by Judy Nunn
Jo sprawled on the jetty, exhausted. She'd given up competing with the limitless energy of the others. Ash, too, had called it a day. He'd disappeared with his fishing rod and was nowhere to be seen. She leaned back on her elbows and watched them all cavorting. Beth was trying, with little success, to improve upon Pete's one and half somersault. 'Legs straight, lock them together, and dive for the bottom,' she repeatedly instructed, but each time he rolled into the water a gangly mess.
Mike and Allie were snorkelling. With no reefs to hand, there wasn't all that much marine activity, but Allie had nagged her father into it. They'd dive and resurface, and she'd pull her snorkel from her mouth to squeal news of each fresh discovery up to her mother before once again disappearing in a flurry of flippers.
Thank God for Allie, Jo thought. She'd thanked God for Allie virtually every day for the past twelve months. The complications that had followed the stillbirth a year ago meant there would be no more children and the knowledge saddened her immensely. How Mike would have loved a son. But there was always Allie, she told herself. Allie was the son Mike would never have.
Finally, Mike called a halt to the snorkelling. He would far rather have been up on the jetty with Jo anyway, but he'd been indulging Allie as he always did.
'I want you to show me a perfect back dive,' he said when they'd dumped their gear and joined Jo.
Allie ran off, only too eager to oblige, and Mike flopped wetly on the jetty beside his wife.
'Do you know how gorgeous you look?'
He kissed her with passion enough for her to taste the salt on his tongue. She was wearing the new, bright red bikini he'd bought for her in Dampier, its scantiness accentuating the lean, tanned curves of her body, its vivid colour highlighting the blondeness of her sun-streaked hair. Of course she didn't know how gorgeous she looked, he thought. She never did. He was in awe of her lack of vanity.
Jo smiled. 'I look like an absolute slut,' she said.
'Yes. A gorgeous one.'
He kissed her again, and this time the kiss was one of infinite tenderness. Jo responded with mock passion, running her fingers through his hair, opening her mouth greedily, pulling him down on top of her, and suddenly they were wrestling on the jetty. Then she broke away laughing.
'Well, if I look like a slut I might as well behave like one,' she said. He was still treating her with kid gloves, she thought. She wished he wouldn't. When he kissed her so tenderly, she felt a sense of pity, unintentional though it was, and she didn't want pity.
Mike got the message. He did every time, her signals were plain enough. Jo refused to share the pain of her loss. She'd cried just the once, racking great sobs, as she'd held their dead son in her arms. He'd never seen her cry before and he doubted he would again. She was incredibly strong. He sometimes wished that she wasn't.
'Time to go home soon,' he said, tracing the curve of her hip with his fingertips. 'Do you reckon we could palm Allie off on Ash and Beth for an hour?'
'I think that could be arranged.'
Sunday had come and gone with no sight of a newspaper, but they rarely read the paper on a Sunday anyway. Then, the following day, things went mad.
As a rule, Mike left for Dampier at around five thirty in the morning – he'd become obsessed with the experiments he'd been conducting in the laboratory and liked to have the place to himself for at least an hour. But on this particular Monday he varied the pattern, and as he sat down to his breakfast at the relatively respectable hour of six forty-five, he was unaware of the drama unfolding barely thirty kilometres away.
The Leonardo da Vinci, a Dutch vessel and the largest cutter-section dredge in the world, had been chartered by Hamersley Iron to redredge the inshore part of its main shipping channel from East Lewis Island to the loading berths at Parker Point and East Intercourse Island near Dampier.
A series of irritating complications had surrounded the arrival of the Leonardo. Firstly, she needed refuelling, having come direct from a job in Brunei for Royal Dutch Shell. However, the tanker normally used for refuelling had replenished Dampier's diesel power plant tanks only the previous week and had returned to the BP refinery at Fremantle. Hamersley had therefore been forced to spot-charter a small coastal tanker doing the inter-island Indonesian run, but they were further hampered by the fact that the loading berths at both Parker Point and East Intercourse Island were currently occupied by iron ore tankers taking on cargo. One of the tankers, moreover, was the massive 420,000-tonne Tanika Maru, which meant the loading would take several days to complete. As a consequence, it had been decided that the refuelling of the Leonardo would have to take place at the designated moorings near Conzinc Island, eight nautical miles north-north-east of the town and port of Dampier, and approximately halfway up Mermaid Sound, the entrance to the port.
Refuelling at sea was a delicate operation, and both the Dutch crew and the Pakistani crew of the Panamanian-registered tanker had been fully briefed on the exercise. The bunkering of the diesel onboard the Leonardo was scheduled to start at first light when meteorological and oceanographic conditions would be at their mildest. Particular emphasis had been placed upon the need for care, given the proximity of Dampier and the environmental sensitivity of the adjacent coral reefs and mangrove-lined embayments.
At 0600, conditions were just as had been predicted: a very light north-east wind of six to eight knots and a gentle sea state of ripple conditions only. The tides were in the last stages of neap flood with a current speed of approxi-mately one knot towards the town of Dampier.
It was a glorious morning. The archipelago was bathed in the clear first light of day and the islands' rugged splendour captured in all its glory. But the Pakistani crewmen were oblivious to the beauty that surrounded them. They wanted their breakfast. They were impatient as they attached the coupling mechanism to the dredge's on-take line. The sooner they could get the fuel offloading under way, the sooner they could eat. They worked quickly. It didn't take long. Then, the coupling connected, they started to pump diesel. They checked the pressure gauges. All was running smoothly, so they reported for breakfast.
But all was not running smoothly. The work had been sloppy. The coupling mechanism had not been properly connected and diesel was leaking into the sea at two hundred litres per minute. No-one bothered to check over the side.
Forty-five minutes later, from his watch on the bridge, the first mate of the Leonardo noticed the ominous and telltale signs, but by that time it was too late. Nine thousand litres of diesel had made its way into the sea. And the slick was heading directly for Dampier.
'Mike!' Ash barged into the cottage without bothering to knock. It was shortly before seven and the family was seated at the table having breakfast. 'Thank God you're still here.' He'd rung the lab and been told Mike hadn't reported in early as usual, and he'd panicked at the thought he might not be able to find him. 'We need you, buddy.'
'What's up?'
'There's been an oil spill off Conzinc Island and it's heading for Dampier.'
'Jesus Christ! The intake gates at Pond Zero are open.'
Ash's response had been exactly the same when Maurie Healey, Dampier Salt's general manager had phoned him with the news relayed by the harbour master.
'Christ alive, Maurie, we're pumping in fresh seawater to replenish the farm. If the spill gets down there and into Pond Zero, we're in deep shit!'
Mike was already grabbing his gear. 'How long before it reaches East Intercourse Island?' he asked, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
'About three hours providing sea conditions don't change. They've called an emergency meeting at the harbour master's office in half an hour. Leave your keys,' he added as Mike picked up his car keys from the island bench, 'we'll go in the Landcruiser, it's quicker. Sorry about this, Jo,' he yelled over his shoulder as they both dashed out the door.
Ash drove like a maniac to Dampier.
'Maurie's organising a team,' he said, his eyes glued to the road, the barren landscape zo
oming past at an alarming rate. 'I've told them to close the gates and cease pumping.' He risked a quick glance at Mike, 'But we're still in big trouble, aren't we?'
'Bloody oath we are. If the spill gets into the mangroves behind West Intercourse Island near our main intake channel, it'll be there for months, even longer. We won't be able to pump until it biodegrades. The whole of Dampier Salt's operations will come to a halt for at least six months, and if it leaches into the farm's water intake, possibly years.'
'Shit, I didn't know it was that bad.'
Maurie didn't either, Ash thought. In fact, Maurie had sounded rather complacent on the phone – at first, anyway.
'Surely if we close the gates and stop pumping we'll be fine,' Maurie had said.
Ash had disagreed. 'I don't think it's that simple. What the hell we do I've no idea, but Mike McAllister's the best one to advise us. I'll bring him to the meeting.'
'Mike? He's a biologist, for God's sake.' Maurie's tone had been dismissive. 'He knows bugger all about engineering and the salt business –'
'But he knows what oil in the environment does. He's our best bet. In fact, he may well be our only bet.'
'I see.' Ash's sense of urgency appeared to have finally hit home. 'Well, I'll leave the decisions up to you. I'm not experienced in these areas; my background's in finance.'
Ash had recognised the veiled implication. In registering that the incident could have far-reaching repercussions, Maurie was absolving himself from any further responsibility.
As he'd rung through to the laboratory in search of Mike, Ash had felt disillusioned. He'd never considered Maurie the sort of man who would 'wash his hands' like that. But then, Maurie had never been put to the test before, had he? None of them had. That's what was so bloody scary.
Twenty minutes after they'd embarked upon their mad dash from Point Samson, Mike and Ash were speeding across the connecting causeway from Dampier to East Intercourse Island, a kilometre or so off the coast. They arrived only five minutes late for the meeting.
The office and control room of Captain Gary Hayman, head of Pilbara Harbour Services (PHS) and official harbour master, was huge and imposing. Situated on the third floor of the port control tower on East Intercourse Island, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the whole of the port area. On one wall was a large-scale map of the port of Dampier and the surrounding archipelago, and at the far end was an array of SSB and VHF radios that connected the harbour master to all ships and PHS tugboats within the Port of Dampier.
A large conference table dominated the centre of the room, and when Ash and Mike were shown in, seven people were seated there: six men studying an Admiralty chart and a middle-aged woman taking notes upon instruction from the man seated at the head. Another younger woman was sitting inconspicuously against the wall, well away from the table; notepad in hand, she too was taking notes. It appeared the meeting was already under way.
Introductions were made. The assembly consisted of Gary Hayman, two of his deputies and his ever-faithful secretary, Marge; and the big guns included Maurie Healey, general manager of Dampier Salt, Jack Smythe, deputy general manager of Hamersley's operations in Dampier, and Fred Acorn, the West Australian government's regional coordinator based in the fledgling town of Karratha.
The young woman seated against the wall was not introduced and appeared quite happy to be ignored. She was Kay Freeman, an enterprising local reporter for The Karratha Klarion, who also hosted the breakfast news session on Radio 6KA. Kay had relegated the morning's brekkie show to her nervous production assistant who'd never performed on radio before. She knew mousy little Alice was bound to muck things up, but Kay didn't care. She couldn't believe her good fortune. The fact that she'd managed to inveigle her way into this meeting was nothing short of a miracle.
'I can promise you, Mr Harbour Master, not one word will be printed until I have your say-so,' she'd assured Gary Hayman, 'but it would be so much easier if I could be there from the start. I want to make sure I get all my facts right.'
'You'd better, Miss Freeman,' had been the stern reply, 'or I warn you, you and your newspaper will be in big trouble.'
Kay was keeping a very low profile, scribbling away for all she was worth, sure that at any moment Gary Hayman would kick her out. But the harbour master seemed to have forgotten she was there.
'So you're a marine biologist, Mike?' he queried, when Ash had completed the introductions – Ash knew everyone in the room. Gary Hayman's tone was pleasant enough, but he was plainly bemused by Mike's presence.
To Mike's surprise, Maurie Healey answered for him. 'Dr McAllister is in charge of all environmental operations for Dampier Salt, Gary,' he said. Then, flashing a confident smile at Ash, he added, 'Ash is of the opinion Mike's input could be of great value to us, and I'm sure he's right.'
Ash nodded, grateful that Maurie had backed up Mike's credentials, but aware that the man was once again placing the ball in his court should things go wrong. Maurie Healey was steadily taking a dive in Ash's estimation.
'Well, be that as it may,' Gary said briskly, he saw no value in a marine biologist's input himself. 'Take a seat, gentlemen.'
The meeting was called to order, and there was silence as Gary Hayman outlined the situation.
'At a speed of up to two knots under the prevailing conditions, the spill will reach the town site in approximately two and half hours, possibly sooner if the wind speed strengthens ...'
Mike, aware that he'd been mentally dismissed, studied the man. Despite an air of arrogance, he was an impressive figure. In his middle years, strongly built and commanding, the harbour master was plainly accustomed to the authority his position demanded.
'. . . However, the tide is due to change in the next two to three hours, which means it's just possible we may escape it altogether. An ebb tide will take the spill out to sea where it will disperse, causing minimal damage.'
Alarm bells started sounding in Mike's brain. Surely the harbour master wasn't underestimating the dangers they faced?
'All necessary authorities have been notified,' Gary concluded, 'and while this is a relatively minor spill, I propose we treat it as a full-scale emergency. . .'
Ash and Mike exchanged a quick glance. Relatively minor? their eyes asked each other. In whose estimation?
'. . . We'll deploy what oil-spill equipment we have, and treat the whole opportunity as a practice oil-spill contingency exercise. We might as well get some value out of the incident, although I don't think it can really do any serious damage.'
Mike was about to jump to his feet in protest, but Ash, sensing his frustration, got in first.
'I beg to differ, Gary,' he said diplomatically. 'I believe the spill could cause some very serious damage.' Aware as he was that the chain of command must be observed, Ash's voice was nonetheless firm – someone had to rattle the harbour master out of his complacency. 'If that oil gets into our salt farm,' he said with great deliberation, 'we can kiss goodbye to all domestic product and possibly half our synthetic stock-feed lines for at least a year. It could cost the company millions of dollars.'
Gary Hayman didn't respond directly, but looked a query at Dampier Salt's general manager. 'Is this so, Maurie?'
'We've closed the intake gates to Pond Zero and ceased pumping,' Maurie said, 'but Ash believes there's still a grave danger, and he's the expert.'
Maurie's level of concern was perfect. If Ash proved an alarmist, then he'd bear the brunt of the blame. If he proved correct, then Maurie had appointed the right man.
'I don't see a huge cause for concern myself,' Gary countered. 'The spill probably won't get that far. We're talking about diesel, after all. Correct me if I'm wrong, but diesel disperses fairly quickly, isn't that so? Jack? Fred?'
This time the query was directed towards the Hamersley Iron deputy manager and the regional coordinator. Both men nodded agreement.