Firespill (12 page)
Farley’s small, red face glowered up from the green baize-topped table that seemed to Gerrard like a moat between the warring east-west factions of his cabinet. The British Columbian’s rasping voice spat out the words at his fellow M.P. “And what’s that supposed to mean, eh? That I don’t care? Let me remind—”
Bern, his face now as livid as Farley’s, cut in. “I am merely making the observation that the Honorable Member for Vancouver East and some of his colleagues have repeatedly voiced what I consider, and I daresay what many others consider, an almost obsessive anti-Americanism and that this is neither the time nor the place to—”
Farley could hardly speak. “Good God! You’ve got gall calling
me
obsessive after your bloody performance in Washington! All that ass licking on import quotas. Why didn’t you just sell them Alberta and be done with it?”
Prime Minister Gerrard was disgusted by the vehemence of the two members, especially Farley’s willful vulgarity, but although he could have stopped it with a word or two, he sat quietly and let them air their mutual dislike. He had learned that in his cabinet compromise was invariably easier to achieve once these two had vented their spleen and were feeling a little ashamed of their loss of control.
While the other members sat quietly, waiting for the ritual name calling to pass, Gerrard’s private secretary entered the room. Studiously ignoring the acrimonious exchange, he bent down and whispered to the Prime Minister, who simply nodded, then leaned forward again to watch the Honorable Members. He had the air of a man at a cockfight of which he totally disapproved but with which he still felt it prudent not to interfere. Several junior cabinet members glanced at each other; the minister for health looked pointedly at his watch. It was the external affairs minister’s turn. “The trouble with you, Farley, is that with typical socialist fervor you love humanity but can’t stand people—particularly those to the south of us.”
Farley pushed his blotter to the middle of the table as if he were throwing down a gauntlet. He turned to Gerrard, dismissing Bern’s remark as beneath contempt. His voice had lost its grating aggressiveness. He spoke slowly, without profanity, but with such pained restraint that the older cabinet members knew that if Gerrard did not step in he would soon burst into an uncontrollable rage. “Prime Minister, perhaps you can enlighten our dull-witted colleague and explain to him that the only point I wish to make is that whether we are talking about Americans or Chinese, there is a simple arithmetical equation involved.”
He glared at Bern, who was staring out at the quadrangle again. “It is this. There are two people trapped by this inferno—which, I might add, would never have happened had we been more insistent upon policing tanker traffic on the west coast. As the chances of rescue hardly seem promising, the idea of risking the lives of eighty-four seamen—eighty-four
people
if the minister for external affairs would prefer—should be examined closely. In short, I’m saying that the minister and those colleagues who agree with him seem to be more impressed by the status of the unfortunate victims than by the number of rescuers who could well be lost. That is my point, and I fail to see how it can possibly be misconstrued as a petty display of nationalism.”
Bern turned back from the window. “I’m fully aware of the … statistics Mr. Farley so assiduously quotes. The point I am trying to make, however, is that in such matters we do not, nor should we, make our decisions on the basis of slide rule projections. If we did, every missing child would be left to perish on the basis that we risk a hundred men in the search.” The minister leaned forward, his weight supported by widely spread fingers drained white from the strain. “Clearly,
clearly
this is morally unacceptable—quite apart from being thickheaded.”
Farley pushed the blotter further out and jumped up angrily, but Gerrard held up his hand. Enough steam had been let off for both sides’ egos to have been satisfied. “All right, gentlemen, you’ve both had your say. All I can add is to say thank God cabinet meetings are not televised. This has not been a particularly edifying spectacle.” There was an awkward silence as both Farley and Bern sat looking into the distance. “Be that as it may,” continued the P.M., “I concede that both points of view have merit. I’m sure we all concur with Eric’s argument, namely, that we cannot vote on matters of this nature simply on the basis of numbers. But,” he added quickly, “John is likewise correct in pointing out that this is an enterprise involving an extremely high level of risk to over eighty sailors, and we owe them equal consideration. Humanitarian concern notwithstanding, we are, after all, representatives of the Canadian people, and their interests must come first.”
Farley was beaming. “For my part,” the Prime Minister went on, “while I am in favor of the rescue attempt, I could not possibly insist that the submarine go to the rescue at any cost. Therefore, I propose the following: that
Swordfish
be instructed to enter the area, but that her captain, in the face of all the unknowns—disrupted communications, for example—be free to decide to abort the mission should he consider the prospect of rescue hopeless. This seems to me at once the fairest and most humane solution, bearing in mind the two points of view we’ve just heard.”
The cabinet room began buzzing with group conversations, and with each rise in the noise level the tension slackened. Even so, Farley, unlike anyone else except the P.M., immediately saw that to abort the rescue attempt on the grounds of its impossibility was not the same as to abort on the basis of unwarranted risk to a ship’s crew. “Prime Minister,” he began.
“Not again,” murmured one of the junior ministers.”
Prime Minister, naturally I’m willing—in fact all of us who had some reservations about rushing into this are now, I think, willing—to go along with your proposal. When someone’s in danger you have to—well, you have to help, that’s all there is to it. But it seems to me very likely that in such unstable conditions, once the initial decision to go in has been made, the captain may not be able to abort. No matter how much he wants to.”
Gerrard frowned impatiently. “Yes, yes. But what’s your point?”
“About the rescue? Simply that we should realize we’re putting an awesome responsibility on the shoulders of that captain, whoever he is.”
“I’m sure we’re all cognizant of that fact.”
Farley nodded. “Very good—but there is one other matter.”
“Well?” asked Gerrard, his irritation mounting.
“Quite apart from a rescue attempt—if the captain decides to make it—I feel that in order to thwart any such future disaster, we must insist as forcibly as possible that the whole supratanker question on the west coast be reexamined—in fact renegotiated with the Department of External Affairs. If necessary the Canadian Coast Guard, or even the navy, might have to enforce territorial sovereignty. In any event, rescue or no rescue, the Americans and the Russians should certainly foot the bill for the entire cleanup.” Farley looked around at his colleagues. “If it can be cleaned up.”
There was some mumbled, halfhearted agreement by several of the cabinet members. Though they agreed in principle with Farley, they nevertheless thought his remark imprudent, if not downright opportunistic. But Farley quickly disabused them of this notion when he pulled out a sheaf of large color stills from his briefcase and passed them around.
The aerial photographs showed wide patches of oil which had advanced to within a few miles of the verdant Alaskan islands. Not far beyond lay the Alaskan and B.C. mainland. Black tongues of oil were licking towards the coast. In and around the crude, the red-and blue-dyed octanes gyrated and eddied in the currents like different-colored ices melting in a vast chemical pudding. One member, noting how close the spill was to the shoreline, asked anxiously, “When were these taken?”
“Three hours ago.”
“Jesus! What’s the scale?”
“One inch to ten miles. You’re looking at a hundred-mile front. That’s only a small fraction of it. We’re not sure how small yet, because of the tides and the smoke cover. What we do know is that every spill in the Northeast Pacific is catching fire like a string of firecrackers.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Not a damn thing. I’m afraid,” said Farley, passing a still on to Bern, “it’s up to our American friends. All we can do is pray.”
Bern was shocked by the proximity of the spill. Though they had been discussing its extent when the President had called about the Vice-President, Bern had not realized just how close the slick was. “My God. Just as well it’s not too heavily populated out there. A flash fire anywhere along that shore would wipe out a town in a matter of hours.”
Farley spoke with a tinge of sarcasm which even now he could not resist. “Well, of course there is Vancouver—that only has three million.”
“I meant further north,” Bern retorted.
“I’m talking about the whole bloody coast,” said Farley. “These pictures were taken north, off Prince Rupert, but in a few days the situation’ll be nasty in the south if those winds rise. It’s been a dry, hot summer. Once those B.C. forests catch fire, there’ll be a bloody inferno.”
“And the same for Washington State,” said someone, tired of Farley’s petty vindictiveness.
“Quite,” put in Bern. “In fact, it’ll be very bad for the three contiguous western United States—especially California. Less chance of rain there, too.”
Farley glanced over at the minister for external affairs. “Well, you see the point about the tankers; they’re too bloody close in.”
Bern nodded. “Yes, you’re right,” he said quietly. He paused, then looked straight at Farley. “I’d hate to be out there—wouldn’t you?”
Farley nodded in return. Fair was fair. “Yes,” he said, “I sure as hell would Poor bastards.”
Gerrard patted Farley on the back, then called out, “Gentlemen!” There was silence. “Gentlemen, I take it then we are agreed on the instructions to give the submarine. Important as the pollution problem is, we must give the rescue attempt our immediate attention. My secretary is waiting to transmit the message to Admiral Jolley at Maritime Command. And in any case, without wishing to be mercenary about it, in the light of what Mr. Farley has just shown us, the rescue mission may well elicit a much more favorable response from Washington apropos the cleanup. Those in favor?”
Every hand was raised. The Prime Minister smiled. “Thank you. I will notify Washington accordingly.” He surveyed the room, his face suddenly alight with his famous conspiratorial grin. “I suggest we adjourn until we have more detailed information on the spill. I’ve been informed that Washington is sending satellite pictures. They should arrive shortly.”
His secretary whispered and the P.M. held up his hand. “Oh, yes—before you go. The minister of defense has asked me if the press is to know of our decision. I would advise ‘no comment’ until I check with President Sutherland.” He looked sternly at Farley. “He has enough trouble on his hands, and with the flack he’s getting already, he may wish to keep it quiet, at least for a while. I’ll let you know for sure when we reconvene. That’s all.”
As the room emptied and the last member filed out, Henri Gerrard, looking as fresh as if he had just shaved and breakfasted, turned to his secretary and asked quietly, “Has the message to the sub been sent?”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. Maritime Command sent it thirty minutes ago.”
“Good,” said Gerrard, stuffing his pipe with his favorite cherry blend. “If Farley ever finds that out, he’ll have a fit.”
Sutherland put down the red receiver and announced, “The Canadians are going in.” There was an audible sigh of relief in the Operations Room. He turned to Henricks. “Bob, have Admiral Klein radio the Vice-President. ‘My lov—’ ” The President flushed. “ ‘My regards.’ And tell them to hang tight. A sub’s on the way.”
Ten
O’Brien knocked sharply on the captain’s door. Kyle, sleepy-eyed, swung off his bunk and instinctively reached for his cap. In his dream, he was still ashore. When he realized where he was, he replaced it, got up, and doused his face with cold water. Still waking up, groping for a towel, he asked his executive gruffly, “What is it?”
O’Brien handed him Admiral Jolley’s message from Maritime Command. Kyle had a habit of moving his lips when scanning messages. Now his mouth was a thin, hard line, and a small muscle worked at the hinge of his jaw as he read:
RR RCWEWW
DE RCWEW 171
ZNR UUUUU
O
FM MARPACHQ ESQUIMALT
TO SWORDFISH
BT
SECRET OPS 143 FOR COMMANDING OFFICER
SUBJECT: VICE PRESIDENT OF UNITED STATES
1 PRIME MINISTER INFORMS US THAT US VICE PRESIDENT ENCIRCLED BY FIRESPILL LAT 57° 19′ NORTH LONG 136° 17′ WEST
2 SWORDFISH ORDERED TO PROCEED WITH ALL POSSIBLE HASTE TO ABOVE POSITION AND RESCUE VICE PRESIDENT AND COMPANION ABOARD FISHING BOAT
3 REALIZE RISK INVOLVED GIVEN YOUR SUBMERSAL TIME BUT NO OTHER MEANS AVAILABLE
4 SHOULD YOU CONSIDER RESCUE HOPELESS YOU HAVE PERMISSION TO ABORT
5 MARPACHQ WILL PREPARE ALL POSSIBLE ASSISTANCE
6 GOOD LUCK
BT
He stood silently for a moment. Then he coughed and looked up almost defiantly at O’Brien. “Well? You’ve got the coordinates?” He said it as if he were upbraiding a junior officer the first time out. O’Brien found his tone irritating, but he couldn’t help admiring the Old Man. Admittedly the captain had been a little grumpy lately, but now here they were, instructed to rescue the Vice-President of the United States of America, the most important order either of them might receive in his career, and all old Kyle could say was, “Well?” as if his executive had wakened him unnecessarily from his afternoon nap.
O’Brien smiled. “Yes, sir, we’ve got the coordinates.”