Firespill (13 page)

“Then we’d better get going—don’t you think?”

“I guess so, sir. What speed?”

Kyle thought for a moment. Should he group up, full ahead together, linking up the sub’s batteries and motors in series, which would give him maximum speed but at the cost of a high drain on the batteries? Or should he limit the rate of drain to full ahead together and keep some reserve power for later on? Keeping a reserve wouldn’t help the Vice-President, but if they didn’t reach her in time, they would need some reserve to get out from under the firespill. With or without the Vice-President. “We won’t group up. Just keep it full ahead together.”

“Yes,
sir.”
O’Brien saluted briskly.

He knew as well as the captain the condition of the batteries and oxygen. They had been under the spill for five hours, and while they didn’t yet know its dispersal pattern, the sub’s power and oxygen would very soon be so low that they would have to surface regardless. Before they had received orders to rescue the Vice-President, they had counted on being well beyond the spill. Now they would be going back into it. It all depended on the dispersal rate. If it was slow enough, they could safely come up. If not, they might find themselves covered by fire, in which case they wouldn’t be saving anybody. Not even themselves.

Despite the risk, O’Brien felt a surge of exhilaration. It was the nearest he had ever come to active service, and it wasn’t until he was halfway down the passageway that he realized how different the crew’s reaction might be. He turned abruptly. “Captain?”

“Yes?”

O’Brien glanced around to check that they were alone. “Sir, I thought that—well, being as how the ship’s company has been out so long and all, we might turn…”

There was a long pause. The captain frowned. “Secretly?”

“Well—yes, sir.”

At any other time, Kyle would have rejected, and rejected rudely, the suggestion that prudence might best be served by turning his sub surreptitiously. The very fact that he was entertaining his executive officer’s suggestion was a measure of
Swordfish
’s low morale on this cruise.

The administrators ashore often had difficulty understanding how the morale of any crew could drop almost in direct proportion to the time they were out, hitting rock bottom only days away from returning to base. But Kyle knew why. He had seen it happen many times before, and ironically it was at its worst in peacetime. In war the constant common danger from the enemy above and below brought men closer. In peace, when new men, already spoiled by the comforts of home, were away from home for long periods, perhaps for the first time, small problems and irritations festered and spread under the pressure of close confinement. Whenever Kyle had wanted to explain this to a desk sailor who had got his idea of roominess aboard a sub from Hollywood, he usually found some pretext for inviting him below decks. It didn’t take long for the message to sink in when the visitor learned that the captain’s cabin, the most spacious aboard, was no bigger than a double cubicle latrine, and often didn’t smell much better after an extended patrol.

O’Brien spoke again. “It goes against the grain, sir, I know, but—”

“But you’re probably right,” said Kyle irritably. “This time round anyway. They’re going to know sooner or later, but perhaps it’s better later. No use asking for trouble.”

“I didn’t think so, sir.”

“All right, do it as quietly as you can. Just inch it around and make the final turn as the watch changes. That should throw them off. No one knows where the hell he is when he first comes on watch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Although it was not yet nightfall, the control room, squatting below the conning tower, was “rigged for red” because of the heavy smoke layer which would make parts of the surface look as black as night through the periscopes. As he stepped into the blood red glow, O’Brien’s earlier sense of excitement gave way to caution. Only yesterday the captain had confided to him once again that he was worried about the crew. Although he was a generation younger than Kyle, O’Brien well understood his concern. He too found it difficult to get used to the “democratization” of the navy.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he gave orders to make a series of incremental turns and counter-turns, which he hoped would not alert the crew to the sub’s unscheduled change in course.

Clara Sutherland was trying to work up some enthusiasm for the small filet mignon and wondering where her appetite had gone, when she heard a tap on the study door.

“Come in.”

Sutherland entered, looking old in the soft yellow light of the lamp which stood behind Clara like a bonneted maid awaiting instructions.

“Have you eaten?” she asked gently.

“No.”

“Should I ring for something?”

Sutherland gazed around the room without interest, his eyes finally settling on a Van Trier snow scene of an old cabin set amid a clump of bare beech trees. The detail of the cracked bark in the painting never failed to amaze him. He always felt he could walk right into the waist-deep snow, up to the old farmhouse, and seek solace from the cold. It would always remind him of Clara, no matter what happened.

“You can have my steak if you like,” said Clara. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Neither am I.”

She held out a plate of toast. “You should have something—to keep up your strength.”

Sutherland took a piece of toast and slumped down in the Colonial-style rocker. “Have you been watching it on TV?”

“Yes. It looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“The satellite pictures are much worse.”

“Aren’t they the ones that have been on TV?”

Sutherland frowned irritably. “I mean the NASA clips,” he said, his voice sharp.

“I’m sorry, I thought—” Clara began apologetically.

Sutherland lifted his hand above his left eye. The pain was getting worse. “Have you an aspirin?”

Clara began to forage through her purse.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll ring for one.”

“No, no. I have one here somewhere.” Her voice was almost imploring. “Will a Midol do?”

“All right. Is there any coffee?”

“I don’t think you should mix—”

“Mix what?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” she said quietly.

Sutherland let out an exasperated sigh.

There was a soft tap on the door.

“Come in,” Sutherland snapped.

The instant Henricks entered the study, he sensed his boss’s annoyance at the intrusion.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but the people at Interior are pressing me about whether they should cancel the ball this evening, considering the circumstances.”

“Hell no!”

“Ah—they’re worried that—well, by the time we get a handle on this firespill, it might be pretty late.”

“So it’ll be late!”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“But you’re tired,” put in Clara. “Can’t you postpone it?”

“No, I will not postpone it. How can I? It’s the Sheik’s last night here.”

Henricks looked awkwardly at the Van Trier.

“I’ve told you before, Clara, and you, Bob,” the President continued, “I’ve told my whole staff that that is precisely what the President shouldn’t do in times of crisis. I must do everything as planned—to the letter. Any variation would be interpreted as meaning that—well, that events are overtaking us.”

Which is exactly what is happening, thought Henricks; but he simply nodded loyally. Sutherland closed his eyes. “Anybody who opposes my administration would like to see me driven to bed. Well, they won’t. I’ll be at that ball. Besides, what does the Sheik say?”

“Well, being the guest of honor—”

“So he’s attending?” cut in Sutherland.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Then of course I’ll have to go. Tell Interior I’ll be there. It might be late, after midnight, but I’ll be there to propose the official toast. We need that sheik’s oil, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

After Henricks withdrew, there was a long silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Sutherland cut off a piece of steak as if it were part of some unpleasant reptile and chewed it, barely moving his lower jaw, loath to admit that he was suddenly hungry. Finally the silence was too much even for Clara, who was used to being and feeling alone. “I wish I could help,” she said hopefully.

He cut off another piece of steak, more slowly this time, furious that he could find no excuse for his ill temper in the face of his wife’s desire to please.

“You can,” he said.

Clara smiled. “How?” she asked.

Sutherland let the fork drop onto the china plate with a crash, his hand darting above his eye again, though this time it was less from pain than from humiliation. “You can stop being so damned—so damned nice. Just say what you mean. We have to talk about it.” He pushed the plate away as if it were crowding him. “I just can’t think properly. I just can’t give my job all the attention it needs if you and I can’t be honest.”

Clara said nothing for a moment, looking out from the darkness of the study at the lawn, emerald green beneath the floodlights. “I’ve always understood that,” she said, for the first that evening unable to stop her hurt from showing.

Sutherland rose angrily from his chair, reaching for a Kleenex and instead pulling out a whole train. He stuffed them back. “I know, I know—of course you understand, but—well, that’s not enough. We have to bring it out into the open—especially now, before the papers start in on me. Before they start building public opinion against me. I can’t veto public opinion, Clara—for you or for me.”

“What do you want me to do, Walter?”

He turned abruptly away and walked towards the long French windows. He looked out at the great dome of the Jefferson Memorial, then swept his eyes over the expanse of lawn toward the tranquil pond stretching out before the Lincoln Memorial. His voice was firm, but so quiet that Clara had to strain to hear him above the steady, deep ticking of the pendulum clock. “I think we should talk about Elaine. I think—” He hesitated. “I think we should come to some arrangement.”

The sound of the clock filled the room. Clara fingered the arm of her chair nervously, pulling at a loose thread. “Don’t you think we can just forget it?”

“No. I don’t think we can, Clara. It’s become a wall between us. We’re not talking anymore—or at least we’re not
really
talking.”

“You know I don’t hold it against you.”

Sutherland swung around. “Goddamn it, Clara, can’t you see what I’m telling you? It’s—I’m telling you I still love her.”

He turned back to look out the window. “I’m trying to be honest with you, but you won’t let me. You insist on slipping behind all your nice words every time I try to get you to face basic facts.”

“You’re angry because I’m not angry, Walter. Talking about it won’t make me angry, if that’s what you want. To make you feel better, I mean—to make you feel less guilty. You have to do what you want.”

This time his tone was one of anguished triumph. “You think I should feel guilty—for not telling you before?”

“I don’t know if you should,” Clara said firmly. “That’s not for me to say. I know that you do feel guilty. But I see no point in dredging it up to hurt either of us any more.”

“At least,” he said bitterly, “you admit you’re hurt. At least you’re being honest about that.”

Tears were starting down Clara’s cheeks. “I love you—that’s why.”

Without turning around, he knew she was crying. She did love him—he knew that—and he knew the game he was playing, trying to dissolve her civility so that he might rationalize not only his past affair with Elaine but any future liaison. Suddenly he felt very ashamed. “I’m sorry, Clara,” he said in his gentlest tone, adding, “You know she’s trapped in this thing.”

“I know.”

“God help me if the media dig up anything. They’ll accuse me of trying too hard to save her. It’ll be a real bitch for you.”

“I’ll ignore it.”

He smiled fondly at her. “You probably will.” He took her hand, the first time he had done that in months. “Tell me why you aren’t bitter.”

“You make me sound like Joan of Arc.”

“You are.”

“You’re out of your mind,” she said happily.

“Any other woman would have been—I’m sure of that. Why aren’t you?”

“Because if I let myself have that, I’d lose you altogether.”

After a few moments he asked, “Is that why you’ve avoided her so much?”

“No. I didn’t avoid her to make it easier for you.”

“Why then?”

“I don’t like her. I never did.”

Sutherland didn’t answer.

Clara squeezed his hand. “Do you think they’ll rescue her?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

“I hope they do,” she said.

Sutherland looked out into the night at the looming bulge of the Jefferson dome, then over at the Lincoln Memorial, and finally at the towering white obelisk in memory of Washington. Where, he thought, are the monuments to the wives?

O’Brien was knocking at the captain’s door again.

“In.”

“We’ve got some trouble, I’m afraid, sir. The whole crew knows that we’re going further into the fire zone.”

“How did they find out?”

“Damned if I know. I turned her about without a quiver. Not even Radar knew what I was doing. I did it as the watch changed, just as you suggested.”

The captain ran his hands through his thinning hair as O’Brien continued, “I think the engine room boys must have guessed something was up. They formed a delegation as soon as they figured we’d definitely changed course.”

The captain rinsed his mouth to rid himself, at least temporarily, of the dieseline taste of the sub. “Who’s at the head of it?”

“Lambrecker, sir.”

Kyle put the glass down and turned, massaging his temples. “Delegation? Jesus Christ, what a navy. Delegations! All right, I’ll see him in the control room. Let the others hear what I have to say.” And he added with an unconvincing smile, “Might do some good.”

“Yes, sir.”

As O’Brien stepped over the sill, Kyle reached inside his locker for his cap. And because caps, like uniforms, were not usually worn at sea, O’Brien knew that Kyle was intent on denying Lambrecker the slightest informality.