’re in trouble, Lambrecker.”

  Lambrecker slammed his fist into the cabinet again, yelling, “Why you so hell-bent on getting burnt up, Lieutenant? Medals won’t do you no good then. You gotta take over. We’ll back you up.”

  O’Brien finally looked up. For a few seconds he was silent, then he carefully clipped his pen into his pocket and said, “I think you’re just scared, Lambrecker. I think you’re wetting your pants.”

  Naim gave a nervous laugh.

  Lambrecker was staring wildly at O’Brien. “We’ll back you up, Lieutenant.”

  O’Brien got up and walked away. He hated Lambrecker because he hated insubordination and he hated bullies, and Lambrecker, he believed, was a born bully. But at the same time, O’Brien hated chaos more than delegations, and at least Lambrecker had protested through channels so far. Delegations, whatever their problems, were better than mutiny, a possibility which had seemed remote to O’Brien until a few moments before. “We’ll back you up,” Lambrecker had said. Who was “we”? And how long would the radio operator keep silent? Sparks was duty bound to keep quiet, of course, but with the pressure and fear mounting, who could tell when the order would become known to the crew, particularly the part giving the captain permission to abort? Besides, he thought, they’ll have to be told sooner or later. And worse, what would happen when Lambrecker and his gang, whoever they were, discovered that Kyle was taking them to a possible point of no return?

  The sub took a slight roll, then righted itself as O’Brien made his way back to the control room. Soon they would be under the heart of the fire.

  Eleven

  What frightened Elaine Horton most was that she was powerless. Harry Reindorp was used to the vagaries of nature, and a life at sea had taught him that there were times when all you could do was pray, or rest, or both.

  For Elaine, a situation entirely beyond her control was a new and frustrating experience. She felt like a farm person confronted for the first time by the terrors of a subway power outage. In the distance, over the oily, undulating swells, they could catch fleeting glimpses of the approaching inferno through brief gaps in the heavy smoke cover. An hour earlier it had been no more than a salmon pink line faintly lighting the sky behind the smoke-hazed horizon; but now it was a deep coral streak, shimmering like a living thing along the entire sea’s edge.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to run?”

  Harry turned about in a circle, his eyes following the line of the fire, his tanned cheek muscles bunching up as he squinted against the growing glare. “Nowhere to go, Lainey
. We’re better to wait for help to come here. We’re not gonna find it out there. That’s one hell of a fire. We’ve sent our SOS position; nothing else to do but hope the son of a bitch’ll burn itself out ’fore it gets to us.”

  Elaine’s habitual smile temporarily vanished, and in its place Harry Reindorp recognized the frightened little girl he’d once seen clinging to her father’s leg as they cursed and hauled a feisty marlin aboard.

  “Thing is, you see,” he went on quietly, as she stared helplessly at the advancing spill, “to that sub they told us they’re sending or to another ship, we’re a dot out here. It’ll be hard enough for them to see us anyway. We start moving away from our position, we’ll only make it tougher. We’ve got to give ’em all the time we can. We move close in near that blaze and it might just reach out and grab us.”

  Reindorp didn’t want to scare her any more than she was already, but he knew her well enough to gamble that the truth was not likely to make her hysterical.

  A deep, icy gut feeling of helplessness swept over Elaine once more. She shivered, despite the fire-warmed air. Seeing her sitting there, completely out of her arena but still game, Harry Reindorp wanted desperately to encourage her, to give her solace, but all he could offer was what he realized was a rather lame reassurance. “Our best bet is probably the weather. Gales are forecast.” But that didn’t mean they’d arrive on cue. And even if they did, the odds were that they’d as easily blow the fire down onto the boat as put it out. Harry prayed for rain.

  Elaine glanced overhead. The layers of smoke were getting thicker by the minute. She studied the line of fire, but could see no dent in it. Almost instinctively, she swung around, half expecting Richard Miller to be there awaiting instructions. Sensing that a wave of panic was gaining momentum, she forced herself to sit very still. She knew that trying not to think about the fire was the surest way for it to dominate all her thoughts. Instead she tried an old trick she’d learned as a congresswoman long before her party had chosen her to run as Vice-President. Staring at the advancing horizon, she deliberately thought of what the flames would be like, tried to think of every single flame, of the sky, the smoke, the strange, soft warmth of the acrid air—of everything around her. Soon her mind went blank, wiped clean like a slate. Overloaded by too many possibilities, it had temporarily refused to contain any. In their place, as always happened with her, only one thought returned. It was the memory of a Hawaiian night, recalled by the sensation of warm, moist air about her, that drifted into her consciousness.