Sam slowly breathed out through pursed lips. About five years ago, he won the international free diving competition at the Devil’s Hole. Of course, he’d been training for it then, and the stakes weren’t life and death.
He kept both throttles fully open and the Sea Scooter screamed towards the clear surface. Sam had no way of keeping track of the time that passed, but he could feel the euphoria and delirium sneaking up.
Then he saw the clear surface up ahead.
He drove diagonally so that he shot up through the surface. Within seconds he had his helmet off and took several deep breaths of fresh air. Only the air wasn’t fresh. It was full of smoke and oil. But it was enough to keep him alive.
Tom removed his helmet and examined the missing section of Sam’s exoskeleton dive tank. “I told you you’re a lousy driver. I had to use all my strength to avoid being thrown into the edge of the opening, and opened like a can of sardines myself.”
Sam smiled. “Hey, if you hadn’t carelessly wrecked your own scooter, I wouldn’t have had to save your ass. But I’m glad you’re alive.”
Tom looked at the smoldering wreckage of the Mississippi. “There’s more smoke than I remember, but I don’t see as many flames. Do you think it worked?”
“I know it did. The foam was flying everywhere through the opening in the deck. I think we just pulled off a miracle for the local environment.” Sam ran his hands along a bulge in his BCD. He recalled the science beaker that Veyron had given him. “One problem though. I couldn’t find any of that green phosphorescent plankton that Veyron wanted me to get. Which means, we’re no closer to working out what’s causing this.”
Tom grinned at him. Pulled something out of his BCD pocked and said, “You mean, some of this?”
Chapter Sixty Six
It was dawn by the time the last of the fires went out on board the Mississippi. The oil solidifiers did their job by stopping the release of any more oil, which meant that what was left could only burn for so long. On the deck the fixed foam spray system choked the life out of the last of the flames.
All in all, it was probably the best response to a near disaster involving an oil supertanker in the last century. It was also the luckiest. Veyron and Tom had gone across earlier in the Sea King to rig a 16-inch hawser rope through the Mississippi’s cat hole. The thick rope, used for towing and mooring, appeared tiny compared to the massive supertanker. They had coordinated with Matthew and remained there while the Maria Helena got underway.
Sam had spoken to the owners of the oil company, who arranged for a shipping yard in Florida to take the Mississippi out of the water. They had also arranged for a dry tanker to meet the Maria Helena off shore in order to decant the remaining oil before the Mississippi was brought out of the water for repairs.
Sam remained on the Maria Helena to manage the logistics of the lost oil cleanup. The damage had been negligible considering the potentially catastrophic amount of oil on board. The owners of the company commenced their risk management plans.
It was nearly ten a.m. and he still hadn’t slept. The Mississippi would be under tow for at least another twenty-four hours. Sam smiled to himself. He could finally get some sleep. He showered and was about to get into his bed when the cell phone rang again.
“Am I speaking with Mr. Sam Reilly?” It was a woman’s voice. Warm and confident. And somehow familiar to him. Although he couldn’t be sure where to place it in particular.
“Yes, who is this?” Sam replied.
“My name is Vanessa Croft.”
“I know who you are. You’ve just been given the democratic nominee for President.”
“I don’t know about given. It was quite a fight, but yes, I’m running for President.”
Sam grinned. “You must be a busy woman Senator. How may I be of service?” Sam was curt, but not unkind.
“I’ve heard about what you did with the Mississippi oil tanker. You saved a lot of lives. Both on the ship and in the surrounding areas. From what I’m told the entire region could have very easily been destroyed if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”
“You’re welcome. But don’t give me too much credit. I scored a large percentage of the remainder of nearly two million barrels of crude oil. They’ve agreed to Lloyds Open Form — don’t worry, I will be well compensated for my efforts.”
“Don’t be ridiculous young man. I know who you are. That sort of money means little to you. You did that because you wanted to save the environment from the catastrophic possibilities of losing all two million barrels into the ocean.”
Of course a politician can tell when someone is lying. She must have told enough of her own to know one. “What can I do for you Ma’am?” he persisted.
“I’m coming out to personally thank you for your assistance. And then I’ll tell you exactly what you can do for me, and for your country.”
Chapter Sixty Seven
Senator Vanessa Croft looked at the damaged supertanker below. The military helicopter gave her an eagle eye view of the averted disaster by making a circuit from above. She’d insisted on getting the information first hand. Her dark brown eyes, wide with excitement, studied the wreckage now under tow.
The hull itself had a number of slight ripples starting from the bow and moving about two thirds of the way along the hull. At first she wondered if they were part of the Mississippi’s naval engineering to increase strength. Then it hit her. The hull had been struck with such monumental force that the entire hull had begun to bend and concertina in on itself. There were several small cracks where the hull could no longer withstand the force of the bend. The deck was black. Burn marks reached the full length of the ship and about half way up the raised bridge towards its stern.
At least twenty engineers had been flown onto the vessel and were currently working below to ensure that it remained afloat long enough to have its oil decanted. She watched as they moved chaotically around the deck.
She felt her heart quicken as she considered her first press statement. Heroes were still working furiously to save the ocean. The gods of elections had smiled kindly and delivered her with a story to take her to the Presidency. She could never have afforded that kind of publicity on her own budget.
Vanessa knew that a good candidate was voted in by the love of the nation, but a candidate is more likely to be voted in on the hate of a nation. Channel that hatred and the mobs will carry you straight to the top. The only difference in her circumstance in contrast to many dictators, was that in this case, the mobs had a right to be angry — and she was the good guy who was going to make it right again.
The helicopter approached the ship that towed the Mississippi. It looked larger than a tugboat. More like an icebreaker, retrofitted for another purpose — although what, no one could guess simply by looking at her. The vessel was sky blue with a grey deck. On the side of its hull were the words, Maria Helena. And below them were the words, Deep Sea Projects. It had a large, raised bridge located towards mid ship, and an entirely flat stern. A single helicopter stood proudly strapped into the helipad. She had no idea what type of helicopter and nor did she care. Behind it, a marking with the letter H showed that it was capable of supporting two helicopters.
All in all, she summed up that the vessel was too proud to be an oversized tugboat and too modest to be a billionaire’s plaything. Of course, she already knew who owned the vessel. Its purpose had been quite intentionally left undisclosed by the Secretary of Defense herself. Whatever projects Sam Reilly was involved in, as well as the crew he employed, was wrapped in a dark shroud of secrecy, and a sort of unspoken immunity from government observation. She could have guessed that beneath its tugboat appearance, the Maria Helena boasted some of the most state of the art underwater equipment in the world.