Firespill (30 page)

Then the nausea swept her away in a savage wave, tearing her from his grasp and flinging her helpless and crumpled into a burning red sea. She no longer knew who or where she was. Kyle put his other hand across her body and took her far wrist, but the spasms were so severe that they shook him, and finally he had to let all his weight press down on her to prevent her from falling off the bunk.

He heard a moan in the darkness from one of the sailors in the passageway, which like the sick bay was now filled with prostrate bodies. Kyle realized that if they could not surface soon, the Vice-President of the United States and many of his crew would be dead. The human system simply could not tolerate body temperatures of 104 to 105 degrees Fahrenheit for very long.

He did not know how long he had been holding her down. It was possible that he, too, had passed out for some seconds at least. All he could remember was dreaming of Sarah and the kids. He was not sure of anything else, for the dream was constantly distorted; Sarah and Elaine seemed to be one, and yet somehow different, two reflections in a pool which in the trembling of the surface had momentarily merged into each other. But both had been smiling, and Sarah had been happier than he could ever remember. She was working in the rose garden, and then one of the roses, a vermilion-colored flower, was Elaine smiling. Sarah picked up the rose that someone had cut and left on the ground and placed it in her favorite spun-silver vase. While she stood admiring it, the rose blossomed even more, becoming more and more beautiful, and the water she poured into the vase overflowed. Kyle felt the water running down his cheek and awoke as the perspiration ran in tiny streams off his neck and face.

The fever attack again subsided, leaving Elaine gasping for breath. Kyle glanced at his watch. It was 2226. He asked Richards to watch over her as best he could. “If she starts up again,” he said, “call me.” He did not know what more he could do.

Although it had been only a dream, in the approaching delirium of his own fever he could not shake the feeling that Elaine and Sarah were somehow intimately connected. Though he and the Vice-President had exchanged only a few words, he felt that she could be his own daughter. Before he left the sick bay for the long trek up to the control room, he and Richards tried to tie her down, but they lacked the strength.

Dragging himself forward by sheer will, James Kyle promised a nonexistent companion that when he got back to Sarah—if he got back—he would send Elaine Horton his finest rose. She was a fine girl. A truly fine girl.

By the time he reached the control room and lowered himself to the base of the periscope column, the time was 2228. The phone buzzed. O’Brien laboriously lifted it off the cradle, dropping it on the deck and shattering the plastic earpiece. Even so, he could hear the man at the other end. O’Brien mumbled, “Yes? … Yes, I’ll tell him.” He slid to the floor against the slippery wet bulkhead. “Evers is dead.”

Kyle didn’t bother to look up. “When?”

“About five minutes ago. Just after you left.”

Kyle mopped his neck, then let the sodden rag fall in a heap on the deck. His head was now bent forward, resting on his arms and knees. He sucked in a gulp of the fetid air. “We’re just about dead on power. We’ll have to go up and run for our lives on the diesel—as long as we can—if we stay—we stay down any longer without air conditioning, the heat’ll finish us.”

O’Brien frowned dubiously. “But the fire?”

“I know, I know. First we’ll blow a hole ahead of us,” Kyle was forced to rest before going on. “Then once we’re up, maybe we can use the remaining torpedoes to keep the fire off us till the planes arrive. Won’t give us much time,”—he paused again—“but it’s better than staying here.”

While Hogarth helped one of the planesmen to the controls, Kyle, wavering and having some difficulty focusing, used the periscope column to pull himself up. “Bring the forward torpedo room to the action state.” To O’Brien, the slow cracked voice sounded like a judge’s, passing sentence of death. Then the small telex receiver chattered in the radio room.

A few seconds later a figure half-stumbled out of the semidarkness into the control room, crashing into the captain and pushing him back roughly against the attack scope supports. The sailor took no time to apologize. “Sir—message. Air fleet. They’re approaching.” He shoved a message into the captain’s hands. Hogarth let out a croak meant to be a cheer, slapping the planesman on the back. “Jesus Christ! It’s the cavalry!”

The message read:

X COMAIRRES TO COMSUB SWORDFISH X ETA 2258 PLUS 55 X FIRE FLARES ONE MINUTE INTERVALS BEGIN 2233 PLUS 55 PST X COMAIR SENDS X

Kyle grinned triumphantly at O’Brien. “Thank God. We’re going home.” The radio operator started to say something, but Kyle called as loudly as he could, “Prepare to surface!” His voice was so feeble that he had to repeat the order, and the effort brought on another flurry of vertigo. He grasped the long steel column.

Hogarth by the intercom called the other compartments for reports. They were slow to respond. The captain switched on the PA system, stumbled forward and grabbed the mike, almost falling as he did so. “Now hear—now hear this. Aircraft approaching. Get off your butts.”

Despite the crew’s torpor, the last reports were in within seconds and Hogarth confirmed, “Ready to surface.”

“Surface,” ordered Kyle.

“Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Hogarth happily, instructing the auxiliaryman, “Blow one, two, four, six, seven tanks,” while Kyle told O’Brien to ready the flares at the forward and aft ejectors, then turned to the radio operator.

“Watch the DF signal. Let me know the moment they’re above us.”

“Yes, Captain.”

It was 2230 plus 15 seconds. As the submarine began its ascent, O’Brien ordered that a test flare be fired. The flare shot out from the forward ejector and opened at three thousand feet, bursting in an apple green shower of sparks. It could not be seen by any of the bombers, which were delayed slightly by the increased headwinds of the Arctic front.

Clara Sutherland handed her husband the black bow tie. She wanted to put it on for him, but these days even to be that close almost embarrassed him. Whenever she came near him, to brush off a piece of lint or to check his jacket, he felt that he should somehow acknowledge her presence with a smile, a nod—some small gesture of affection; but the more he felt this way, the angrier he became at her, as if she were deliberately being nice to him to force a response.

Worried about Elaine, the President found it difficult to concentrate on the prepared speech, short as it was, which he would have to give in reply to the sheik of Amar’s toast. He glanced at his watch. By now the bombers would be nearing the submarine.

Clara looked her sophisticated best in a long cobalt blue gown patterned with small silver white fern leaves that caught the light as she moved. She opened the paua shell jewelry case that the New Zealand prime minister had given them in happier days, took out a small diamond necklace, and began to put it around her neck. Then she stopped, looking across at Walter. It was like seeing a stranger. Fatigue had aged him, etching deep lines in his face, and bitter anguish seemed to have dulled the color of his eyes. She doubted whether he could put on his public face tonight no matter how important the sheik’s oil was to the United States.

Clara brought the necklace down from her throat. “Walter,” she called softly.

His lips were moving as he practiced his speech in front of the mirror. Behind his reflection, she could see their separate beds. “Walter?”

“Yes?” It was the same impatient tone that he sometimes used with junior aides.

“Could you—could you do this up for me please?”

He walked over and drew the necklace quickly about her throat. Feeling the diamond chain slide up over her breast and rest coolly on her skin, Clara closed her eyes and knew that if she did not say something, she would start to feel sorry for herself again. “Do you think you should go ahead with it?—the ball, I mean? They can’t expect you—”

“They have every right to expect me there. It’s the sheik’s last night here. He was good enough not to object to the late hour.”

“I should think he wouldn’t,” said Clara protectively. “I really think it’s inconsiderate of him to expect you to attend after—”

“Clara,” began Sutherland in an exasperated voice, “I know it’s ridiculous toasting people after midnight, but you know that we’ve done it before and we’ll do it again. It comes with the job. And you know I wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t so damn important. We need the oil, that’s all there is to it.” He pulled on his jacket. “If I didn’t show up, Congress would have my head—let alone the caterers. Anyway, I’ll sleep after,” he said, knowing he would not sleep a minute until he knew that Elaine was safe and on her way home. There was a silence before he added, “But God knows I’ll feel a hypocrite.”

Clara reached behind to help him with the clip. Their fingers touched, and for a moment she felt that he was holding her hand. “There,” he said, as the clasp slipped into place, and walked away.

For a moment Clara said nothing, but then, convinced she was being self-indulgent to feel hurt, she determined to change the subject.

“Why?”

“What?” he said.

“Why will you feel a hypocrite?”

“Oh, I’ll be toasting the son of a bitch when I’m still cursing him for having threatened us with more oil embargoes.”

There was a tap at the door.

“In.”

Henricks entered, nodded at the First Lady, and handed Sutherland a cable. Sutherland brightened visibly as he scanned the message. “I want to know the second you learn anything. Don’t worry about the ball.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Henricks withdrew, the President turned to his wife and with more than usual attention ushered her graciously out of the room before him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The bombers. They’ll be over the sub in less than ten minutes.”

Clara smiled. “That’s good news.”

Their eyes met, not with love but still with affection. “Yes,” he said, “yes, it is,” and softly closed the bedroom door.

Twenty-Two

When the bombers began to penetrate the black oil smoke, it was Si Johnson in the lead plane who was once again the first to see the dots speckling the radar screen. For an instant, panic squeezed at his stomach. Then he checked himself and informed the captain almost casually, “A.C., there’s another batch closing.”

“As many as before?”

“No, but they’re still thick—and flying faster. Coming in on the left forward quarter. We’ll hit them over or around the target area—but not head-on.”

“Aren’t we lucky!” said Stokely.

Burke switched to intercell radio. “Ebony Leader to Gold and Purple. We’ll have to blow another hole through this new lot quickly. Same as before. Maintain the bombing formation. Gunners, you’re side-on to them this time, so watch your sixty-degree sweep, and for God’s sake don’t hit anyone else. We’ll stick to the original plan for the bomb run. I’ll start the To-Go count at a hundred and thirty seconds before estimated release time. Subject to flare verification of sub’s position, count will continue using sub as offset aiming point. I’ll release bombs at the end of my radar nav’s fifteen-second count and on his direction. This will give the sub one point five miles’ safety distance and a bombed-clear area of three by one miles to surface in and recharge its batteries. Remember, don’t do anything till after we verify the sub’s flare position relative to our position. We’ll be visual bombing, so you’ll drop your loads the moment you hear my ‘pickle’ drop signal. Any earlier—repeat, any earlier and you’ll hit the sub. Got it?”

The other two cells acknowledged the message. Burke asked Si, “You got that, radar nav? We drop on your call and your call only.”

Si answered nervously, “Yeah, I got it—fifteen-second count.”

“Affirmative.”

At 2232, as the bombers swept towards Cape Bingham, parts of the fire were already visible through the night sky and the curtain of black smoke that now extended for four hundred miles from north to south. At 2232 plus 7 seconds, the bombers swung round from southeast to south in a line that would pass directly over the cape and to the center of the fire, fifty to sixty miles beyond.

At 2232 plus 21 seconds, Peters notified Si Johnson that the final countdown of latitude and longitude to target had begun. “Navigator to radar nav. Final GPI. Counters are good.”

“Roger.”

Peters glanced at his indicators. “We’re one mile off track, pilot. Make twenty degrees S turn to left.”

Burke’s voice was unhurried. “Roger, navigator. Taking twenty-degree S turn left.”

Checking that the aircraft-to-bomb-site director system was working, Burke added, “FCI is centered. Stand by for initial point call.”

Peters had the cape centered on his scope. “IP—now, crew.”

Si grabbed his stopwatch, wiped the sweat from his hand, and held his thumb over the stop button as Burke chanted, “Stand by, timing crew. Ready … ready … ready … hack!” Si depressed the button as Peters called the captain, “Watches running. Time to release six minutes, fifty seconds.”

“Captain to nav. Understand. Six minutes fifty seconds.”

Si watched the cross hairs flicking, changing position on his scope. “Cross hairs going out to target area.”

Burke, waiting for the birds to hit, announced calmly, “Sixty seconds gone.” He had no sooner spoken than there was a thud on the fuselage. Si reported, “Target area direct at 176 degrees, 56 miles. Reported sub position as offset aiming point is at 176 degrees, 54.4 miles.”

Peters, knowing that at this speed three seconds would account for half a mile, was busily verifying that the sub would be at least one and a half miles away from the first bomb that would fall during the thirty-second, three-mile-long release period. “That checks. Offset at 176 degrees, 54.4 miles.”

As they approached the sub’s position, they could see the flames leaping two to three hundred feet up from the sea towards them. “Holy Toledo!” said Stokely. “The whole fucking sea’s on fire.”

Burke’s voice snapped over the intercom. “Shut up, gunner!”