NH3

by Stanley Salmons

  Terry’s shoulders sagged, weighed down by an enormous burden of guilt. The supervolcano had been his idea. It had killed maybe a million people and it had come between him and Maggie. Now it had put her life on the line.

  It made no difference what she thought of him: he simply had to get her back.

  He pulled himself up. The situation was absurd.

  “What about other stations, can’t they lend you a bloody helicopter?”

  “With the best will in the world, no. They have to be able to respond to emergencies themselves and they’re all down to one craft. They’re facing the same problems as we are.”

  Problems. All you’re giving me is problems. I want solutions.

  “Captain Boyd, the people on that boat are doing work of international importance and they’ve been marooned out there on the open ocean for more than three days. They’re risking their lives for us. It is absolutely vital that we get them out.”

  The Captain’s slow reply carried an edge.

  “Let me tell you something, doctor. When you’re conducting Search and Rescue operations, you don’t make value judgements about who’s worth saving and who isn’t. We treat VIPs the same as drug traffickers.”

  Terry lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

  “I appreciate that. But when it comes to priorities I know who I’d put higher on the list.”

  “I can assure you this mission has top priority. It’s not a matter of pride for this service when people are left stranded like that. But what can I do about it? I’ve explained the situation. I don’t have an operational helicopter. I did ask central command for a cutter to be dispatched to St. George –”

  “How long’s that going to take?”

  “Depends where it’s coming from. Twenty-four hours?”

  “Not good enough – at this stage a few minutes could make the difference between life and death.” Terry took a deep breath. “All right, Captain, how’s this for a plan? When we finish this conversation I’ll speak to the commanding officer at Coast Guard Clearwater in Florida. If I drive down immediately with a police escort I can be on his doorstep in the early hours. We’ll fly their Jayhawk to you at Air Station Elizabeth City and refuel. By first light tomorrow we can be ready to leave. You can decide between you who’s going to crew it to Bermuda, your people or theirs. We’ll base ourselves at Fort George and conduct the Search and Rescue operation from there.”

  There was a pause, then an uncomfortable laugh.

  “Can we be realistic for a moment, sir? Clearwater aren’t going to part up with their one and only operational Jayhawk. Like I said, they’ve got to be ready for emergencies of their own. I’ve been asked to help you, doctor, and I’m being as cooperative as I can, but what you’re suggesting just isn’t feasible.”

  “Well, what would make it feasible? A directive from the Commandant?”

  He could almost hear the man swallow.

  “Ah, the Commandant delegates responsibility for maritime safety to the command at the nearest station. Only we know what the situation is on the ground.”

  “All right, then. How about a directive from the Secretary of Homeland Security? Or the President of the United States?”

  Another silence. Then:

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “You can go as high as that?”

  “You’d better believe it. I’ll see you tomorrow. Early.”

  CHAPTER 70

  The Jayhawk flew low over the water, making full use of ground effect, the steady thud of the rotors muffled by the headphones in Terry’s helmet.

  After his phone calls they were on standby at Clearwater. When he got there they quickly kitted him out in the dark blue US Coast Guard battle dress. The rotors were turning even before he added the high-vis vest and ran doubled over to the waiting craft. As soon as he climbed in a crew member swapped his Coast Guard baseball cap for a yellow flight helmet, made sure he was strapped in, and they were airborne. The sky was beginning to pale as they landed at Elizabeth City. They didn’t stay long. There was a brief stop at St. George to refuel again and now, at last, they were flying in search mode.

  The pilot’s voice crackled through the headphones.

  “Okay, we’re approaching target zone.”

  Terry listened to the muttered exchanges in the cockpit.

  “These are the coordinates ASEC gave us. I don’t see a goddamned thing.”

  “The boat was caught in a weed mat. Could have drifted some.”

  “Or sunk. Anything on the emergency frequency?”

  “Nope. Better set up a search pattern.”

  Terry bit his lip and waited, straining to hear more, but there was only the noise of the rotors, rising periodically as they turned for another pass.

  Minutes went by.

  “There.”

  “I see a fishing boat, where’s the weed?”

  “Let’s take a closer look.”

  The cabin tilted as they turned and Terry, his face up against the window, leaned hard into the restraint of the belt to see more. A fishing vessel passed below them. White, modern. Two people on deck gave them a wave.

  Terry moved the stalk of the microphone and spoke.

  “That’s not it.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I say so. I’ve been on the bloody boat and that’s not it.”

  An audible sigh. “Okay, resume pattern.”

  Ten more minutes passed.

  Then:

  “Over there. See?” And louder, “Okay, we have a visual.”

  The Jayhawk banked and circled and Terry caught his first glimpse of the stranded vessel. It was as if some giant hand had drawn a line through it. On one side was open ocean, the white-tipped waves grey beneath the ash-laden sky. On the other side was a gently undulating greenish-brown mat of weed. The boat seemed to be stuck fast, rocking fore and aft in the waves.

  The pilots again.

  “Any sign of life?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  His heart was pounding. The boat had been marooned here for more than three days. What on earth were they going to find?

  The helicopter slowed overhead, tipped back gently and hovered. The door opened and the cabin filled with noise. One of the crew had already attached his harness to a line and he was quickly out and descending to the afterdeck of the boat many feet below them.

  Terry ventured forward, impatient for a better view but another crewman shouted, “Stand back!”

  It seemed like an age went by. Then they began to winch up the line and the yellow crewman’s helmet appeared. He was clasping what looked like armful of bedding.

  They hauled it in and placed it carefully in a seat; the layers fell away and a head lolled back, trailing long brown hair. It was Sara. As Terry fastened her seat belt he examined her face carefully. It looked thin and pinched but she was alive – just. He placed a bottle of water in her cold, damp hands, helped her to raise it shakily to her lips. Some leaked down the side of her mouth but she managed to swallow a sip, eyes closed.

  “Sara…?”

  There was no response. She couldn’t hear him over all the racket.

  The crewman had gone down again.

  Next to come up was Jos. He looked a little better than Sara.

  Terry’s mind was racing.

  Where was Maggie?

  His hopes rose as the winch rotated again but this time it was Rob they brought in. If anything Rob’s condition was worse than Sara’s. Terry buckled him in and tried to get him to take some water but he was too weak and exhausted to respond.

  “How many more?” the co-pilot shouted.

  “Two more. But we’ve got two dead down there: one male, one female.”

  Terry’s heart dropped like a lift.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hundred per cent.”

  “We’re not taking any chances. Leave the bodies behind. The cutter will pick them up when it tows the boat in.�
��

  Terry’s mind raced. “We can’t leave anyone…” he began, but couldn’t finish. What if Maggie’s was one of the bodies? He couldn’t let them leave her. His heart was pounding in his chest as the crew-man dropped again towards the boat.

  Terry could hardly breathe. Every second that passed seemed like an hour.

  The crew-man’s yellow helmet appeared in the doorway again. It swung to and fro, then the harness rotated and he caught a glimpse of the body strapped into it. The hair looked dark. Too dark? His heart shot into his throat. Not too dark. Dark curls peeping from underneath the hood of a jacket.

  “Maggie,” he breathed.

  They pulled her in and he took her straight into his arms. What he accepted was a dead weight with no sign of movement. He set her down on a seat and cupped her cheek in his hand; it was cold. His momentary relief was pushed aside by fresh needles of terror, which prickled inside his chest. Then the eyebrows twitched, set into a frown, and she blinked. A distant light entered her eyes as she peered under his helmet. Her mouth moved. He couldn’t hear her above the thrash of the rotor but he knew she’d said his name.

  He nodded. “Yes, it’s Terry. Don’t worry, Maggie. It’s over now.”

  “Get her strapped in,” commanded the other crew member.

  Terry did as he asked. He found it hard not to weep with relief as he fastened the seat belt and allowed himself to look into those dark, wondering eyes before returning to help with the last man. But this time the winchman came up alone.

  “Captain refuses to come up,” he said. “Says he’ll stay with the boat till the cutter comes. Give me a ration pack and some water; that’ll keep him going.”

  Moments later they shut the cabin door, snuffing out much of the noise. Then the engine note rose and the helicopter swung in a wide arc, heading for St. George.

  The team occupied four adjacent beds on a ward in the King Edward Memorial Hospital. Maggie reclined on soft pillows, her arms resting on the sheets. Taped to her left arm was the tubing from an intravenous drip. She smiled wanly at Terry, who was sitting at the bedside.

  “The doc says you’re all rehydrating nicely,” he said. “You ran it close, though.”

  She nodded. “Max had some emergency supplies but they didn’t go far. We were dreadfully hungry but the real problem was water.”

  “How did you manage?”

  “Well fortunately we had one chest of samples left. That was Rob’s doing – he had the bright idea of putting it into an empty locker. The samples were on ice and when the ice melted we had just enough to keep us going. It tasted terrible but at least we’re alive.”

  She paused, glancing at the three other beds, and tears came to her eyes.

  “Sonia?” said Terry gently.

  “It was when we lost the samples. She tried to grab one of the chests and she got washed down the deck and banged her head.” She met his eyes. “We didn’t realize it was so serious. She seemed all right for a while. Then she was complaining about headaches, and then she was drowsy so we let her sleep. We had no idea she was dying until it was too late. The doctor told me it was a subdural haematoma. Only prompt surgery could have saved her. If only I hadn’t…”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Maggie. It was a tragic accident. It wasn’t your fault.”

  She sighed and wiped her eyes. “And then there was Casey. Poor man. He passed away the night before last. We didn’t hear a thing but when the sun came up Max suddenly cried out and we saw him holding Casey in his arms.”

  “They were old friends?”

  “He’d known him all his life. He told me it was Casey who took him out on his first trip when he was barely into his teens. The man was only ever happy at sea so he let him crew for him from time to time, out of friendship. I gather he was in his late seventies, although he didn’t look it. I suppose the physiological stress was just too much for him. Max put him next to Sonia and covered both the bodies in a tarpaulin. No one said anything but I think we were all wondering who’d be next.”

  “You knew help would be on the way, though.”

  “Well, yes, but the question was, when? We had no idea we’d have to hold out so long. An aircraft came over on the first morning, a big four-engine job. I could see the US Coast Guard markings. Max fired a signal flare so we knew they hadn’t missed us. We expected to be rescued later that day but they never came back. We couldn’t understand why. I still can’t.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well?”

  “Later, maybe. You know, things might have been worse. It wasn’t a big boat. You could easily have capsized in that storm.”

  “Max was amazing. He didn’t cut the engines until we were right in the weed; after that it more or less held us in the right orientation. The boat still screwed a lot, though. Rob and Sara were terribly seasick – that’s why they were more dehydrated than the rest of us. I tried to give them extra rations of water but to be honest there was barely enough for any of us.”

  They were both silent for a while. Then, in a low voice, she said:

  “I made a mess of things.”

  “The conditions were exceptional. You couldn’t have anticipated it.”

  “No, I don’t mean the storm. I mean I made a mess of us. I put up fences. I never really meant to. And you were so good. You were there for me when I needed you most.” Tears welled up again. “Terry, I’ve been so unhappy without you.”

  He leaned forward to take her face in his hands and gently brushed the tears from the thick, wet lashes.

  “You’re safe, and I’m here. Nothing else really matters, does it?”

  She took his hand, kissed his fingertips, and held it to her cheek. She was smiling through the tears. Slowly he sat back, letting his fingers trail lightly down her cheek and along the line of her jaw to her chin.

  He could say nothing more; his throat was too tight. They sat in silence, contemplating each other, fingers entwined, their hands resting on the crisp, white sheet.

  Somewhere a door opened and they heard voices, the metallic rattle of a trolley, the abrupt hiss of a curtain being drawn. She shifted slightly in the bed.

  “I hope Max is all right,” she said.

  “The cutter should have got to him by now and I expect they’ll have a medic on hand. They’ll tow the boat into harbour. Your samples will still be on board – if they’re any use to you by then.”

  “Oh, they should be. The ice was only a precaution – a lucky one for us, as it turned out. But we still have the samples from the other trip, the one we did on Wednesday. The people at the Institute of Ocean Sciences have been great: they supplied us with dry ice and put the first lot of samples in a chest freezer for safekeeping, so those should be fine. Jos and Sara and Rob will be itching to get the analyses done. Not that it matters now.”

  Coming from her, the last was such an uncharacteristic statement that it took Terry by surprise.

  “Because you’re safe, you mean?” he asked.

  “No, because we’re alive.” A look of realization entered her eyes. “Of course! You don’t know, do you?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “That we lost the respirators.”

  He almost stood up. “What?”

  “Yes. A couple of big waves swept them overboard with the rest of the samples. That was the chest Sonia was trying to save.”

  “You had… no respirators?”

  “That’s right. We were stuck in the worst concentration of ammonia organisms in the world and we survived!”

  “But how…?”

  “Don’t you see? The trial worked! It’s the only explanation! Jos said the weed floating on the surface was a funny colour. He thought it might be a different species but it wasn’t a different species – it was dead! The phage must have killed loads of it. Down below us the cyanobacteria were green – we managed to capture some strands after the storm passed – so that was living and it still didn’t produce ammonia. We know that for certain
, because otherwise we wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.”

  He sat back and shook his head.

  “My God, you were even closer to death than I thought. Normally I don’t believe in luck but you’ve certainly had a fair share of it.”

  “It wasn’t luck,” she remonstrated, with a small lift of her chin. “It was the work of a very talented team.” Then she grinned at him. “You know what this means, don’t you? No organism could spread as fast as that by growth alone. It must be swapping in the plasmid really efficiently and it’s doing it under real conditions. We can check the samples but there’s no need to hold things up: we’ll go into mass production right away. It’s been a long time coming, but this is it: we did it.”

  EPILOGUE

  It seemed like half of Washington was there. Maggie and Terry circulated discreetly, arm in arm, enjoying the atmosphere. Although they’d come to the White House several times they’d never been in these wonderful reception rooms.

  “The First Lady must have had an army of cleaners through here,” she whispered to Terry, flicking her eyes up to the glittering chandeliers. She and Terry had a constant battle with the fine dust that penetrated their Washington apartment.

  They scanned the guests. A few they knew: Robert Cabot, Elaine Zanuck, Richard Pevensey, Noel Harrison, all with their spouses. Chris Walmesley came over and introduced his wife and they chatted for a while.

  There was one person they were relieved not to see, although they hadn’t expected him to be there. Herbert Kramer had left the Institute immediately after the confrontation with Terry, taking his administrative staff with him. His departure had attracted little comment, and their contribution was not missed.

  Marie Kinghorn came bustling past, saw them, and stopped.

  “Well, hello, you two. Glad you could make it! Good trip back?”

  “Very good, thanks,” Terry replied.