“Are you nuts?” he was told. “We’ve already lost a guy. Besides, we’ve got every Bruiser out. They’re still bringing in sur—” The man stopped abruptly. Aussie could hear voices in the background. Then someone else came on the line.
“Have you tried the oceanographic and torpedo recovery vessel Petrel II? It’s been busy picking up people too, but it’s pretty well equipped. If it’s in the area, it could probably drop over a bottle. I’m guessing you want a water sample for an isotope match? That’d tell you whether it’s oil or garbage.”
“Or both. You got it,” said Aussie. “If it’s an oil spill and there’s no match for it in the Coast Guard’s isotope register, then we’ll know it’s from an intruder. And if that’s the case, I’ll bet it’s the sub.”
“I can call Petrel if you like,” offered the Coast Guard officer.
“No sweat, I’ll do it. Frank Hall’s the skipper, right?”
“You know him?”
“Ex-SEAL buddy of mine. Taught ’im everything he knows.”
“Fine,” said the officer. “Listen — sorry about the guy who answered. He lost his wife on the Turner.”
“Poor bastard,” said Aussie. “He shouldn’t be on duty.”
“I know, but we need everyone we can get. ’Sides, he’s hell-bent about staying on. Wants to get even.”
“Don’t we all. Thanks, buddy. I’ll call the Petrel.”
“What’s going on?” asked the general, sitting on the edge of the sofa, yawning, his shock of silver-gray hair disheveled.
“Possible sea-air anomaly on the Darkstar trace,” Lewis told him. “Close inshore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
As tough as he was, oceanographer and ex-SEAL Frank Hall could not bring himself to “drive” Petrel, as he tersely put it, “straight through” the fogbound waters of Juan de Fuca Strait that he was sure still contained scores of bodies. Accordingly, he had given Petrel’s second mate instructions to strip the stern’s A-frame of the practice torpedo retrieval tackle and replace it with a quick-snap release line with which Petrel could tow her twelve-foot-long Zodiac. With the third mate, Sandra Riley, and two men aboard the Zodiac, it could be cast off from Petrel, if need be, to pick up any survivors or bodies that Hall or his lookouts on Petrel’s bridge might see en route, or to get a quick water sample from the Darkstar anomaly for isotope comparison.
Six and a half miles from the air/sea tadpole-shaped patch, the Petrel’s starboard lookout did see something orange bobbing up and down in the fog-shrouded chop. Hall doubted it was a body — it looked more like a piece of debris. Nevertheless, he alerted the third mate to its position, heard the loud two-stroke-like roar of the Zodiac’s outboard, then saw it as it sped bumpily past Petrel, its bow smacking hard against the waves, which was the price of being out of sync with the frequency of the swells. As a result, the third mate and her two crew were jarred from head to foot, a splatter of spray thrown up by the Zodiac along with a whiff of its gasoline exhaust swept onto the bridge by a westerly wind coming in from the open sea through the choke point between the Olympic peninsula and Vancouver Island, the wind starting to disperse the fog.
“Couldn’t be much louder,” said the bosun, looking down at the Zodiac. “Glad we’re not on a silent mission.”
“Uh-huh,” replied Frank. “But I like it loud in our work.” He meant torpedo retrieval. “If I can’t see it, I can hear it.”
“True,” agreed the bosun, his legs wide apart, his torso leaning forward against the bridge’s brass rail as he fixed his binoculars on the orange object. “Son of a bitch, it’s a zip-up.”
“What?” asked the portside lookout.
“You know, thermal survival suit. Arctic rated. Like a waterproof sleeping bag. Zips up to your eyes. Float on your back — right, Skipper?”
“If you’re lucky,” said Frank, “and don’t get concussed facedown before you hit the water.”
“Zodiac’s just about on it. Reckon whoever—”
“Torpedo!” screamed the station lookout. “Two o’clock! Two hundred yards,” which was the limit of Petrel’s visibility.
Frank hit the stern thruster button, felt the ship surge another three knots, and spun the wheel right, to the starboard quarter. A fast white streak, two feet wide, passed parallel to them on the left side, less than five feet from Petrel’s hull.
“Holy shit! Holy—”
“Be quiet!” Hall told the lookout. “Keep a sharp watch. There could be a pair.”
“Jesus!” said the lookout, despite Hall’s admonition. He was whey-faced, as was the portside lookout, the latter’s eyes big as saucers, staring down at the sea.
“Hey!” It was the cook on the intercom. “That fucker was a dummy, right, Captain?”
“Don’t know,” said Frank. “Weren’t notified. Could be a communication screw-up.”
Down aft on the stern deck, several off-watch crew who’d been observing the Zodiac fading away in the distance as Petrel closed on the anomaly two miles away were also arguing vociferously about the torpedo.
“It wasn’t live, for chrissake,” asserted the winch man who’d hauled up Albinski’s grisly remains. “It was one of ours.”
“How do you know?” an oiler buddy challenged, throwing a wipe rag at him. “You were asleep, you fat fart!” Laughter erupted from the group; a little too hysterical, the bosun thought. It was the kind of response he’d heard while serving aboard a fleet replenishment ship during Desert Storm, the sort of laughter that was more a release of tension after a close miss than because of anything funny.
Hall appeared on the bridge’s starboard wing, immediately recognizable by his Navy toque, yellow wet-weather jacket, and hailer. “Everybody back to work! I want six additional lookouts, two for’ard, two midships, two aft. It’s possible there might be more survivors.”
“Yes, sir. Any news from the Zodiac about the zip-up?”
“No, not yet.”
“Was that a live torpedo, sir?” asked an oiler emerging from the galley.
“I don’t know,” replied Frank. I’ll find out.” With that, he returned to the bridge.
“ ’Course it was live,” said one of the deck crew as they began to disperse. “That’s why he wants more lookouts, right?”
“Don’t sweat it. He told us he’s on to it. He’ll tell us as soon as he knows. He’s a straight shooter.”
“Yeah,” mumbled the departing oiler. “Like the guy who fired that damn torpedo.”
“Can barely see our Zodiac now,” commented the first mate, his binoculars back on the Zodiac. “But it looks as if they’re hauling someone aboard.”
“Anomaly one thousand yards,” reported the first mate.
“Prepare for station,” Frank announced on the ship’s PA while punching in SLOW AHEAD on the computer console.
Petrel’s third mate’s voice crackled into the chart room aft of the bridge, her voice of exhaustion and depression giving way to an oxymoronic report to Halclass="underline" “Survivor — dead!”
“Bring ’im in,” said Frank, who now made a GPS check. It showed that due to winds and tidal shift, Petrel was a quarter mile west of the oil spill — if that’s what the anomaly was. He corrected course, watching the sweep arm on his amber radar screen picking up the tiny blip that was the despondent third mate and the two crewmen returning to Petrel with the bright Day-Glo survival suit. The corpse was of a dark-complexioned man, late forties or perhaps younger, looking older because of the bluish pallor of his skin. A man whom no one on the Petrel recognized, like so many of the dead they and the Coast Guard had fished out from the strait in the last forty-two hours.