Firespill by Ian Slater Read Free Book Online

the land-warmed air of the Alaskan Panhandle.
    What was worrying Salish was all this reliance on machines. Not only did it make men lazier in their surveillance duties and blunt their general alertness, but whenever one thing went wrong in the myriad electronic systems that guided the ship, it made him wonder what else was wrong below decks, deep in the “mine shafts,” as the men called the labyrinth of tanks, pipes, and tunnels. Were the explosimeters or gas registers registering, or were there invisible and highly flammable pockets of vapor building up—pockets which only needed one spark to blow out the Butterworth tank covers like rockets and rip open the sides of the supraship as easily as one might explode a balloon? One spark. And the tanker wasn’t afloat that didn’t leak gas somewhere, somehow.
    Salish had nightmares about leading inspection crews down into the tunnels to check the empty tanks after they had been automatically cleaned. The continual fear of such descents was encountering an unseen layer of highly concentrated gas lying quietly in one of the many bays that made up each tank, waiting to envelop a man the instant the movement of his body punctured the gas bubble. When that happened you blacked out in less than ten seconds. Five minutes more with the hydrocarbons rushing into your brain and you were a vegetable for life. Another minute and you were dead. And even in the emergency drills, it had taken twelve minutes to rush the Drager breathing pack gear down into the bowels of the tank from the nearest “pithead.” On top of that Salish hated having to wear the big antistatic overalls and spark-free slippers which were mandatory. Not only did they make for awkward movement inside the tanks, but they were unbelievably hot. He didn’t mind the inspection tours quite so much on a bright day, when at least reassuring pencil beams of light could be seen penetrating the somber tanks; but when it was overcast, there was no natural light. Even the soft shuffle of the slippers echoed in the vast zeppelin-sized interiors; the leaden tangle of pipes, ladders, and tanks within tanks seemed like cold, damp caverns in which primeval beasts dwelt and died, imprisoned in a world of unending darkness.
    On the MV Sakhalin , a tanker of the same tonnage as the Kodiak , the helmsman was humming because he was bored. As they headed south off the Alexander Archipelago, the sea was calm, and Bykov had discovered that he could maintain the ship’s course with fingertip control. Now and then long wisps of fog raced past like fleeing ghosts. Everything else around the Russian vessel was stone gray.
    Third Officer Yashin turned away from the radar again to prowl nervously about the bridge. “Bykov, stop making that noise.”
    “Sorry, sir.”
    “See anything?”
    “No, sir.”
    “I’ve still got a blip on the scanner. Keep your eyes open.”
    “Yes, sir.” Bykov wondered what it was he was supposed to see in this pea-souper of a fog bank.
    As Yashin sounded the foghorn, Salish started. After fourteen years in the merchant marine, he still wasn’t used to the unnerving sensation the horn blasts gave him. He pulled the cord and answered the other ship, not knowing who she was or where she came from. Then, leaning over the dead anticollision radar screen, he thumped the side of the set with his fist.
    “Goddamn it, that’s the second time in the last half hour.” He swung round, walked quickly to the bridge phone, picked up the receiver, and punched a number. He could hear only a long hum. He hung up and pushed the touch key again. After a few seconds a tired voice answered, “Yeah, Pete?”
    “Sure hope I’m not disturbing you guys,” Salish growled sarcastically.
    “No. Just making a sandwich.”
    “Huh. Well, wake Rostow, will you? Tell him the anticollision’s on the blink again.”
    “Completely out?”
    “Completely. Not a sign of life. Dead. Kaput.”
    “Roger, I’ll tell him.”
    “Don’t