Firespill

by Ian Slater

  Walter had taken her aboard the windjammer Beau Regard for a harbor cruise off Waikiki. The night breeze was playful about her hair and carried the sweet damp smell of mango and papaya. After leaving Fisherman’s Wharf and passing beyond the big swells of the bar, the ship’s engine stopped. Soon the canvas sails puffed out like the breasts of seabirds, and above the chatter of the other tourists they could hear the slapping of the rigging as they beat up into the wind.

  In the distance, toward the deep purple of Diamond Head, they could see a lone light, barely visible, running close to the black surface of the sea. It seemed too low in the water to be a pilot light, unless it was a buoy circling at wide angles in the surf. Beyond the light, far up on Makiki Heights, they could see a rain cloud fast approaching. Those who had been watching the dancing, winking lights of Waikiki from the bow and stem made a rush for the midships tarpaulin, but she and Walter had stayed where they were, up near the bow. For a moment they lost sight of the light.

  The rain quickly enveloped them in a mist so fine that they scarcely felt it. Elaine’s hair, which she had spent an hour preparing, was ruined; it hung forlornly like long, oily strands of hemp. Walter proceeded to lift and drop the long strands like a forensic expert examining dead snakes.

  “Maybe we can preserve them,” he suggested. She laughed and dug him gently in the ribs. Feeling safe from recognition in the darkness, the congressman leaned over and kissed her, lingering over the fragrance of frangipani. Elaine lay back against the rail and pulled him towards her, pushing her breasts into him and fondling his hair. The shore swept quietly past.

  Suddenly the lights came on as the tray dinners and Mai Tais were served. Walter Sutherland sat up immediately, but Elaine remained with her head resting softly on his shoulder, watching the stars moving against the dark, clean-washed sky.

  “I’m sorry,” he had said afterwards.

  “It’s all right,” she had replied. “I know we have to be careful.” She hadn’t asked him then why he didn’t leave his wife. The days when divorce hurt a politician’s chances were long over, so he must still need Clara. What does she give him, she asked herself, that I cannot? She thought of being married and every night making love to him, uninhibited by the guilt they both now carried about with them wherever they went.

  “I don’t see the light,” he said, bringing her out of the dream.

  “What?”

  “The light. That light that was running along the surface.”

  “Maybe it was a ship on the horizon.”

  “No,” he said, “it was off Pearl Harbor. I think it was a submarine.”

  The thought of the submarine jerked her back to the present, and instead of the sweet smell of the trade wind, there was the acrid, throat-searing stench of burning crude.

  In the crew’s mess, the oilers were sitting down for the second shift of the meal. The mashed potatoes were lumpy as usual and the fresh milk was gone. The disgruntled seamen, wondering when they would be surfacing for fresh air and having their turn at a change of scene on the bridge, were becoming increasingly irritable with each other. Even the ruttish talk of sex had abated under the pressures of the unusually prolonged confinement. Long after their hunger had been satisfied, some men sat stuffing themselves, chainsmoking, or lethargically playing cards, simply because there was nothing else to do. Cards were sometimes dangerous under the circumstances, with tempers likely to burst at the slightest provocation. They had seen all the movies twice, some even three times, and the magazines, all the way from Playboy to Reader’s Digest, were falling apart. Leading Seaman Ramsey stood glaring at the cook’s helper, a young French Canadian. “I said no goddamn gravy!”

  The cook frowned through the cloud of steam rising from the greasy hotplate. “All right, Ramsey, keep your shirt on. Just scrape it off.”

  Ramsey looked murderous, and the helper’s face paled. “Scrape it off yourself!”

  The cook threw down a large, heavy spatula. “Jesus Christ! Here, give it over. I’ll give you a new plate—all right?”

  The cook took the plate, but Ramsey turned back to the helper. “No, it’s not all right. Every night this stupid son of a bitch does the same thing! He’s doin’ it deliberately!”

  The helper, still white-faced, was serving an oiler, looking down, terrified, at the deck. The cook handed Ramsey his new serving. “He’s not doing it deliberately,” he said evenly. “The lad just forgot. Just an accident.”

  Ramsey grabbed the plate with one hand while the other crashed around amidst the cutlery. “Huh. Suppose you’re right. He’s too goddamn stupid to do anything deliberately. He’s just one big fucking accident.”

  The cook untied his apron. “Right, Ramsey, you’ve asked for it, you asshole, and I’m going to give it to you.” His voice was thick with rage.

  As he lifted the swing counter, a petty officer, coming to investigate the row, reached the door. “What’s going on here?”

  Ramsey, who had put down his tray, readying himself for the cook’s onslaught, now quickly picked it up again and, scowling, moved quietly towards one of the mess tables. “Nothing.”

  The petty officer turned to the cook. “Cookie?”

  The cook, who looked even bigger out from behind the counter, lifted the swing section up again and returned to the stove. “Nothing,” he replied, looking at Ramsey and then at the petty officer and letting the counter slam down, causing Ramsey and several others to start from their seats. “Nothing,” he repeated. “I was just about to do some mashing.”

  The petty officer raised his eyebrows. “With a cleaver?”

  There were some stifled coughs. “Nothing to worry about, Chief,” said the cook, tying on his apron. The petty officer scanned the mess. Ramsey, still looking surly, was busy eating, stabbing viciously at his innocent pile of potatoes. “Good,” said the petty officer. “I’m very happy to hear it. Let’s keep it that way, eh?”

  There was no answer. The petty officer left. Ramsey savagely tore off a crust of bread.

  A few moments later the PA system crackled. “Now hear this … this is the Captain speaking. I know you’re all tired…”

  In the men’s sleeping quarters, a sailor flipped over the well-worn centerfold of a girlie magazine. “He’s kidding. We’re not tired; we’ve only been out ten bloody weeks.”

  The captain continued, “It’s been a long trip. I also know that you’re as anxious as I am to get home.” There was a pause as some static invaded the PA system. “However, I have received orders from Esquimau, who, I should add, have received orders from Maritime Command in Halifax, that we are to proceed further beneath the firespill on a rescue mission. The Vice-President of the United States is trapped, surrounded by fire. We have been instructed to get her out.”

  “Who the hell—?” began Ramsey.

  “Shut up, Ramsey,” cut in someone else. “Let’s hear it all.”

  As the captain paused for breath, Lambrecker gripped a lug on the bulkhead. His knuckles went white. In the sleeping quarters several men sat up, while in the overheated generator room, deep in the bowels of the boat, an engineer’s assistant, having just made out the word rescue, tried desperately to hear what the captain was saying.

  “…Now I know that this asks us to stretch our resources to the limit…”

  Ramsey was on his feet, yelling at the loudspeaker, “You mean stretching our fucking necks, don’t you?”

  “…But,” added Kyle, “it could be one of us up there. We are the only submarine close enough to help, and I don’t have to tell you that if an American submarine was near enough to carry out the rescue in time, or if there was even a remote chance that helicopters could be used, we wouldn’t have been asked. I should also tell you that the order apparently originates from a request by the Prime Minister.”

  In the crew’s mess, a voice shouted, “That figures.”

  “In any event,” continued Kyle, “it’s our job to go in and get out as fast and as cleanly as possible. All
off-duty officers will report to the wardroom in ten minutes. We know that at maximum speed we have four to five hours of battery power remaining and that the Vice-President is just under two hours away. We should be able to reach her. But if the Vice-President’s boat has moved or we cannot make contact, for whatever reason, in two hours, we will abandon the attempt so as to allow us time to change our course and get out from under the spill.”

  The man straining his ears in the generator room, mishearing, inquired of no one in particular, “Danger? What the hell are we in now?”

  The captain coughed, and momentarily the PA speakers gave off a high, piercing whistle. “Remember, all you have to do is to imagine that it’s you trapped up there. I anticipate your full cooperation. Thank you. That is all.”

  For a few seconds, no one aboard the Swordfish spoke. Finally an off-duty oiler shouted, “That is all? Jesus, we’re near bloody trapped down here.”

  Richards, the sick bay attendant, smiled uneasily. “Should never have voted for Gerrard.”

  His shipmate shrugged. “Wouldn’t’ve made any difference. You’d’ve done the same.”

  In the wardroom O’Brien, stirring his coffee, was aware of young Hogarth watching him, as if waiting for some comment, some reassurance. After a few moments the junior officer asked nervously, “How much air have we got left, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Enough.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  O’Brien tapped the side of his white enamel cup with a spoon. To Hogarth it was like a teacher calling a class to attention. O’Brien went into his “British Admiral” act, lifting his head with mock pomposity. “Now look here, Hogie old son—don’t want to bother the chaps unnecessarily, do we?”

  Hogarth smiled weakly. “I—I guess not.”

  “Good show. Stiff upper cock and all that, eh what?”

  Hogarth reddened, grinning broadly. “Yes, sir.”

  Hunching over his coffee like a quarterback going into a huddle, O’Brien became serious. “You let the Old Man and me worry about air and the batteries and all the rest. We’ll need a cool man like you to transmit orders. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Good. Pass the sugar.”

  The propeller spun in a steady blur, driving them deeper into the fire zone. In the engine room, eight sailors were arguing loudly. Petty Officer Jordan’s forehead was shiny with sweat as he tried to reason with them. Sheen, an oiler, smashed a wrench into the bulkhead. His voice cut through all the others. “We don’t care about no fire, Jordan, and no goddamned vice-president. We aren’t gonna die in no fire ’cause some stupid son of a bitch wants to play hero.”

  The other men, momentarily silenced by Sheen’s outburst, now angrily murmured their agreement. Sheen banged the bulkhead again. “ ’Specially when the whole fucking thing’s their fault. The Americans.”

  Jordan knew that he had to play for time, grasp at anything that would steer the talk away from their taking any immediate action against the captain’s orders. He pretended ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean, their fault. How the hell d’you know it’s their fault?”

  “Goddamned Yanks,” shouted Sheen.

  Jordan looked around at the circle of hostile faces, swallowed his pride, and spread his hands beseechingly. “Look, fellas, we don’t know exactly who caused it. All we know is what the Old Man told us, right?”

  For a moment, the only sound was the soft purring of the propeller shaft. At least he had them thinking, and any time gained was to the good. If he could restrain the thought of rebellion here, he might prevent it from spreading through the ship. Next to Lambrecker, Sheen was usually the principal spokesman for the troublemakers aboard. At first the petty officer had doubted the captain’s wisdom in putting Lambrecker under arrest, but now he was glad Kyle had acted so quickly. One at a time, you might be able to reason with them, but the chances of doing so when they were together were slim, if not impossible. With Lambrecker out of the way, at least they would listen.

  Sheen answered, “Yeah, but what’s the difference who started it? All we’ve been told is two great bloody tankers crashed and spilled their guts all over the bloody chuck, and we’re s’posed to go and get some dumb broad out who was fishing from a bloody bathtub. I don’t care who it is in there, I’m not going further in. You’re just trying to play for time, Jordan.”

  Jordan detested having to argue. Like Kyle, he was of the old school, used to giving orders and having them promptly obeyed. But now he felt himself forced to plead. “What if it was, well, someone in your family?” he asked weakly.

  “Jesus Christ, Jordan, if it was someone in my family, they’d tell me not to risk all my buddies.”

  The men began murmuring again. Sheen turned, stalked off, and called back defiantly, “Come on, we’re gonna let Lambrecker out. We all shoulda backed him up earlier. He’ll know what to do.”

  The petty officer grabbed him by the shoulder. “Listen, wait—”

  The oiler shook free, menacingly lifting the wrench. “Let go! Petty officer or not, I’ll bust your head if you touch me again.”

  Jordan took his hand off Sheen’s shoulder, but he was boiling inside. The seaman would have been on a charge for this ten minutes ago. Before the captain had addressed the crew. Even then, many tempers had been near bursting point. Now Jordan felt as if they were all aboard a submerged pressure cooker without a safety valve in sight. He knew that if he tried to arrest Sheen, he would certainly have a mutiny on his hands right there in the engine room. He made one more attempt to pacify them. “All right. But listen to me, Sheen. All of you listen. You heard the Old Man. He said he’d set a limit of two hours—on the nose. If we don’t contact ’em then, we quit. We go home. Okay?”

  One of the young sailors shook his head like a frightened child, glancing at Sheen for support. “No, he won’t. He’ll keep goin’ till we fry. He’s lyin’.”

  “Yeah,” added someone else. “What about that?”

  Jordan shook his head at the sailor. “No, Smythe, he’s not lying. Why should he? He doesn’t want to kick off any more than you do.”

  The sailor was confused. Even Sheen hesitated, something which Jordan knew Lambrecker would never have done. The young sailor nervously sought a consensus from the rest. “I—I dunno. What d’you think, Sheeney?”

  There was another pause, and it was then that Jordan thought he might have a real chance of stopping them. He spoke quickly, trying to keep the tightness out of his voice. “Okay, okay. Now look, you guys—you trust me? Well, do you?”

  There were a few halfhearted mumbles. Jordan looked straight at Sheen. “Well?”

  The oiler’s grip on the wrench relaxed slightly. “So what if we do?”

  Jordan lifted his hands in a gesture of compromise. “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. If we don’t pick up that fishing boat in two hours”—he glanced at his watch—“by twenty-thirty, and the Old Man wants to go on, I’ll let Lambrecker out myself and we’ll force the issue. We’ll have to. Our batteries’ll be halfway dead by then, so I’ll be with you.” He paused to let the proposition sink in. “Is it a deal?”

  A few sailors nodded their heads slightly, but they still looked uncomfortable. The rest of them watched Sheen. He said nothing for a few seconds; then, pointing with the wrench at the petty officer, he answered for them all. “All right. Twenty-thirty—not a second longer, Jordan, or we’ll waste you too. No shit!”

  Jordan nodded his okay, and as the group broke up, he casually picked out several sailors for miscellaneous unimportant duties—checking stores which he had already checked himself, for example. Keep them separated as much as possible—a difficult job at any time aboard a sub, but even more difficult when they felt they had common cause for defiance.

  As Jordan made his way out of the engine room, he was trying to imagine what it must be like to be trapped by a burning sea. Probably, he thought, it was like suffocating from lack of oxygen in a disabled sub. He resolved that if he were
surrounded by fire, before the flames reached him, or came so close as to threaten him with the slow agony of suffocation, he would kill himself. But then, with an almost macabre practical bent, he wondered how you could do it on a small boat. There would be no quick way. Well, you could jump into the flames or try drowning yourself, but both seemed too horrible to submit to willingly. Of course, if there were anyone with you, they could do it. With a fish knife or something.

  Jordan pursed his lips. When his time came, he hoped he would be permitted to die in bed with his wife. If he ever got to see her again.

  Twelve

  In the White House the Presidential Press Conference had just ended. General Oster had watched his friend fielding questions from a battery of reporters. Though the Press Secretary had released news of the spill earlier, all the details of the Vice-President’s situation had not been revealed, despite the fact that the press knew that she had made an early morning getaway from the Secret Service and that she and her companion were now trapped by the firespill. The conference was unusually restricted. Neither TV nor radio had been allowed in and the President had asked the news corps, on grounds of humanitarian concern, not to go into details of the rescue when filing their reports.

  “What do you mean by ‘humanitarian concern’?” one newsman had asked sarcastically.

  “I mean,” said the President, “that the next of kin of some of the naval personnel involved in the rescue operation have not yet been notified, and insofar as the rescue attempt does pose a certain degree of exposure to unforeseen circumstances, I feel that the next of kin should be notified before any further details are released.”