Crawford Kilian: Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

“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 tanksarestillintact .”

“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 ?”

“No, but don’t tell Kirstie that. Look, we’ve come this far. We’re not going to turn around and go home empty-handed because of some bullshit threat. If they’re willing to see me, they’re willing to bargain.”

“ I hope you’re doing the right thing .”

“So do I. Anyway, we’ll finish this and get back up as soon as we can.”

“You’re not going in there,” Kirstie said. “It’s insane.”

Don shook his head. “They were ready to start shooting. Just getting them to talk is an achievement.”

“Those buggers will just lock you up and hold you for ransom. Or shoot you just to prove they mean business. Don, you can’t go.”

“I know it’s dangerous, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.” He paused. “And I’m not going to let those people chase us off. It’s as simple as that.”

“You bloody, bloody egomaniac. You’re as bad as Geordie.”

“You know, I wish to God he could come with us. He’d end up with their oil as well as the tanker.”

She kissed him. “Why don’t you bog off, then, if you’re so eager?”

The Monterey waterfront reminded Don of Hunter’s Point on the day after the waves: a jumble of rocks, timber and debris, piled into a dike up to three metres high. Cannery Row was in ruins: oil floated in thick brownish-black clots on the water and coated the dike as well. The stink was foul.

About where the old wharf had been, two black soldiers stood on the top of the dike. One of them waved; Don waved back and steered his Zodiac towards them. They clambered down the face of the dike, slipping on the greasy logs and boulders, and moored the Zodiac. Don stepped out and followed the soldiers over the rubble, through the wreckage zone, and up into the streets of Monterey.

“Something the matter?” one of them asked.

Don was wiping his face with a handkerchief. “I’m getting over snow blindness. Makes my eyes water.”

“Man, that’s bad shit. I had some of that once. Like gettin’ chili sauce in your eyes.”

They said nothing more. Blinking and squinting behind his sunglasses, Don looked around at the remains of Monterey. The earthquake had left many new buildings collapsed, while some of the older adobes had come through almost undamaged. He saw no civilians, only a handful of soldiers patrolling the deserted streets. The stink of oil mixed here with the sharp, fresh smell of burned wood.

The city hall had lost its plate-glass windows, and a sentry stood in the doorway. He stepped aside; Don and his escort walked over broken glass and through the empty doorframe. Soldiers sat in the lobby, playing poker for cigarettes. They glanced incuriously at Don. His escort guided him up a flight of stairs to an office facing south across a dead lawn.