Firespill (21 page)

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 course 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.

Walking towards the ship’s office to get the generator, O’Brien stopped short. Naim was lying unconscious on the deck, and Lambrecker was gone. O’Brien looked around as if half expecting Lambrecker to be hiding nearby. He quickly unclipped one of the white six-by-twelve-inch cylindrical generators from the rack, placed it in the stainless steel sheath welded to the deck, and struck the firing pin on top. There was a crack as the .22 blank cartridge exploded down into the chemical, and within seconds the chlorate candle started to burn, generating the vitally needed oxygen. Hissing quietly, it looked to O’Brien through his red goggles like a huge stick of dynamite.

The first officer decided not to tell the captain about Lambrecker’s escape immediately, as it would only add to the tension in the control room just as they were entering the general rescue area and listening intently for the faintest echo. Instead he went to the petty officers’ mess. P.O. Lane and Chief P.O. Saxton were sitting lifelessly, as if in the throes of sunstroke. “You guys up for a quick lap?”

The younger P.O., Lane, dragged himself off the bench. “What’s up, Ex?”

“I want some help with Naim. He’s out cold. Lambrecker’s gone.” O’Brien looked at the other P.O. “Ted, I want you to round up some of the boys, find Lambrecker, and put him under guard. And this time tie the bastard up.”

The P.O. raised his head sluggishly. “Will do.”

All Naim could remember when he came to was that Seaman Sheen had brought Lambrecker a meal tray from the crew’s mess. The chief petty officer shook his head. “Sheen and Lambrecker! Jesus, son, didn’t you ever watch
Gunsmoke?”

Naim’s head was pounding. “I—I—beg pardon, sir?”

“Never mind. Here, come with me. I’ll fix you up. Man, that’s some bump you’ve got there. The bastard.”

O’Brien made his way back past the hissing oxygen cartridge to the control room. It was now 1945, forty-five minutes before the rescue deadline. Where in the hell is Lambrecker, he thought, and more important, what’s he doing?

Nearing the control room, he noticed that the boat had fallen unusually quiet. Probably because of the heat, he reflected; no one had either the energy or the inclination to move. But the first officer was not satisfied that the heat was entirely responsible for the sense of foreboding he had experienced when he found young Naim stretched out on the deck. It wasn’t just the picture of the unconscious youngster that troubled him. He felt that there had been something else he should have seen, something even more disturbing than Nairn knocked unconscious, but what it was he could not remember. And the more he tried to remember what it was, the more it eluded him.

The two petty officers, each with an M.P.’s riot stick, split up, the chief P.O. heading towards the forward section and Lane towards the after space and below to the generator room.

Passing the inert bodies strewn across bunks and slumped against the weeping bulkheads, Lane felt the heavy sullenness which permeated the crew’s silence.

By the time he’d passed the crew’s mess, the empty officers’ mess, the ship’s office, the perishable cabinet, and the two twelve-bed sleeping compartments and had reached the engine room, he felt the open hostility towards his presence. A small, bearded oiler, glistening with sweat from working in the after compartment’s one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat, glared at him from behind the blur of the oil-slicked prop shaft. Lane met his eye and turned to face him. “What’s wrong with you?”

The sailor squirted some oil on a bearing. “Nothin’.”

“Then what are you staring for?”

“Wasn’t staring.”

The P.O. was too tired to pursue it. “You seen Lambrecker?” he shouted over the noise of the shaft.

“Who?”

Lane had to take several deep breaths before he could speak again. “Lambrecker.”

“Don’t know ’im,” came the reply.

“What do you mean, don’t know him? He’s an oiler.”

“Must be on a different shift.”

“For Christ’s sake! The guy who was under guard?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen
’im.”
The oiler dropped his eyes and unscrewed the cap of the long-nosed lubricating can, as if signaling the end of the conversation. Lane drew his arm across his forehead. “Well, where’d you see him?”

The oiler was intent on refilling the can. Too intent. Lane realized something was wrong. “Where’s the officer on duty here?” he asked quickly.

One instant the P.O. saw a pencil-thin shadow streak across the prop’s spinning surface, and the next he lay crumpled on the deck. Three sailors including the oiler helped Lambrecker carry Lane out of the engine room down to stores, where Jock McMahon, the engineer, sat, his hands tied behind him to a cleat on the starboard bulkhead. The Scot’s face was a heavy purple, and when he saw the unconscious P.O., he exploded, “You’re mad, you bastards. You’ll not get away with this lot, I can tell you.”

Lambrecker had been thinking about Fran and Morgan constantly. All his waking hours were devoted to fantasies of forgiveness and bloody revenge, and the long hours of troubled sleep were empty with longing for her. But he could do nothing about it, absolutely nothing, until he got back. He heard McMahon’s voice from far off. It was filled with Morgan’s infuriatingly confident tone. He could even see a resemblance to Morgan in McMahon’s soft, pudgy face.

Lambrecker’s punch slammed into McMahon’s solar plexus, and the engineer doubled up like a rag doll, the air driven from his lungs in a great sob. While Lambrecker bound Lane, Haines, the oiler, went back up the stairs and surveyed the passageway. In a few moments he returned. “What if they heard him?” he asked Lambrecker.

“If who heard him?” demanded Lambrecker contemptuously. “Control? They’re too far forward.”

“I mean the others—the rest of the crew.”

Lambrecker pulled hard on a knot. “Most of them know what’s going on. They won’t stop us.”

“How do you know?” Haines asked nervously. Lambrecker took the stub of a cigarette from between his thin lips, threw it to the deck, and scuffed it with his heavy boot. “I know because one, they’re too tired to care; two, they know that if we don’t turn now, we’ll drown like fucking rats when our power’s gone or get roasted alive if we surface to make a run for it; and three, they want to get home same as us. They’ll let us do the dirty work. If it works, they’ll back us. If it doesn’t work, they’ll say they didn’t know anything about it. It’s called playing it safe. They won’t interfere. All right?”

Haines still looked worried. “Okay,” he began unconvincingly, “but what if they send someone else to look for you?”

“If we’re fast, we’ll be on them before they know what’s happened. They just think it’s me loose—they won’t know there’s five of us till we hit ’em. It’ll be too late for them to do anything then. Now get back to the keel and take a look at the off-duty officers. Make sure they’re tied up tight, then bring Sheen and the others back here—fast.”

“How about the fourth officer and the chief engineer? And Chief P.O. Jordan? We haven’t got them yet.”

“The fourth and Jordan are off watch up forward. The chief engineer is forward too, checking the fuel tanks. Don’t worry—we’ll get them on our way to Control.”

Haines felt better now that he thought he understood. Good old Lambrecker. He grinned knowingly. “Right. I’ll get the others.”

When Haines left, Lambrecker gagged McMahon and Lane and checked that the two men were bound securely. P.O. Lane’s muffled groans could be heard even under the gag as he started to regain consciousness. Lambrecker bent down, lifted the petty officer’s head, and dragged him away from where he would be in full view of anyone entering the stores room. As he propped the P.O. up against a steel cabinet near McMahon, Lambrecker noticed that the hand which had held Lane’s head was covered in warm blood. He looked at it for a moment, then quickly wiped it off on his trousers.

Suddenly Haines, his face ashen, appeared in the doorway. The oiler was trembling in panic. “He—he’s coming this way!”

Lambrecker’s hand shot out, grabbed Haines’s overall collar, and pulled him down the last two steps. The oiler’s boots skidded on the metal deck and his arms flailed at the air as he tried to right himself. Lambrecker dragged him hard up against the bulkhead. “Listen, you asshole, keep your head or you’ll screw up everything. Now slowly, who’s coming this way?”

“A—a—Petty Officer—Saxton—a chief. I turned round and came back, soon as I saw him.”

“Where is he?” snapped Lambrecker.

“He’s up at crew’s mess, but he’s coming this way. He’s been searching for’ard.”

Lambrecker shot a glance up the stairs to the open doorway leading to the passageway. He looked at his watch, then back at Haines. “All right, let him find me. We can’t waste any more time.”

“What—I don’t—”

Lambrecker’s grip tightened until Haines began to gag. “Go get Sheen and the others and come back here on the double. We’ve got to move now, before they realize I’m not alone. Understand?”

Haines nodded vigorously. Lambrecker loosened his grip, and the oiler gasped for air. “What if he—the chief—”

Lambrecker’s brain was racing, and he had already anticipated the oiler’s question. “If he finds me before you get back, I’ll hold him, but I might need some help if he tries to play hero. So step on it.”

Haines scrambled up the stairs. “Walk, you fucker,” hissed Lambrecker. Haines stopped short, looked around, and fighting back panic, shuffled away down the corridor.

Before Chief Petty Officer Saxton reached the door leading down to the stores room, he passed a leading seaman checking the level of the starboard fuel tank. The sailor tapped the glass on the reluctant gauge. The chief’s voice was heavy with fatigue. “Ramsey, have you seen Johnny Lane anywhere?”