Zodiac (11 page)

The rent-a-dicks were lurking nearby in an open boat. There was no need for stealth, so we just warmed up the Mercury and let them eat our wake. We were quickly out of sight, and it's hard to track by sound when your own motor is blatting away ten feet behind you. Headed north, just to give them the wrong idea, then doubled back and homed in on the end of the diffuser.

I can dive if I have to, but it's not my thing. This time we needed lots of divers, though, and in any case the principle had to be tested. Arty saved me from certain embarrassment and possible demise by pointing out that I'd hooked up my tubes wrong. As we got them fixed, Fisk winked at me. “From here on out,” he said, “I'm an objective journalist, sort of.”

“Funny you should say that, since I'm about to commit a criminal act. Sort of.” And I fell off the Zodiac.

After a certain amount of aimless swimming around, I located the diffuser. It wasn't putting much out right now, so I couldn't follow the black cloud. And Tom was right, the current was powerful,
and a greenhorn like me would end up in Newark if he didn't keep swimming south.

But I had some big old magnets, things that would grip with a force of a hundred pounds, and I'd brought one along. Once I found the diffuser, I slapped the magnet on and tied myself to that with some rock-climbing webbing. This way I could plant my flippers and lean back against the tug of the rope while I worked.

From here on in it was just a problem of industrial engineering. How many holes could we plug per diver per hour, and how could we make it go faster? The key was to assemble the bowl/gasket/bolt/wingnut contraptions in the Zodiacs and hand them to the divers as they were needed.

The plug fit better than I deserved. There would be some leakage owing to the curvature of the pipe, but the diffuser's ability to emit toxic substances would be cut down to a thousandth of the norm. It was easy to hook the curved end of the bolt under the crossbar and twirl the wingnut down to tighten it. I took my time and estimated how far we could pretighten the wingnuts in the Zodiacs so that the divers wouldn't have to spend cumulative hours twisting them down.

Then I smeared some pipe cement over the threads. Hopefully it would harden up and prevent the wingnuts from being removed.

Not bad. I pretightened the wingnut on another assembly, checked my watch, swam to the next hole, and plugged it. That took five minutes. Five minutes per hole meant five hundred diver-minutes. They'd spend half their time farting around with air tanks and other friction, so we needed a thousand diver-minutes, or something like sixteen diver-hours. If we wanted to do it in four hours, we'd need four divers.

When I broke the water, our objective journalist was in a truly passionate clinch with Artemis. His fault. I'd made a point of waving my light around to warn them. When making love to granola commandos, leave your eyes open. They broke apart and I pretended to be looking the other way.

“I'm in luck,” I said. “We only need four divers. And we happen to have four, besides me—so I can stay on top. Where I belong.”

Artemis dunked me for that. Then we went back to the
Blowfish
, which blazed with light and cast a heavenly garlic smell across the water. Jim was up cooking—it had to be Jim, whose passion for garlic was fine by me.

“I'm not trying to sound, like, militaristic,” I announced to the tofu-eating multitude, “but we have a go, Houston.”

Everyone said “all right” and some raised an herbal toast. Now that these people were used to me, they were getting into the project. The prospect of destroying a mile-long toxic waste diffuser—hell, destroying
anything
a mile long—was a fiendish temptation.

“You want to call the plant, then?” Jim asked.

“I figure, as soon as we're done eating, we go over there and start. We've got two divers here and two at the TraveLodge and they'll be meeting us in half an hour. So once we get it working smoothly, get all those initial bugs worked out—”

“The part of the operation where we look like assholes,” Debbie said, translating.

“—correct, we shut down the plant. That'll take about thirty seconds on the phone. Then we start the carnival.” With Fisk present, I wasn't going to get any more explicit than that.

It all went pretty well, except that Fisk suddenly admitted, when the
Blowfish
was halfway there, that he had a gram of coke in his photographer's vest. He decided to fess up when he noticed that we all went through one another's clothing, looking for anything that could be construed as a drug or weapon; for obvious reasons we always did this when we were likely to get busted. And once Fisk owned up, I felt guilty and admitted to a square of blotter acid in my wallet which, since it was on a Boston Public Library card I didn't think would ever be noticed. But guilt is guilt.

LSD is a violation of Sangamon's Principle. It's a complicated molecule and hence makes me nervous. But sometimes you get in
situations so awful, or so physically taxing, that nothing else will penetrate.

So the library card was burned, its ashes scattered, and Fisk's coke went up certain noses. We attacked our task with renewed vigor.

The TraveLodge people showed up a little late and we hustled them off to work. I hung out on shore, watching the media and authorities gather. They took pictures of me inflating a child's large wading pool. Hard to look like a commando when you're doing that; we'd have to get us a pump.

I have to get the toxics off the bottom of the sea and onto the cathode-ray tubes of the public in order for this kind of gig to work and, because the diffuser was completely hidden, this wouldn't be easy. All we had to show was a bunch of scuba divers jumping into the water with salad bowls and toilet parts and coming back up without them. So about the time all our media were in place, I took a Zode out and borrowed Tom from the salad-bowl operation. We went out to the
Blowfish
, picked up a portable pump and motored back in toward shore. Tom swam down to the diffuser and put the pump's intake hose into a diffuser hole, and I hauled the Zode up onto the beach and dragged the pump's output hose into the wading pool. Minicams clustered like flies on a muffin. I'd chosen a pool with a nice bright yellow bottom, so the Swiss Bastards' black sludge hit it with a nice mediapathic splash.

We ran the pump until the pool was nearly full. Along with Zodiacs and moonsuits, wading pools are among my favorite tools. We were lucky here, because the waste
looked
really bad. Sometimes you get stuff that's clear as water, and it's hard to convince people that it's really just as dangerous. After the pool, we also filled a couple of 55-gallon drums—these we'd chain to the doors of the New Jersey Statehouse in a couple of days—and then we were all done with the pump. I went over to the Omni and picked up the phone.

Every large corporation has its own telephone maze, its juicy numbers and dead ends, its nickel-plated bitch queens and sugary
do-gooders. I'd already navigated this particular maze from Boston on my WATS line. So I dialed a particular extension three or four times, until I got the receptionist I wanted, and she punched me through to the plant manager.

“Yes?” he said, kind of groggy. I checked the Omni's clock. It was only 8:30.

“Yes, this is Sangamon Taylor from GEE International. How are you today?”

“What do you want?”

“I'm fine, thanks. Uh, we've discovered a big pipe sticking out into the ocean that's putting very large amounts of hazardous wastes right into the water. In fact, of the six pollutants that had EPA has licensed you to discharge into the water at this point, you're exceeding the legal limit on all six. And since they're very dangerous substances, what you're doing is illegally endangering the health and welfare of everyone who lives in this region, which is a lot of people. So, uh, we're shutting the diffuser off now, and I'd recommend that you stop putting wastes into it, for obvious reasons. If you'd like to get in touch with us, we're down at Blue Kills Beach. Would you like to take down our phone number here?”

“Listen, buddy, if you think that's just some little old pipe, you're wrong.”

So I gave him a complete description of the pipe and what we were doing to plug it.

By this time the Omni's window had become kind of a TV screen for all the media to watch. I rolled the window down and turned the phone over to the “speaker” setting so that they could hear the whole conversation. On the whole, it was calm and professional, no fireworks. I go out of my way to be polite, and people entrusted with running huge chemical plants, unlike some of their bosses, tend to be in control of themselves. One techie to another. It's the flacks and executives who fly off the handle, because they have no understanding of chemistry. They don't imagine they might be wrong.

Half an hour later, our divers told me that nothing was coming out of the diffuser any more.

By that time I was the ringmaster of a full-scale media circus. Each crew had to be taken out on a Zodiac, given a thrilling ride through the surf, given a chance to videotape our divers and to walk around on the
Blowfish
and nuzzle the ship's cat. Meanwhile, Debbie hung out on the beach to placate those who were waiting their turn, giving them interviews, telling jokes and war stories—and later, confronting the small army dispatched here by the corporation. Fortunately she was well cut out for that; dinky, tough, quick-witted and exceedingly cute. Not the flummoxed rad/fem/les they were hoping for.

For a big outfit, the Swiss Bastards were pretty quick on their feet. They'd already xeroxed up their press releases, and they always had reams of prepackaged crap about eyedroppers in railway tank cars and the beneficent works of the chemical industry. You know: “These compounds are rapidly and safely dispersed into a concentrated solution of dihydrogen oxide and sodium chloride, containing some other inorganic salts. Sound dangerous? Not at all. In fact, you've probably gone swimming in it—this is just a chemist's way of describing salt water.” This is precisely the sort of witticism that TV reporters love to steal and pass off as their own, granting their stories a cheery conclusion on which to cut back to the beaming anchor-droids. It's much more upbeat than talking about liver tumors, and it's why we have to do this business with wading pools.

When I got back from taking a local TV reporter on his joyride, the suits were fully mobilized. They'd set up a folding table on the beach with their nicely forested property as a back-drop. Tactical error on my part! I should have strung a nice big banner out across that fence so they couldn't use it. We had a big roll of banner stuff in the Omni—green nylon cloth on a white backing—so I asked Debbie and Tanya if they could try to whip something up real quick.

They'd propped one end of their table up on some bundles of press releases, because the beach sloped toward the water, as beaches do. It was too much to hope that the incoming tide would undermine and
topple it. I was tempted to speed that process up with the pump, but that would be openly juvenile and too close to actual assault. Their head flack was waddling around in the sand, which was pouring in over the tops of his hand-tooled dress shoes. They even had makeup people handy to spackle his trustworthy face.

To watch a big corporation throw its PR machine into action can be kind of imposing. I got scared the first couple of times, but fortunately I was with some GEE veterans who were old hands as trashing press conferences. You have to attack on two levels—challenging what the PR flacks are saying, and at the same time challenging the conference itself, shattering the TV spell.

I waved Artemis close in to shore. As soon as the Swiss flack started in with his prepared statement, I nodded at her and she cranked up her motor pretty loud, in neutral, forcing him to raise his voice. That's very important. They want to be media cool, like JFK, and if you make them shout they become media hot, like Nixon. I started thinking about five-o'clock shadows and how we could cast one on a flack's face. An idle inspiration that was probably too subtle for us.

The flack unleashed his poster about eyedroppers in tank cars. I ran to the Omni for my poster about banana peels on football fields. He talked about sodium chloride and dihydrogen oxide, and I countered that calling trinitrotoluene “dynamite” doesn't make it any safer. He showed a map of the plant, then of Blue Kills, showing where the big pipe ran underneath the city and out to this beach.

That was fine with me. If he wanted to show people how their toxic waste was passing under their homes, let him.

In fact, I couldn't figure out what the hell he was thinking. Why did he want to emphasize that? I started flipping through one of their press packets and found the same map, with their underground pipe highlighted. Exactly what they didn't want people to know.

Then the bastard drygulched me. He almost nailed me to the wall.

“By plugging up the diffuser at the end of this pipe, the GEE people are running the risk that the pipe will burst, somewhere back in here …” (pointing to a residential neighborhood) “… and release
these compounds into the soil. This should lay to rest any misconceptions about their concern for the people of Blue Kills. What these people are, pure and simple, is t—”

“What he's saying,” I shouted, stepping up behind him and holding a salad bowl in the air, “is that this pipeline …” I pointed to the map “… that's carrying tons of toxic waste under people's homes, is so fragile, so shoddily made and poorly maintained, that it's
weaker
than a contraption made from a salad bowl and a toilet part that we just whipped up on the spur of the moment.”

I could see the guy deflate. He refused to turn around. “And if these compounds are as safe as he says, why is he worried about them getting into the soil? Why does he equate that threat with terrorism? That should tell you how safe it really is.”