“Maybe our Colonel Mercer,” Morrie suggested.
“Could be,” said Bill. “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want us around. Do you feel like claim jumpers?”
“No,” answered Don, “but I don’t like the idea of having to fight somebody for the privilege of pumping gas. We’re continuing with the survey.”
Several places along the hull showed similar marks, though none were deep enough to penetrate the steel. They found no new ruptures.
“We’re in luck,” said Don as Squid rose towards the surface. “Tomorrow morning we’ll secure the valve mounting, and bring the umbilical down. Day after tomorrow we’ll be in business.” Condensation dripped on his head and shoulders. “Unless those people in Monterey make trouble.”
Allison stood on the roof of the Monterey City Hall and looked northeast through binoculars. The sun was long since down, and the bay was black. The ship’s running lights were tiny but bright.
“Think they can do it?” he asked Mercer.
“I dunno. They got that tug and a couple of barges. They don’t look like a holiday cruise.”
“Griswold says they’d need a submersible — one of those minisubs.”
“Maybe they got one.” Mercer squatted down against the parapet, out of the wind. “The hell with ‘em. We’ll go get our gas somewhere else.”
“No,” said Allison. “They’re not getting a goddamn drop of our oil. None. None.”
“Hey, okay — 1 hear you. No need to yell. But what’s the difference? They get our oil, we get somebody else’s.”
“No. The bastards get that oil, they’ll be back for our food—”
“What food?”
“Our food, our weapons. Jesus, there’re millions of people in the Bay Area. Give ‘em gas and they’ll be down here in trucks, like locusts. Uh-uh. I’m stopping ‘em right now, while I’ve got ‘em by the balls.”
“Oh, we got ‘em by the balls, huh? I didn’t notice.”
“You get some artillery in place. That ship isn’t more than four miles offshore from Moss Landing. We’ll sink the bastards.”
“Aw, shit.” But Mercer stood up. “I’ll try it, but—”
“Just do it, Odell. Do it. By tomorrow morning.”
“Hey, Bob — something the matter?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. Just get those goddamn guns set up, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He walked away, a shadow in the darkness. Allison didn’t notice; he had already turned to study the ship’s lights again.
Just before sunrise, Don and Morrie boarded Squid again. An hour later, after various items had been loaded aboard and tested, the submersible sank into the sea. The eastern sky had been a pink-and-white smear of clouds; within seconds, Squid was sinking through blackness.
While Morrie piloted the submersible, Don ran through a long check list. He found he could read without too much strain, though his eyes still felt scratchy. The descent was uneventful.
When the tanker’s hull emerged out of the darkness, Morrie steered Squid east, towards the bows. The water was browner and murkier than yesterday; the current must have shifted west a little.
“This’ll do,” said Don. He gripped a manipulator knob. The arm went out, poised over the hull, and began to whine. Don inspected the disc-shaped multiple tool at its end, rotating it until a drill bit locked into position.
The other manipulator, controlled by Morrie, drew a heavy plate from its carrier on Squid’s belly. It was well over a metre square, with a sixty-centimetre hole in its centre and smaller holes near its corners. The plate slid onto the hull with a muffled thump; Squid wallowed upward until Don corrected its buoyancy. Then his hand went back to the manipulator knob. The tool arm went out, poised over one of the plate’s corner holes, and descended. The drill bit slid through the hole and touched the steel of the hull; Squid began to vibrate as the drill dug in. Morrie shifted the sub’s balance to keep it level.
The drilling took a long time. Sometimes the water turned dark brown, opaque with oil droplets, and Don waited until he could see the drill bit again.
“Through,” he said at last, and withdrew the drill. A jet of pale gasoline shot up. As the gas spread, Don rotated the tool head to lock in a bolt driver and lowered it into the corner hole. Squeezing a trigger produced a loud clang; the submersible shuddered, and the gas flow stopped. One corner of the plate was secured.
Three more times Don drilled through the hull; when the plate was fully secured, he began to cut around the central circle. The diamond saw was effective but slow, and gasoline swirled out of the lengthening cut. The noise and vibration went on and on. When the radio crackled, Don gratefully stopped cutting.
It was Bill Murphy. “We got another message, Don. It’s from some guy named. Allison. Says he’s Colonel Mercer’s boss. He wants to talk with you.”
“Can you patch him through?”
“Will do.” A moment later, a strange voice sounded scratchily in the speaker.
“Hello? This is Robert Anthony Allison. Am I talking to the head of the salvage operation?”
“Yes. Donald Kennard.”
“I understand you’re in a sub, down on the tanker.”
“Yes.”
“Well, my friend, you have just one hour to get back up to the surface and start moving out of the bay. One hour from now.”
“Can’t do it.”
“My friend, you will do it. In one hour, six howitzers will start firing on you. They will keep firing until they sink your ship”
“That’s insane,” Don snapped. “You’d set the slick on fire. It’d burn till the tanker was empty.”
“You’re full of shit,” Allison shouted. “That’s diesel oil and it won’t bum. Even if it did, only one tank is leaking. My people tell me the other tanks are still intact.”
“Mr. Allison. We’ve already cut into another tank. A lot of gasoline is escaping right now. Some of it’s already on the surface. It will burn and it’ll ignite the diesel. That’ll make the rest of the cargo unsalvageable for months, if ever.”
“Great. I’d rather have that than see you bastards walk away with it. You’ve got fifty-six minutes.”
“I need more time than that,” Don said. “I’m coming in to talk to you.”
The answer was a long time coming. “What’s to talk about?”
“Sharing the tanker.”
Again, silence. Then: “Have you got the authority to negotiate?”
“This is my project, Mr. Allison.”
“Okay. Come into Monterey harbour. How long will it take you?”
“Maybe two hours, three hours tops.”
“All right. You’ll be met.”
The transmission ended, and Bill Murphy came on. “This is a hell of a note, Don. That guy sounds crazy. You sure you’ll be okay?”