Firespill

by Ian Slater

  “Oh,” said Henricks. “Mr. Parks.”

  As Jean turned, she noticed the maid, still standing frozen at her trolley. “Oh dear, let me have that,” she said, smiling. The woman, looking terror-stricken, bobbed her head and quickly excused herself.

  Parks heaved himself over, and in his nervous voice began giving his opinion on the possibility of the north-easternmost part of the spill reaching Sitka. “Ah, Mr. President, I think the slick might reach the coast—due partly to the Alaska Current and partly to the wind, which is coming from nor’nor’west. I mean the current carrying the oil northwards could be diverted by the wind. Part of it at least might be pushed sideways, more or less.”

  The President found it difficult to conceal his annoyance with all the ifs and buts of the so-called experts. “Mr. Part—Mr. Parks—what do you think will happen?”

  “Oh, I think it will burn. Sitka. Go up like a matchbox. After that, the mainland will catch fire.”

  “Jesus Christ!” The President looked around at Henricks and Jean. “How will it do that? Surely it can’t just leap ashore—”

  Parks cut in eagerly. “Oh, I’m certain it will, unless the crude forms tar balls—very large tar balls.”

  Whether or not it was his unconscious reaction to the pressure of the crisis Sutherland didn’t know, but he had to struggle to suppress the laughter he felt was about to explode inside him. Mr. Parks and tar balls seemed perfect for each other. “Oh?” said the President. “And what do they do?”

  Mr. Parks was smiling broadly. “They’re heavy concentrations of crude, formed if the sea gets rough enough to break up the spill. Then they sink and fall to the bottom of the ocean. But before they had a chance to form, I’m sure the fire would wipe out, well, certainly Sitka, and then the whole coast, right down through British Columbia and probably further south. Partly, you see, because the flames will simply leap ashore and head inland. What surf there is isn’t strong enough to chop up the spill or douse the flames. And in the inlets, where it’s so calm and there are often log booms, the fire’ll find it even easier.” Parks seemed to derive great satisfaction from his ominous forecast. As he walked back to the telex he rubbed his hands, as if anticipating fresh disasters.

  Sutherland watched the oil expert for a moment and shook his head despairingly. “Where the hell did we get him?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Henricks. “Get Admiral Klein and find out the shortest estimated time before the fire is expected to reach the Washington coast on that California Current.”

  In Sitka, sixteen miles eastwards across the sound that separates the southern portion of Kruzof Island from Baranof Island, the old-timers didn’t want to go.

  The most vocal was an old man who insisted on calling the town by its original Russian name of New Archangel, in memory of the great trading days of the Russian-American Fur Company. Brandishing his stick, he stoutly resisted the attempts of the nurses in the Pioneers’ Home to get him into the bus for the airport. They didn’t have to tell him about the fire. Even if he couldn’t see too well nowadays, he could smell the petroleum fumes mixed with the rotten odor of the pulp mill. But oil or no oil, he wasn’t moving.

  Most of the population, however, was packing as the seemingly endless flocks of birds came in from the burning sea that kept appearing and disappearing like a premature sunset, curtained by the pall of black smoke smeared against the horizon and the silhouette of Kruzof s Mount Edgecumbe.

  The firespill swiftly spread through the water-veined archipelago, polluting its blue channels and sounds and darkening its quiet, rippled bays, creeping ever closer to the panhandle and the vast green hinterland beyond. It was clear that there were not nearly enough planes for an immediate total evacuation of the four thousand inhabitants, so first priority was given to the hospital and then to the women and children. What caused tempers to run high was that while the sick and disabled obviously had to be cared for first, the government had commandeered all civil aircraft for the task. Moving the assembled patients from the TB sanatorium, the orthopedic hospital, and the Pioneers’ Home would have been difficult at the best of times, but with most of the town actively readying themselves to leave, it was next to impossible. Valuable time was being lost as the planes stood waiting—time which could have been used evacuating those already at the airport.

  Of the hundreds of small boats that now lay sandwiched together, riding the swells in Crescent Bay, few were taken out by owners chancing an escape by sea. In the gathering twilight, one look at the blackening horizon and the imprecise reports of the shape of the firespill were enough to dissuade all but the foolhardy or very brave from making a dash through the sound to the open sea. By now the main body of fire, which had earlier sent offshoots to Point Mary and beyond to Kruzof Island, had completely sealed the northern exit to Juneau by blocking the Kakul Narrows, which separate Baranof and Chichagof islands. Some had been clinging to the belief that the western entrance to Sitka Sound, below the southern tip of Kruzof Island, might yet provide an escape route. But shortly after seven o’clock, a series of muffled thumps and tiny flashes in the distance told them what the others in the isolated town already suspected. Sitka was trapped

  Soon the few boats that had ventured out returned.

  The President once again confronted the pile of press clippings editorializing the public outcry.

  “All right, Jean. Where were we?”

  “The New York Times objects to what it calls ‘gross governmental irresponsibility in permitting massive tanker traffic … Decisive action by the President and Congress could have prevented the almost unbelievable condition which has allowed the Tyler Maine’s action to be so catastrophic.’ ”

  “Tyler Maine?”

  “The destroyer that started the fire.”

  The President, putting on a pair of half-moon glasses which made him look distinctly professorial, peered over at the clipping. “Bullshit. Why don’t my friends at The Times stick it to the fucking oil lobby? How much real power do they think we have? Who wrote this?”

  “Liley.”

  “Who else?” grumbled the President. “Still, he’s right I suppose. What about the L.A. Times?”

  Jean shuffled the papers. “I had it here somewhere.”

  The President spotted it, reached over, and pulled the piece from the pile. “Must be bad if you have to hide it from me.”

  Jean started to protest. “I didn’t want to…”

  “Forget it.”

  The headline of the editorial screamed, “Harvest of Incompetency,” while the text strongly attacked the “obvious inadequacies of tanker legislation … undue oil influence … behind-the-door deals” and “what seems to be the President’s total inability to inspire confidence, either in his Cabinet or in the nation, during the continuing energy crisis.”

  A junior aide approached Jean hesitantly and whispered. She excused herself, but the President was so engrossed in the article that he did not notice her leaving.

  Outside the Operations Room, a red-lighted sign above the two marines was flashing In Conference. Beside the guards stood a military courier holding another video tape container. Before she returned to the Operations Room with the cassette, Jean noticed a sea of pickets and police in the darkness outside the White House. The wailing of sirens came to her, muffled by the bulletproof glass.

  When she returned, the President was still reading. He jabbed his finger irritably at the L.A. Times editorial. “I went to college with this donkey.” He sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “At least Liley’s constructive—not like this son of a bitch.”

  Jean busied herself leafing through some of the foreign press reports, hoping to shift the President’s attention away from domestic criticism. Sutherland replaced his glasses, however, and leaned forward as if to demonstrate that he was ready for anything they threw at him. “What about Le Monde?”

  “They went to press before they got the news. But we do have a telex translation of Dupre’s editorial
on French television.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “He blames both the Russians and us.”

  The President folded his hands with some gratification. “Not bad for a change—the Russians getting it.”

  Jean deliberately shielded an unflattering U.S. news cartoon of the President and the Soviet leader wallowing in an oily pigsty, captioned “Home Sweet Home.” She went on quickly with a summary of Dupré’s remarks. “He warns against ‘the immediate danger to the vital planktonic guarantors of what little marine food remains, not only for North America but for all the Pacific nations and indeed the world … a lesson every schoolboy knows.’ And ‘the danger to our smaller seas—’ ”

  The President cut in. “Meanwhile he uses gasoline to take his copy to the studio. Besides which, he’s full of shit—they always try to make it out to be the end of the world. Don’t they know oil’s a natural compound? It’ll break up eventually. Jesus, some of the bugs thrive on it. I don’t mind these guys throwing the fire at us. That’s okay, because that’s the real threat. But all this killing plankton business—they just don’t do their homework—think oil’s like goddamn DDT.” Sutherland pushed away the press file. “It’ll soon be time for the pollution meeting. I see you’ve got more video. Should we see it?”

  “I think we should, Mr. President.”

  Sutherland was unconvinced. “What’s the description say?”

  “Demonstrations.”

  Sutherland straightened up. “Demonstrations? So why should I want to see demonstrations?” He waved his hand in the direction of the crowd outside. “I’ve got one going on right outside, right this moment.”

  Obviously the press reports were beginning to get to the President. Jean hoped that at the meeting, just when he needed to be at his coolest, he wouldn’t be too aggressive. What he needed, she thought, was hard evidence on his side to do the talking for him. She pointed at the video container. “This is a film of major outbreaks, Mr. President. We’re not the only ones with demonstrations in our front yard. I think these clips would be very useful in pushing for those emergency oil control powers you want. It will only take a few minutes.”

  Sutherland sighed with resignation. “I could do with some ammunition all right. Particularly with the Texas bloc. Get them to move their asses for a change.”

  “Exactly, Mr. President.”

  “All right, you’ve convinced me. Run it through.”

  While Jean loaded the tape in the video deck Sutherland inquired, “How many Japanese killed in that LNG, Bob?”

  “Thirty-three, Mr. President. The whole crew. Those things go up like bombs.”

  “Sure do,” came Parks’s nervous voice, obscenely cheerful amid the chattering of the telexes.

  The President studiously ignored the intrusion and turned towards the huge TV screen.

  The scarlet flames darted fitfully out into the thick darkness around Harry and Elaine like the tongues of monstrous, unseen lizards in search of prey.

  Half-choking for want of air, the Vice-President and the old man were now up to their waists in the oil-streaked sea, clinging to the rope loops which Harry had earlier strung from the gunwales in anticipation of the scorching heat that would accompany the fire’s final advance. The pump was only just managing to suck up the water from several feet below the surface and spray it onto the deck. While this lessened the chance of the wood catching fire, at least for the time being, the laminated decking buckled and rose, twisted in grotesque shapes by the heat. Harry’s shoulders knotted in spasms as he coughed violently, bringing up more blood.

  While a small, clear area remained around them, the lava red rivulets of burning oil were coming closer by the minute. Harry was using a bailer to douse the small patches of fire that broke away from the main streams and came too close. Nearing the end of his strength, he handed the bailer over to Elaine. She longed to take a deep breath and go underwater to cool her head, but Harry had stopped her, afraid that the oil in her hair would make her a human torch if a flame caught it.

  Thinking constantly of Elaine, the President found it difficult to concentrate on the newscast of the riot at the Asanami Shipyard. When he managed to focus on what was happening on the screen, what immediately struck him about the disturbance was that such violence should break out in a country which, with little or no oil of her own, needed crude more than anyone else in the industrialized world. It was a grim omen. He glanced at his watch. He would soon have to leave for the pollution conference, but he was glad that Jean had talked him into viewing the film. This would jolt the State Department, if no one else, into putting pressure on Congress. Any fool could see that no matter who was really to blame for the spill, American foreign policy would suffer, and suffer severely, from such a level of outraged opinion.

  The President rose. The lights came on as the TV picture disappeared into a silent dot, creating the illusion that with the flick of a switch the world had returned to normal. “Jean, bring that video with you to the Green Room.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “And the clippings. Some congressmen are mentioned by name too. They might as well share the flack.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guards came stiffly to attention as they passed. Through the windows of the long corridor that led to the west wing they could see the dense mob of protesters, broken up here and there by clusters of white-helmeted riot police. They looked reassuring yet frightening with their gas masks hanging passively on their packs like shrunken heads. As one squad moved to a new position, it seemed to Jean that the heads had suddenly come alive, jerking and swinging freely in the blood red glow of the flashing lights. Her eye was caught by a young woman who from a distance looked like the Vice-President. She wondered if she would ever see Elaine Horton again.

  Fifteen

  Hogarth was watching the trim and planing of the boat as they tried to maintain the maximum speed of eighteen knots as nearly as possible along the course O’Brien had mapped out earlier. The captain, who normally didn’t stand watch, now stood by for periscope duty, his eyes constantly searching the control room for the slightest sign of trouble. He was particularly worried about leaks. The Ranger type XXII was a good sub, but every class had its weak spots, and as with every other submersible, the pressure doubled on her hull every hundred feet she dove. On top of this, Swordfish was now the oldest of her type in service. She wasn’t running at anywhere near her maximum depth of seven hundred feet, but Kyle still had to keep her well below the surface because of the danger of hitting crude oil patches in the process of forming large tar balls, or of hitting tar balls themselves, slowly sinking on their long journey to the seabed. Run into one of those, and Kyle knew that the treacle-like crude might easily wrap and glue itself about the fiberglass casing which made up the outer layer of the sub’s bridge and sail. If that happened and Swordfish were to surface too near a fire zone, she could quickly catch fire herself.

  The men on trim and the two seamen who had been called in to operate the planes manually, to save power which would normally have been fed to the automatic control, were edgy and soaked with perspiration. Hogarth, very conscious of the captain’s presence, tended to pounce on them for any power wasted by the slightest variation in either the horizontal or the vertical motion of the sub. The auxiliaryman was nervous too, anxiously waiting for the order to blow compressed air from the cylinders into the ballast tanks and take them to the surface.

  O’Brien wiped his forehead and looked down at the chart table, watching the pin-sized light which darted and jerked under the chart as the automatic gyrocompass fed it coordinates. He traced the light for a few minutes to see how much the sub had deviated from the present course, then double-checked by switching on the depth sounder for a minute or two, comparing the soundings with those down on the chart. He worked swiftly with dividers and then called over to Hogarth, “Correction. Steer zero seven two for six minutes.”

  Though the sub heeled sharply on the c
ourse change, the sonar operator, dripping sweat from the effort of his concentration, never stopped watching his screen or listening for incoming noise. In order to extend its range, he had turned the set on to the passive mode, where it would not send out a pulse but would only pick up incoming noise, such as that of a boat’s engine. But if he didn’t hear anything soon, apart from the sound of the fire, the operator was ready to ask the captain for permission to switch on to the shorter, active range so the set, in addition to receiving sounds, would send out a pulse that would bounce off a solid object. If luck were with them, that object would be a fishing boat. So far they had been too far from the Vice-President’s reported position even to hope for an echo; but now they should be coming within range.

  The phone rang, and the indicator panel showed that the call was from the forward torpedo room. O’Brien lifted the receiver. “Control room.”

  At first it seemed that there was no one on the other end. Then he could hear the faint sound of a girl giggling. “Control room,” he snapped. “What the hell’s going on there?”

  Hysterical laughter. Someone was saying between paroxysms, “He—he wants—to know—he wants to—”

  O’Brien put down the receiver. “Somebody’s gone stupid. Oxygen starvation, I guess. Must be bad up for’ard.”

  Kyle was perturbed, but all he could do was nod his head lethargically at the runner nearby. “Gofer, bum off one of the oxygen generators.”

  O’Brien, not sure that the gofer had lit one before, held up his hand reluctantly. “I’ll do it,” he said and slowly donned the hated red goggles. As O’Brien left the control room, the gofer asked the captain, “’Scuse, sir, but how long’ll them oxygen generators give us?”

  “Two hours. About an hour each,” Kyle grunted, showing his fatigue. “Don’t worry.”

  The seaman was more worried than ever. He knew enough to realize that while each generator would give them more oxygen, it would simultaneously build up the pressure within the sub, which would increase the effect of the carbon dioxide and the risk of carbon dioxide poisoning.