“I agree,” Blake said, “but we’re only speaking for ourselves.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Sanchez said, his relief evident.
“Tugs?” Blake asked.
“Only room for two,” Sanchez said. “One to push the stern into the wall while the other pulls back from our port bow to help turn us into the bank.”
“OK,” Blake said, “but I’m going to hang off the port anchor. If necessary, we’ll drop it to help turn. Warn the bow tug to stay clear.”
“Given the depth,” McCluskey said, “we might run over it if we drop it.”
“If we end up having to use it, that’ll be the least of our worries,” Blake said.
Calderon looked at the two pilots, who nodded agreement, conceding the point.
“Very well,” Calderon said to Blake and Milam, “it is decided. I leave you gentlemen to your work. Capitáns Sanchez and McCluskey remain. If you need anything at all, just ask.”
Handshakes were exchanged, and the group parted. Milam flipped the paper on his clipboard and studied the diagram.
“Shift ballast anytime,” he said to Blake. “I’ll be out of the last ballast tank before the water reaches me.”
“You sure?” Blake asked. “I don’t want to get your feet wet.”
“Might be better to drown early and get it over with,” Milam growled.
Blake gazed at Pedro Miguel, visible in the distance below Centennial Bridge, as the engine labored astern to hold Luther Hurd in the current, and the crew descended to the waiting launch. They’d all volunteered, but he kept a minimum, all unmarried except for himself and Milam. Despite his efforts to put her ashore, Arnett had asserted her prerogative as ranking deck officer to man the bow. She was there now, with three seamen to handle lines and run the anchor windlass. Green, Blake’s best helmsman, manned the wheel. Milam kept his three engineers.
Blake had refused ACP help. There were enough grieving families in Panama. For the same reason, the pilots had refused offers of their colleagues. The plan would work or fail regardless of the number of pilots aboard.
The second engineer began tugging hoses from the last tank as Milam emerged and flashed a thumbs-up. Blake waved in reply as the engineers started aft.
“I should get forward,” McCluskey said, starting for the stairs.
“God be with you, Roy,” Sanchez said softly.
“God be with us all, Carlos,” McCluskey replied.
The launch with the crew moved away, Blake silently wishing he was aboard. A chopper approached, cameraman perched in the door. Wonderful, he cursed.
Blake watched the crew scramble to safety on the west lock wall before stowing the binoculars. Arnett’s group passed a line to the bow tug, which moved away, connected and ready to match the tanker’s speed. The tug at a safe distance, he saw Arnett signal Alvarez at the windlass, then peer down over the bulwark to watch the port anchor. Alvarez eased the anchor out, the massive chain clunking in the hawse pipe, until Arnett’s balled fist shot up and Alvarez stopped the wildcat. She barked an order, and he spun the brake tight and disengaged the wildcat, leaving the anchor dangling, ready for release. Blake felt quiet pride at McCluskey’s approving nod.
Sanchez spoke into his radio, alerting both tugs.
“Dead slow ahead,” he said.
“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Blake repeated, at the engine controls.
“Steer one two five,” Sanchez ordered.
“One two five, aye,” Green said.
“Slow ahead,” Sanchez ordered, then after a moment asked, “How’s she answering the helm?”
Sweat rolled down Green’s dark face. “She wants to do as she pleases, Cap’n.”
“Half ahead,” Sanchez ordered.
“Half ahead, aye,” Blake replied as they increased speed to gain steerage way.
Soon they were moving fast. Too fast. Sanchez felt like a man on his first ski jump, deciding halfway down it was a bad idea. They accelerated as the cross section of the channel decreased and the laws of physics took over. The same volume passing a smaller opening in the same amount of time must move faster. He couldn’t control her at this speed. Better to use the tugs.
“Dead slow ahead,” he barked.
“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Blake confirmed, concern in his voice.
On the bow, McCluskey raised his radio, then lowered it without speaking. There could be only one command pilot.
The stern crabbed to port, and Sanchez barked an order to the tugs, overcorrecting into a series of wider and wilder swings as he struggled for control. With the bow pointed dead center at the lock, he ordered an all-out pull to port by the bow tug.
Water frothed as the tug strained. The line snapped taut and parted with a crack, recoiling in both directions, a huge rubber band. It killed one tug hand instantly and knocked a second overboard. On the ship, the other end struck McCluskey and men near him at knee height, slamming them into the steel bulwark, before whipping around a fairlead to strike Alvarez at the windlass controls. Only Arnett was spared, and she stared down at Alavarez’s bloody remains.
“LET GO THE ANCHOR!” her radio screamed, and she clawed at the brake, panic rising as it didn’t budge. She bent to pull a wheel wrench from beneath Alvarez’s corpse as she heard Sanchez shouting tug orders into the radio.
Sanchez ordered the bow tug back to push the stern to starboard and the stern tug forward to push the bow to port. The stern tug captain hesitated, then dashed forward through the rapidly closing gap between the ship and the guide wall, all too aware of the risk.
Arnett had the wrench now, gripped in her left hand and multiplying her leverage. The wheel broke free, and the anchor splashed as the giant chain surged through the spinning wildcat. She closed her eyes as the shower of dirt from the running chain peppered her face. The chain slowed as the anchor hit the bottom, then paid out in jerks as the ship’s motion dragged the chain out.
“SNUB IT UP! NOW!” her radio squawked.
She tightened the brake with her good hand. The chain stopped, only to break free again as the ship’s motion lifted links off the bottom and the weight overcame the brake. She cursed as the wrench slipped from her hand and bounced under the windlass, then gripped the wheel with both hands and pulled, screaming as bones separated. She collapsed over the wheel with a relieved sob as the brake held at last.
A muffled boom mocked her as the anchor jerked free to crash into the hull, and Luther Hurd continued her headlong rush.
Carlos Sanchez was a vigorous sixty, respected and near retirement. If unequal to the task at hand, he was by seniority the “least unqualified,” and both honor and pride had precluded his refusal when the task arose, despite the dull chest pains he’d suffered for days without complaint. Only a coward would hide behind such trivial discomfort in the face of his responsibilities. But the pain struck again as he started the run at the lock, exploding this time, clouding his judgment during the most stressful minutes of his life. The final sledgehammer blows induced visions of floating bodies, each staring up as if they knew they’d been sacrificed to an old man’s pride, as pain stole his breath and speech. He turned apologetically to Blake, sure in his last moments he was the architect of a great failure, shamefully grateful he wouldn’t live to see it.
Blake knew Sanchez was dead before he reached him.