Firespill

by Ian Slater

  “What?”

  “Evers—the guy down with bums in sick bay.”

  “Yeah—what about ’im?”

  “Sick bay attendant thinks he’s gonna kick off. He’s in shock. I just saw him. He’s been throwin’ up all over the place. Looks like a fucking ghost. That’s all Lambrecker needs, I can tell you.”

  “Jesus.”

  Slade’s hand stopped moving over his throat; the dirty rag hung loosely down his chest. “You mean you never heard about that in Control either?”

  “I—I never heard nothing.”

  Slade stuffed the rag in his back pocket. “Huh—they probably don’t even know themselves, the assholes. Who’s running this son of a bitch anyway?”

  The gofer shrugged once more and walked off. Back in Control he reported to O’Brien. “I told Slade, sir. He’s shut ’er down.”

  O’Brien merely nodded, and the gofer stood silently in a comer, wondering whether he should pass on what he’d just heard.

  The captain was back at the chart table, one ear still on the sonar, annoying O’Brien again with more questions. “What’s our air supply?”

  “Four hours maximum.”

  As casually and quietly as he could, and so the others could not hear, Kyle, picking up the report that had just been passed to him from the radio room, asked, “From your calculations, will that get us out?”

  O’Brien answered just as quietly, “No, sir. Not the way we came in. The fire’s spread all around the back of us, if these coordinates from Esquimalt still hold.”

  “No reason to suppose they don’t, is there?”

  “Well, they can’t tell us a thing from satellite pics anymore. There’s too much smoke. And even if they could, our aerial is whiplashing so much that reception is unreliable as well. Most of the time Sparks is just getting static. We haven’t received the U.S. Coast Guard’s report yet, but my guess is that we might have, well, overstretched ourselves already. The firespill may have spread much more than we anticipated.”

  Kyle tapped the waist of the dumbbell-shaped area. “If we aim to run across here on our way out, will that give us more time in the search zone?”

  O’Brien looked at the figures that crisscrossed his note pad. “No, sir.” His finger rested on the middle of the eastern bulge of the dumbbell. “Last we heard, the Vice-President was here in the middle of the eastern sector. We passed from the western sector—where we first got the message—under the narrow waist, which incidentally isn’t so narrow—it’s estimated to be a hundred miles across. It will be easier to keep running and try to come out under the end of the eastern bulge. That’s closest to the coast, where someone might be able to reach us. If we turn back to the waist hoping to break clear north or south, we might find the waistline has expanded, especially if it’s met up with that Japanese LNG spill. Then we’d be right back under a fire zone with no one anywhere near the sub. And we’d be completely alone.”

  “What makes you so sure we’ll get out under the eastern rim?”

  “I’m not, but we might just as well try to outrun the front of the spill as go back into it.” O’Brien swept his hand across the whole area. “I’ll lay ten to one that given these currents, that so-called waist no longer exists.”

  The chief engineer, cursing the wear and tear that such long patrols invariably put on a submarine’s hull, rang the control room and asked for the captain.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “We’re losing pressure in one of the for’ard fuel tanks. It’s not much, but it looks like a leak.” There was a pause as the captain wondered what this new information might do if conveyed to the crew. For an instant he almost wished himself back in an O class sub, where such a leak, though common enough, would have been impossible to detect. As nonchalantly as he could, he replied, “Right, Chief. Wouldn’t bother anyone about it, though. What d’you think?”

  “I understand,” said the chief and hung up. But the gofer in his comer could tell that something was amiss. He decided that he should contain himself no longer. He certainly didn’t want to be held responsible for withholding information from the officers; besides, he was afraid of what might happen if any of the crew took matters into their own hands. He turned to the auxiliary-man and blurted out, “Lambrecker’s escaped.”

  Everyone in Control turned towards him. For a few seconds, the only sound was the lonely ping of the sonar. Kyle swung round at O’Brien. “Did you know about this, Number One?”

  “Yes, sir. But I have a search party looking for him. I thought it best not to worry you about—”

  The captain grabbed the phone and rang for Second Officer Grant. The gofer had also intended to tell them about Evers, but the expression on Kyle’s face silenced him.

  There was no reply from Grant. Perspiring heavily, his already reddened face showing purple in the control room light, Kyle lifted the phone again and rang O’Brien’s cabin. O’Brien said nothing. Kyle smashed the receiver down and rang for the fourth officer, embarrassment fueling his anger.

  “Yes?”

  Kyle took a second to get his breath. “This is the Captain. Lambrecker’s escaped. On a boat this size it—it—” Again he had to pause for breath. “Goddamn it!” he exploded. “It shouldn’t have taken more than five minutes to find the son of a bitch. I want him under arrest—in a straitjacket if necessary. Understood?”

  There was a click on the other end.

  Kyle stood still, sweat pouring out of him, his eyes fixed on O’Brien. Maybe, he thought, maybe O’Brien had been won over, and that was why he hadn’t said anything about Lambrecker’s escape. He kept looking at O’Brien for several seconds. O’Brien had been in charge of all navigation. Maybe now they were heading out of the fire. He should have plotted and checked the course himself. He’d trusted O’Brien completely. Finally, as O’Brien steadfastly met his eye Kyle decided that suspicion had temporarily distorted his reason. If he couldn’t trust Bud O’Brien, there was no hope of beating them anyway. He pointed to the phone. “That was Lambrecker.”

  “Jesus,” muttered O’Brien. “That’s why everything’s been so quiet.”

  Suddenly the three officers and seamen felt isolated—cut off from the rest of the Swordfish. They all knew that now Lambrecker and his followers, whatever their number, must have taken the remaining officers and N.C.O.’s prisoner along with anyone else who had resisted them. With a few strategically placed men it would not be difficult to seize control of the sub.

  Everyone in the control room now realized that Kyle had unwittingly forced Lambrecker to show his hand. He would have to move quickly before his initiative could be thwarted by countermeasures from the control room. O’Brien glanced at the clock. It was 2031. The two-hour maximum promised earlier by the captain was up.

  Then it was 2032. A mutiny had begun.

  Within seconds of closing the forward and after doors to the control room, the men on watch heard the sound of voices approaching. It was only then that O’Brien realized what had made him so uneasy when he had found young Nairn unconscious. The rifle issued to Naim for guard duty hadn’t been anywhere in sight. O’Brien looked over at Kyle, his voice taut with alarm. “Lambrecker’s armed.”

  Sixteen

  The fire was now within a quarter of a mile of the fishing boat, and the sulphur-pale moon had long been eclipsed by the jet black smoke that completely enveloped them.

  A blast of furnace-hot wind tore over them, bringing with it a shower of flaming oil droplets, a few of which landed on Elaine’s sweater. She screamed as the wool burst into flame, and letting go of the rope, she began to splash herself frantically, forgetting Harry’s warning in her panic. Luckily, her splashing mixed enough water with the oil to extinguish the flame. It had lasted only two or three seconds, but by now most of the sweater was gone and her upper right arm was scorched. In her shock she had also let go of the bailer, which was instantly swept away by the wind, forcing them to use their hands as they tried, unsuccessfully, to douse the advanci
ng threads of fire.

  The pump, its filter finally overcome by the thick crude, gave a few coughs and died. The wind changed slightly, as it had a hundred times that day, and drove some of the burning rivulets back twenty or thirty yards, as if mercilessly prolonging their agony. Even with the wind’s most recent reprieve, Harry was sure that it would all be over in another half hour. If the heat didn’t kill them, lack of oxygen would.

  Despite their fatigue, the men in the control room worked quickly in response to Kyle’s sharp orders. A transformation had come over them. The final challenge to the captain’s authority had suddenly pushed dissatisfactions into the background and quashed any doubts they’d had about his ability to command. Now there were no ifs or maybes. There were only two alternatives, to fight or to capitulate, and the latter never occurred to them. They knew Lambrecker would be in the control room any minute. Kyle looked ten years younger as he turned to O’Brien. “Number One. Unlatch the fire extinguishers. You take the for’ard door and I’ll cover aft.”

  O’Brien threw back the spring clips, pulled the two red cylinders down, and quickly jerked out the safety pins.

  Kyle called to the third officer. “Mr. Hogarth, when I give the word roll, I want hard astarboard, then hard aport.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Sparks, whatever happens, you keep watching that sonar.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The captain grabbed an extinguisher from O’Brien and readied himself beside the aft door. “Gofer, you help the first officer and me, whoever seems to be in the most trouble. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If any of them hit the deck, use your boots, and make bloody sure they don’t get up.” The gofer looked blank with fright. “Got it?” the captain snapped. The gofer nodded his head vigorously. “Yeah—yes, sir.”

  Kyle now spoke to all of them. “Remember, they can only come in one at a time—two, if they try both doors. That’s our ticket. Get them just as they start through. And everybody brace yourself for the roll. That’s our only chance to—”

  Footsteps were approaching in the passageway outside. The captain’s right hand went to the control panel and settled on the corridor light switch. He threw it down, plunging the passageway into complete darkness. The footsteps ceased for a minute; then they could hear raised voices and someone yelling for a flashlight. O’Brien gripped the handle of the forward door. He felt someone trying to open it and pulled back with all his strength, looking around for something to jam into the spokes of the door wheel. There was nothing. He heard Sheen shouting, “I’ll open the fucking thing.”

  A cannonlike crash reverberated in the confined space. O’Brien’s hand flew from the door wheel, and he was thrown back hard against the attack periscope as an axe smashed down a second time against the wheel on the outside of the door. One of the planesmen started from his seat. “Jesus Christ, what the—”

  “Keep her steady,” intoned Hogarth, gently pushing the man down in his seat. O’Brien grabbed for the extinguisher as the door wheel began to spin. He glanced across at Kyle. The captain inclined his head towards the door, saying quickly, “Get the man with the rifle.”

  “And the fucking axe,” mumured the seaman on the trim control.

  The sonar pinged again. It was answered by a hollow thong. Sparks called out to the captain. The ping sounded again, and once more there was the thong of an echo, this time accompanied by a small blip on the screen.

  The captain shoved his extinguisher at the gofer, grabbed the mike from the public-address console, and turned it to full volume. “Now hear this. We’ve found the boat. We have found the—”

  The forward door burst open. A flashlight darted forward. O’Brien squeezed the trigger on the extinguisher, and the man screamed as the chemical foam covered his face and began burning into his eyes. The flashlight clattered to the deck.

  “Roll!” yelled Kyle.

  Instantly the sub lurched violently to starboard. O’Brien kept spraying the doorway, and bodies tumbled and crashed over each other as they tried to crowd in from the passageway. The gofer realizing that the mutineers were coming in only from the forward section, fell to the floor, and pulled the trigger of his extinguisher so as to spray those who had fallen or somehow evaded O’Brien’s field of fire.

  A figure holding an axe cannoned into O’Brien as the sub swung hard aport. O’Brien rammed the cone-shaped muzzle of the extinguisher over the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The nozzle hissed, and the swoosh of foam instantly blinded the sailor. As he clawed his eyes and turned to escape, he ran into a savage kick from the gofer and crashed to the deck. The falling axe, barely missing Hogarth, smashed to the deck like a thunderclap. The captain, still shouting into the mike, slipped in the foam, grunted angrily, and reached for a handhold. Someone tried to wrench the mike from him, but Kyle quickly released his grip, and as his assailant pitched forward with the roll of the sub, he drove a bone-crunching fist into the man’s face. As the man’s head smacked the periscope column, there was a clatter on the deck, and a shot roared through the sub, followed by the sound of splintering glass as the bullet tore through the banks of pressure gauges and embedded itself in the starboard bulkhead. In the deafening noise and confusion, it was only then that the captain realized the man was Lambrecker and that he had been holding the rifle. Kyle kicked the weapon aside with one boot and slammed the other into the mutineer’s head, making sure he would stay down.

  As suddenly as it had started, it was over. There were a few groans and obscenities from a foamy pile of bodies around the forward door, but no one had any fight left in them. The captain flicked up the passage light switch. He saw one of the mutineers, Ramsey, writhing on the deck just beyond the door and the gofer lying near him, badly winded. Sheen, shaking his head like a punchy boxer, was slumped against the forward bulkhead, and two other accomplices, one of them throwing up, were stumbling away through the foam that had spilled out into the passageway. O’Brien lay back on the search periscope, bleeding slightly from the lip.

  The sonar pinged, and back came the echo. Sparks, his headphones still on and looking like a comic book Martian, glanced contemptuously around at the human debris before turning back to his beloved set. He had already plotted the fishing boat’s position and now handed a piece of paper to the captain, who was steadying himself against the bulkhead, trying to catch his breath while proudly surveying the damage. “God!” said Kyle, counting heads with the air of a hunter tallying game. “There were only five of them!”

  Hogarth, helping the gofer lift an insensible Lambrecker out of the chemical suds before they suffocated him, said, “I think there were more, Captain.”

  Kyle didn’t know whether they’d given up because they’d heard the sub had made contact or because of the control room’s defense. Probably both, he decided.

  Soon the fourth and fifth officer, with a small band of P.O.’s and crew behind them, rushed in. The second officer began, “They took us by surprise and tied us—”

  Kyle was listening to the sonar. He held up his hand, cutting the officer short. “Explanations later, gentlemen. We’re going up.” He pointed to the fourth officer. “Crowley, you’re responsible for cleaning up this mess. I want it clear in ten minutes. All right?”

  “The mutineers, sir,” began Crowley, incredulous. “Don’t you want them in custody?”

  Kyle glanced about at the men who had somehow thought they could take over his ship. “Later,” he said. “Hose them down and put ’em on standby.”

  Crowley, in sympathy with Petty Officer Jordan, who was rubbing his wrists where Sheen had had him tied after he’d refused to cooperate at the 2030 deadline, started to protest. “But, Captain, Lane’s head was opened up and—”

  Kyle bellowed at him, “Then get him to sick bay. Get the place cleaned up and put these bastards on standby! In our condition, we’ll need all hands. Have them assemble with the rescue team. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”
>
  Kyle drew the black curtain which cut off the control room from the white light of the passage and positioned himself by the search periscope. “Bud, I want you here.” Hogarth, who was grinning broadly while watching the bodies being carried off, heard Kyle give the first order to surface. “Take her up to sixty feet.”

  “Sixty feet, sir.”

  The sub started to rise towards the fire. Kyle glanced at his watch. It was 2034. He phoned the second officer. “Grant, I’ll sound action stations in ten minutes and I want you in the forward torpedo room with two fish set to go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Brien was perplexed by the captain’s last order but said nothing as he worked quickly at plotting the shortest escape course from their new position. Given the estimated area of fire from the new coordinates Sparks had just received from H.Q., it looked increasingly hopeless. If they didn’t have enough time or room on the surface to recharge their batteries, their chances of getting out were nil. But there was nothing they could do about it now.

  Hogarth, watching the trim, began to call out the depth every ten feet. “Two sixty … two fifty…”

  At a hundred feet the captain pushed the battle stations horn. Throughout the ship, men who had been at each other’s throats just minutes before hesitated, looked at each other confusedly for a second, then instinctively sprang to their attack posts. As bulkheads for the watertight compartments banged shut and locking wheels spun, Second Officer Grant readied the torpedoes. Hogarth began reading off the depth at every five feet. “Ninety-five … ninety … eighty-five…”

  All this time the sonar pinged, its echo becoming louder and louder. As they neared periscope depth, Kyle asked, “Range?”

  Sparks watched the arm sweep round the screen. When the blip appeared, he verified the distance in a deliberate but unhurried tone. “Four thousand yards.”

  “Bearing?”

  “Zero five three.”

  Hogarth called out, “Seventy feet.”