The Devil's Waters (11 page)

“Perhaps,” the engineer asked, “they may both recover?”

Stone-faced, Jamie said, “We’ll see.”

Razvan chewed his lip, waiting for some other statement. The young PJ stayed tough and true, and said no more.

The chief dipped his head
again, accepting the judgment. He seemed to be taking the accident as his personal fault. His engine had done this.

Drozdov asked him, “Do you know the cause?”

“No, Captain. But I will. I am not resting. And please. No more than fifty rpm. She cannot take more. Gentlemen. Miss Iris.”

The chief excused himself. He pivoted away, his face set.

Drozdov addressed LB and Jamie. “So, you will be leaving now. That is too bad, but I thank you for coming. You have educated my first mate what must be done, yes?”

LB raised a finger. “Gimme a moment.” To Jamie, he said, “Step over here.”

He towed Jamie through the portal, outside onto the starboard wing. The day’s heat slapped at him after thirty minutes of Russian winter inside Drozdov’s superstructure.
Detroit 1
and
2
hovered a hundred yards away.

“I’m thinking we should stay.”

Jamie waved this off. “No. We did our time. We go back.”

“You saw how that guy Grisha was caring for those two. Piss everywhere. Not checking the fluids. He hasn’t got a clue, and he isn’t gonna get one. We leave, that burned kid might not make it. The engineer needs to be monitored. You know what I’m saying.”

“I’m not arguing that point. We just don’t have orders to stay.”

LB dug the radio out of his Rhodesian vest. “Let me get some orders. Go inside. Flirt with the Russian lady. I’ll be right in.”

Jamie threw up his palms in peevish surrender. LB called
Detroit 1
on the aircraft common frequency. He asked for a sat patch to the PRCC, then waited while the chopper relayed his message.

In a few minutes, his radio peeped.

“Lima Bravo, Lima Bravo. Torres here.”

“Major, LB.”

“What
do you want, Sergeant?”

“Major, request permission to stay behind on the ship. The condition of the injured exceeds what we expected. The quality of care on board is not sufficient. We can do the job. The ship’s crew can’t.”

“Denied. Return to base.”

“Major, with respect, why send us out here if you’re not gonna let us do the job the way we see fit? One of the injured might not last to Djibouti.”

“I can’t leave the PJ team down two men. You’re on a humanitarian mission. We could spare you for eight hours, not forty-eight. That was the deal.”

“Major, I don’t think the burned kid who can barely stay conscious for the pain cares about the deal. He’s fighting infection and dehydration. The paralysis case needs monitoring to see if we can reduce his injuries. He’s scared out of his mind. He don’t care either.”

“My hands are tied. Come back.”

“Major, a compromise. Let me stay by myself. I can do this. I’ll send Sergeant Dempsey back.”

“No.”

“I’m asking you. We’ll only be down a single PJ for two days. I’ll stand alert here twenty-four/seven. You need me, come pick me up. I’ll be ready. But I can’t leave these two guys in the state we found them. The mission was bullshit if I do, pardon my French. Ma’am, please. You got my word.”

The sat link buzzed while Torres considered.

“All right. You know my conditions. No curiosity about the crew or the cargo. Press the mission. Take care of the injured. Get back here in two days. And if something comes up, I damn well will come get you.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“Out.”

LB stowed the radio. He entered the bridge. From the copilot’s leather chair, Iris smiled to see him.

LB focused on
Drozdov. “All right. Call Bojan. Have him bring back Sergeant Dempsey’s weapons.”

Jamie tugged LB’s arm. “Whoa, hang on.”

LB excused himself again from Drozdov and Iris. He walked Jamie to the starboard windows with a view of the copters keeping pace.

Jamie spoke first. “You’re staying alone? What the hell.”

“Listen to me. Torres wouldn’t go for both of us staying. It’s okay. There’s no good reason for two of us to hang out here. It’s gonna be two days of this.”

“This is a surprise. We work in teams.”

“Yeah, when there’s work to do. This is a one-man job. If a real mission spins up at Lemonnier, Torres will send a chopper for me. Go get your weapons. It’s okay. Help Wally keep an eye on Robey. I got this.”

“I know what you got. A freaking boner.”

“Hey, careful. I’m your elder. By a lot.”

“That’s why it’s a surprise.”

“A mouth like that, I know why you carry so many guns. Go.”

LB threw the chocks on the watertight door to return to the starboard wing. He waved to the two choppers, both sideslipping to keep watch on the
Valnea
. LB toggled his radio to the aircraft freq.

“
Detroit 1
,
Detroit 1
, this is Hallmark.”

“Go, Hallmark.”

“Pickup for one.”

“Everything okay?”

As the chopper pilot spoke,
Detroit 1
broke formation to slide behind the freighter.
Detroit 2
held position.

“Juliet Delta’s going back to base. Lima Bravo is staying. All good. Confirm.”

“Five by five.”

In minutes Jamie joined him on the wing, his ruck and M4 in place. The other weapons were stowed away. No one came out to watch him depart.

With
Detroit 1
tucking
itself closer to the ship’s great chimney, the wind on the platform mounted. LB shouted, “I’ll see you in two days.”

“Let me know if the guy moves his legs.”

“Will do.”

The copter eased overhead. LB and Jamie knelt under the intense prop wash. From the open door the MH-53’s engineer tossed down a rope ladder, and LB moved to anchor it. Jamie took a running leap and launched himself athletically several rungs up the ladder. With LB holding the ladder taut, the young PJ scampered up to the thrumming copter.

LB ducked away while the ladder was reeled in. The giant MH-53 lifted its nose to fall back from the ship. The chopper peeled to its side, gaining quick distance.

“Have fun, Hallmark.
Detroit 1
out.”
Detroit 2
moved up. Both copters beat away low, whipping up froth on the flat, vacant sea.

LB did not go back into the wheelhouse but walked the exterior stairway down the side of the superstructure. After six stories, at deck level, he looked overboard, down the ship’s hull, another three stories to the water.

Making his way to the door for A level, he passed three crewmen in blue overalls and construction hats. The men worked to sand away chipped paint from the gray steel floor and rail. On the opposite side, across the thirty meters of the freighter’s broad beam, another team did the same.

These men, all Filipinos, came to greet LB warily, pointing at the sky to indicate that he was the American soldier from the helicopter. Some spoke enough English to ask how the injured crewmen were: Would they be okay? The deckhands were short and wiry; their work required nimbleness and stamina. When the
Valnea
was loaded, they stacked her 2,200 containers, locked them in place, then cleaned and
maintained the ship under way. LB wanted to ask what they thought of armed Serbian guards on a ship carrying no cargo, but he’d been told not to snoop.

Inside the superstructure, he poked his head into the infirmary. The second engineer and cadet both slept under blankets of morphine and fentanyl. Grisha kept vigil from a stool beside his friend Nikita. LB checked the progress of Nikita’s anti-inflammatory drip, then the cadet’s bandages. The boy’s exposed skin had cooled slightly and its crimson cast had faded, marking progress in lowering his core temperature. His saline bag ran low. LB considered changing it but gave the task to Grisha. The man needed badly to be helpful. The first mate hung the fresh bag and flipped open the petcock. The cadet moaned, deep in narcotic, but did not wake.

LB held open the infirmary door for Grisha to follow into the hall, to talk without waking the injured.

“I’ll be staying on board with you to Djibouti. That all right?”

“Yes. That is excellent news.”

“So, how’d this happen?”

The first mate rubbed the bridge of his nose, tired. “This morning before breakfast, Nikita inspected engine with cadet. On catwalk along the pistons. No warning, cylinder seven blew. The boy was closest, burned by steam from gasket, then blown into Nikita, who hit rail with his back. And
derr`mo
, here we are.”

“I heard the chief say he didn’t know what caused it.”

“I do not know this Razvan much. He is Romanian. Shipping company normally puts Russian officers together. He seems clever. I think he will find. He is always in engine room. Go ask him. But you know what I think?”

“No.”

“
Eto piz`dets
.” This is fucked up.

In the elevator, LB punched the button for the engine control room. The doors opened into a room without windows, only rows of computer screens above a lengthy
desk and a massive bank of fuse panels, switches, gauges, and LCD readouts. Chief Razvan sat chin in hand, staring into one screen, a sheaf of computer printouts in front of him. The room pulsed with a low, droning burr from the great engine behind the walls.

“Chief. May I come in?”

“Enter.”

LB took the swivel chair beside him. The Romanian worked off three computer screens at once, each with different schematics. The one in front of LB depicted the eight pistons of the ship’s engine, all rising and falling in rhythm except for number seven, which stood inert and bathed in red.

Razvan made notations on his papers. The information on all sides of LB was indecipherable. He sat in the belly of a modern cargo ship, a miracle of electronics, mechanics, girth, and power. The chief engineer on this freighter had to be a whiz kid in several fields.

LB waited until Razvan finished his scrutinizing and note taking.

The chief looked up. “The second engineer and cadet. Their condition.”

“We’ve got the cadet on fluids; he’s stable but in and out of consciousness. Nikita’s on steroids. We’ll have to wait and see where things go.”

“The boy. He looked bad.” The Romanian shook his gray head, tongue stuck behind his lips. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

LB tapped the image of the dead cylinder seven on the screen in front of him.

“That why we’re going twelve knots?”

Razvan blew out his cheeks. “
Pfff
. This captain. He would go twenty-five if I turn my back.”

“Why?”

“These are pirate waters. You are soldier; you know this.”

“Yeah.”

“We
are sitting like ducks going this speed. Drozdov is nervous. But we cannot go faster. Seven pistons cannot balance. Vibration will damage bearings, shaft, other pistons.”

“What about the guards?”

“Ah, yes. You may sleep well being guarded by Serbs. I do not.”

LB didn’t inquire; the antagonisms of Central Europe were ancient and as inscrutable to an outsider as the machines around him.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“What do you know about engines?”

“Compared to you, or a kid from Sacramento?”

“Me.”

“Nothing.”

“Good. I don’t like opinions.”

“I’m the same. My motto is, when in doubt, I go with me.”

Razvan cracked his first grin. “Okay. This accident. It was an untimed injection.”

“I’ve done that before.”

“You can stop now, Sergeant.”

LB raised a hand to yield. Chief continued.

“The engine runs on heavy fuel oil. In normal operation, piston comes up, goes down. Every second revolution, at specific point, fuel is injected into top of cylinder. Pressure increases as piston rises, until fuel ignites. At this exact moment, when piston is pushed back down by explosion, exhaust portal at top of cylinder opens to release waste gases. But…”

Chief laid a long finger to the screen in front of LB, where an animation showed seven of the eight pistons still pumping. He selected one tall cylinder.

“If fuel comes into cylinder at wrong time…” Chief knocked the computerized image. “Now! When the piston is in wrong place, explosion happens too soon. Exhaust portal is not open. Too much pressure builds up in cylinder, and boom.”

LB had
worked on enough engines to know what
boom
meant. “The head gasket blows.”

“Yes. Cylinder cracks. Water flows into cylinder.”

“Steam.”

“Then accident. Two men standing in front of discharge from broken gasket.”

“The call goes out, and here I am.”

“With our happy crew.”

“What time did it happen?”

Chief flipped to find the proper computer sheet. “Oh-four-forty-eight hours, thirty-five-point-oh-nine seconds.”

“Exact.”

“Right now, time is all I know. Cause is not so easy. I am compiling data. Voltage records, alarms, pressure, injector rates.” Razvan flopped a hand on the stack of papers. “
Duten pula calului
.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Go to horse dick.”

“Man. I love how you guys cuss.”