“Good enough. How would you like to make a deal with some of the Bay Area locals, Dennis?”
*
It took four more days to talk to the Berkeley local, obtain a sailboat from Mrs. Debney’s salvaged flotilla, equip it, and sail out of San Francisco Bay.
The boat was an eight-metre sloop, the Naiad. It reminded Kirstie of boats she’d sailed with Don in the Caribbean and Mediterranean, and it cheered her up just to be aboard as Don piloted it through Golden Gate.
“This is fun. I’ll feel damn guilty if we don’t find your oil tanker,” Kirstie said.
Don smiled. “We’ll find it.”
Naiad ran down the coast with the wind from the northwest, and that night lay at anchor off the tip of the Monterey peninsula. The sea was choppy. In Pacific Grove and Monterey and Seaside, a few lights twinkled: candles, mostly, though now and then car headlights flashed out.
“Somebody’s still got gasoline,” Don said as they sat on deck drinking beer. “Probably soldiers. They seem to have a real grip on things here.”
“1 wonder what they’ll think when they see us out in the bay tomorrow,” Kirstie said.
“We’ll see. I wouldn’t like it if they tried to interfere. Soldiers make me nervous.”
Next morning at dawn, in wind-driven rain, Naiad crossed the bay towards Moss Landing. The tanker moorage was about nine kilometres offshore, according to Don’s charts, in about a hundred metres of water. The Sitka Carrier had been overwhelmed at the moorage and probably driven some distance towards shore before hitting bottom.
Still, when he looked at the actual area where the tanker might be, he wondered if it could be found after all. First of all, the charts were now obsolete: the coastline was sharply changed. Sandbars loomed up where water should be deep. Surf broke around rocky islands which had once been part of the shoreline and now stood well out in the bay. The area within which the tanker lay was perhaps five or six kilometres wides and ten long.
He took some heart from the oil slicks streaking the water; they were certainly diesel fuel, and not noticeably decomposed by long exposure, so the tanker could not be completely buried. If the currents in the bay had not changed too much, he should be able to trace the slicks to their source.
After three hours of tacking back and forth across the eastern reaches of the bay, they found themselves just north of a heavy slick that trailed away to the south.
“This must be it,” Don said. “The current still runs south along the shoreline, and the speed must be a couple of knots. That means we should be right above the tanker.”
Kirstie secured the wheel and dropped anchor. “It’s not the nicest place you’ve ever brought me diving.”
The water was cold, a soupy beige with little visibility. He and Kirstie followed the anchor cable down and reached bottom at eighty metres. Visibility was still bad, not much more than a metre or two, but each carried a powerful lamp strapped to one wrist and swam in a fuzzy yellow glow.
Since compasses were no longer reliable, they had improvised a survey pattern: tying a thin line to the anchor cable, they reeled it out about a hundred metres. Then they turned to their right and began a slow sweep, swimming just above a lifeless bottom of mud and jumbled stones. The sweep revealed nothing. Don and Kirstie floated unmoving for a few seconds, until the current began pushing them; they turned and followed the current’s direction, unreeling another line tied to the first.
Don actually touched the hull before he saw it; coated with mud, it blended in with the murky water. But just below the mud was cold metal. Kirstie squeezed his arm and pointed to her left; he followed her. They swam for a long time, along the length of the hull, and then, as it began to taper towards the bows, they ascended.
The Sitka Carrier, they saw, had capsized and struck bottom upside down. Its superstructure lay crushed and inaccessible; its hull must be largely intact and holding its cargo. Thirty metres from the bottom, the hull curved sharply away from the vertical and rose more gently for another fifty metres until it reached the keel. The water here shone differently in their lamps; oil droplets gave it a brownish tinge.
The breach in the hull, when they found it, was unexpectedly small — a torn weld perhaps six metres long and no more than ten centimetres wide. Diesel oil rose from it in a black, shimmering sheet that vanished into the gloom above. Cautiously, Don and Kirstie circled the breach and searched for others. Apart from a few small cracks, they found none.
Don secured a powerful magnet to the hull and attached a cable to it. An inflatable buoy clipped onto the cable; compressed air lifted it to the surface. They followed it up and found themselves a couple of hundred metres from Naiad.
Back on board, Kirstie tugged off her mask and yelled with delight. “We did it! You clever bugger, we did it!”
Shivering, exhausted, smeared with oil, they hugged each other. Without getting out of their wet suits, they stood in the rain eating cold beef stew out of cans and then moved Naiad closer to the buoy. After a brief rest they went down to complete their survey and found no other major leaks.
“I can’t believe our luck,” Don said as they ate supper that night, anchored some distance off Santa Cruz at the north end of the bay. “Not only are there just those little leaks, but they’re all from diesel tanks. It’d be tough to run a salvage operation in a cloud of gasoline vapour. And it’s in shallow water but well offshore. No trouble with anchoring or pumping, and a good distance from the soldiers.”
“Still worried about them?”
“A little. I’m worried about getting the hardware in place. There’s not much available in the Bay Area. We can get hold of a barge or two. But we’ll need a good-sized ship, a lot of fuel and a submersible.”
“What about Ultramarine and Plummet?”
“Ultramarine is set up for research, not salvage. And Plummet really took a beating. I’m not sure she could be repaired. She’s more for surveying and sampling than hard work, anyway. Don shook his head. “No. I know where to get what we need, but it won’t be fun.”
“Where?”
“In Vancouver. From old Geordie.”
Chapter 9
“God damn it, Bob Tony, I can’t take much more of this shit.” Shauna sat tensely on the bed, smoking her fourth cigarette in an hour.
The bedroom was dark, except for a single candle burning on a dresser. Rain rattled on the skylights, and occasionally a blue Hash of lightning glared through them. It was almost five in the morning, not long before dawn; Allison was undressing for bed and thinking tiredly that he would have to rig screens over the skylights if the group switched over to a completely nocturnal lifestyle.
“What’s the problem, kid?”
“Living like this. Sitting in the house all day, listening to Diana and Aline and Suzi. Telling Lupe one thing and finding out someone’s told her the exact opposite. Trying to get Sarah to act like a human being, and then having somebody sabotage me. Eating crappy food and wondering what the hell is happening out in the civilized world.”
“Kid, did I ever say this would be a house party? No, wait a minute. You had your say, so let me have mine. Okay, you sit in the house all day? Get out to the barn and help with the animals, or work in the greenhouse. You don’t like what the women are talking about, change the subject or go find someone else to talk to. If Lupe doesn’t know what to do, you tell her to check with you. But that means you have to pay attention to what’s going on in the kitchen.
“And as for that dig about Sarah and somebody sabotaging you, you can be up front with me. I don’t like the way you’re treating her. She’s my kid, not yours, and I’m responsible for her. She’s had a hell of a time, and I think she deserves a few breaks instead of all this drill-sergeant shit you lay on her. As for the food, I agree it’s pretty boring even with Lupe and Diana working on it, but be glad we’ve got it. And as for the civilized world — kid, this is it.”
“The hell it is.”
“Come on, you’re not stupid
. What happens when we splurge a little extra gas on the generator and turn on the TV? The radio? Nothing, right? They just crackle. When was the last time the mail was delivered here? How long since we’ve seen a Highway Patrol car in the canyon? Shit, the army doesn’t even come up here. And you want to pretend that things are okay out there? Get serious, kid.”
“It can’t be all that bad,” she snapped. “Jesus, it was just some big waves, not the end of the fucking world. We aren’t exactly fighting off the invading hordes or anything. We’re just — sitting here.”
“That was the whole idea. Kid, kid — ” He sat beside her on the bed. “It hasn’t even been a month yet. Sure, we don’t know just what’s going on. But we can get a pretty good idea from what we don’t hear, you know. I’ll tell you this: by summer things’ll be a lot better. The government will be back on its feet, the power will be back on, and we’ll be smelling like roses.” He paused for two beats. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”
Grudgingly, she butted out her cigarette and slid under the covers. Allison was about to do the same when someone started pounding on the front door downstairs.
“Oh Christ,” Shauna quavered. “Oh Bob, what’s that?”
Allison pulled his jeans back on, and took his .45 from the night table.
“Stay put. And keep quiet. Don’t wake Sarah.” He glanced into the adjoining room, where Sarah slept now. She hadn’t stirred.
Barefoot, in pitch darkness, Allison glided downstairs and along the hall to the front door. The pounding started up again. Peeping through a side window, he saw a man, evidently alone, standing on the porch. Silently, Allison turned the lock and slid back the two bolts; then he jerked the door open and brought the pistol up into the man’s face.
“Freeze,” he hissed. The man’s hands went up. “What do you want?”
“Please — is that Mr. Allison? I’m Ray Wilder. You know, from Brotherhood House.”
Allison relaxed a little. Ray was the young Bible-basher he’d picked up on the canyon road on the morning just before the waves. Having escaped death in Monterey, Ray had plodded back up the canyon praising Jesus. Since then he’d dropped by the ranch a few times, to borrow tools or ask Hipolito for advice on livestock.
“Come on in, Ray. What the hell’s the idea of turning up at this hour?”
“I’m deeply sorry to trouble you, sir. But we need help. Our cow was stolen tonight. Someone got into the barn and led her away. We followed her tracks up the road towards Mr. Burk’s people.”
“You followed her tracks in this downpour?”
“Well — her droppings, actually. But when we got to Mr. Burk’s property line, one of his friends was there, carrying a rifle. He told us to go away.”
Allison sighed. “Well, it doesn’t sound good, but what am I supposed to do about it at five in the morning?”
“Could — could you and some of your friends come back with us to Mr. Burk’s? Just to show them that their neighbours are sticking together?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” Allison felt a cold breeze behind him, and turned to see Bert D’Annunzio walk silently in from the back door. He was carrying an M-16 rifle.
“What’s the problem?” Bert asked. Allison explained. As he did, Shauna came downstairs and stood listening at the foot of the stairs. Allison noted amusedly that Ray kept his eyes chastely away from her.
“How serious is losing your cow?” Bert said when Allison was through.
“She’s the only one we have left, sir. She still gives a little milk, the only milk our children have. Without her we’ll be in trouble.”
“Ray, would you excuse us for a minute?” Allison said. He led Bert and Shauna off into a far corner of the big living room.
“What the hell are we supposed to do about this?” he asked them softly. “We’re not cops.”
“Maybe we’d better be,” said Bert. “Are you sure our animals are okay?”
Allison felt dizzy. “Oh-oh.”
“In fact, they are. When I heard the pounding, 1 thought it might be a distraction and checked out the barn. Everything’s okay, this time.”
“Well, Bert, what do you suggest?”
“Maybe we better get acquainted with these neighbours. Didn’t you tell me there’s four or five families?”
“As far as I can tell. They’ve been up there since before we bought this place. The guy in charge is named Frank Burk, but I only know that from talking to Ray Wilder. Burk’s people stick to themselves.”
Bert grinned. “Cows stick to them too. Maybe we can unstick this one.”
“How?” asked Shauna. “If they don’t want to give the cow back, what are you supposed to do?”
“We can take it back.”
“I think your idea is the shits,” Shauna said. “You want to go up against guys you don’t know anything about, except that they’ve got guns, just to do a favour to some religious nuts who never did a thing for us.”
“People shouldn’t steal their neighbours’ cattle,” Bert said calmly. “And if they get away with it once, they’ll try it again. That means our cattle.”
“We’ve got to do something, I agree,” said Allison. “As a matter of fact, the way Ray just barged up to the front door showed me how weak our security is. We’re lucky he didn’t decide to take one of our cows to make up for theirs.”
“We’ll have to move fast,” Bert said. “Get this sorted out in a hurry. If we hustle, we could be there and back before the sun’s very far up.”
Shauna sat back in an easy chair, looking annoyed as she fished in her bathrobe pocket for another cigarette. “This is stupid. You guys are acting like a posse in some old Hopalong Cassidy serial.”
“Shane,” said Allison, deadpan. “Shane. We try to keep this a class act, kid. Okay, Bert. Go get Dave.”
“What about Ted?”
“Leave him out of this. It’s not his kind of scene. This is our show, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t look afraid,” said Shauna, standing up. She rubbed her neck tiredly, under the mass of thick, dark hair that fell over her shoulders. “I’m going to bed. Don’t you dare wake me when you get back.”
*
Dave Marston, Bert and Ray Wilder sat in the back of the Range Rover; Allison drove, and Jeremy Lamb sat beside him. It was the first time the truck had been out in weeks, and Allison enjoyed the feel of it, the noise and power.
“We truly are grateful for your help, Mr. Allison,” Jeremy Lamb said. He was a tall, well-built man in middle age, with grey hair framing a picturesquely craggy face. He wore an expensive trench coat over a dark business suit; Allison thought he looked as if he were on the way to a prayer breakfast.
“Thank me when your cow’s back home,” Allison said with a smile. Lamb smiled back. He was a lot easier to take than Ray Wilder, thought Allison. He didn’t wave his religion around and seemed more like an administrator than a charismatic leader.
The rain had tapered off, though lightning still flashed in the east. Morning was a blue-grey gloom that showed the steep slopes of the canyon’s upper end. Trees, mostly pines, stood scattered on the hillsides, and showed some new green at the tips of their branches, UV hadn’t hurt them as much as the oaks and grasses.
The road wound along the south side of the canyon, past a narrow meadow, and entered denser stands of pine. A heavy gate of new lumber barred the way; Allison braked and got out.
“Hold it right there, bud.”
The voice came from somewhere in the woods beyond the gate. Allison scanned the trees but saw no one; the guy must be less than a hundred feet away, but his concealment was perfect.
“We’d like to talk to Mr. Burk,” Allison said.
“Who are you?”
“Robert Allison. I live down the road. The other people here live with me or at Brotherhood House.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Like to talk about a missing cow.”
“Somebody already asked us about that. We don’t kn
ow anything. Now turn around and leave.”
Allison began to feel annoyed. He walked up to the gate and rested his forearms on it. “I’m not leaving here without talking to Mr. Burk. And if he doesn’t come to me, I’ll go to him. Don’t waste my time.”
The unseen sentry didn’t reply, but a moment later Allison heard the fuzzy crackle of a CB radio. He felt growing respect for Burk’s organizing ability.
“Okay, Mr. Allison. You can come in, alone, on foot. You can keep your side arm.”
Allison nodded and went back to the truck to tell the others what was happening.
“Give him a deadline,” Bert said. “Like nine o’clock to give the cow back.”
“Or what?”
Bert glanced through the window at the gate. “Or we’ll take out his man here.”
“Bert, hey — let me do this without a heavy intimidation number, okay?”
Allison climbed over the gate, seeing a heavy padlock on the other side.
“Go on up the road,” the sentry called out. “You’ll be met.”
The road was rutted and winding. The woods to the north had long ago been cleared to form a meadow that stretched from the road to the creek. On the east side of the meadow stood an old-fashioned three-story farmhouse; it faced the road across a sizable vegetable garden growing under sheets of clear plastic nailed to waist-high wooden frames. A shoulder-high chain-link fence, topped with strands of barbed wire, surrounded both the garden and the farmhouse. To the south of the road, on Allison’s right, the woods thinned out; he glimpsed three or four log cabins half-hidden among the trees.
A tall woman, with a revolver holstered on her hip, stood at the gate into the fenced area. She wore jeans and a brown leather jacket, and a sort of burnoose that shadowed her face.
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