by Emma Lathen
“Lucinda reports collision with unknown vessel. . . steering damaged. . .”
“. . . reporting collision . . . still able to proceed . . .”
Then the tempo quickened. “. . . fire on board . . . need assistance . . .”
“Lucinda engaged in second collision . . .”
“. . . chemical cargo spilling and on fire . . . request use of foam, not water . . . repeat, use foam . . .”
The explosion put an end to all pretense of calm. Erupting with sufficient force to be heard for miles along the canal, it was immediately followed by a logjam of pleas.
“. . . hull breached . . . taking on water . . .”
“Santa Christobel must abandon ship . . .”
And finally there was near hysteria. “Serious burn victims . . . request medical aid.” The voice rose to a panic-stricken scream. “Lord, we need doctors and ambulances!” Within seconds of the first SOS, the emergency services of the canal were deployed. Fire trucks sped forth to the nearest access point on land, the first aid station was manned and the water police in small maneuverable launches heroically began to thread their way into the heart of the disaster.
After the second explosion more calls went out, this time from the canal authority to surrounding communities. They were asking for additional manpower, additional equipment, additional medical personnel. Before the night was over every agency within a 50 mile radius was engaged. Hampered by fog, by unseen perils, by spills of burning oil, hundreds of men labored tirelessly to transport victims, evacuate sinking vessels, and extinguish fires.
And all through those endless hours, the office of the canal authority directed the overall effort without once having any conception of the general situation. All they could do was respond to points of alarm, scurry from emergency to emergency, and deal with each separate distress signal as it came. Only at dawn did the extent of the catastrophe become apparent.
“Oh, my God!”
It was sunrise and, the fog finally having dissipated, a clear day was breaking. From a fueling depot half a mile downstream the view was unobstructed.
“It wasn’t this bad after the bombings,” said an old-timer.
The carnage stretched as far as the eye could see. The two vessels where the fire had started still lay in their fatal embrace, half submerged. Burned-out hulks wallowed low in the water, blistered and peeling. Only the topmost superstructure of a capsized freighter was visible. Everywhere crippled ships canted at strange angles with red-eyed crews gloomily staring at the embankment. The smell of burnt rubber and freely flowing bilge hung like a pall over the water where unidentifiable wreckage mingled with shattered crates, barrels leaking ominous substances, and even a bright red bucket bobbing gaily in the muck.
And this was what was on the surface. God only knew what lay beneath, waiting to foul everything that passed. The chief of operations of the Kiel Canal, roused from his bed at one o’clock, turned a fatigue-sodden face to his assistants. The daunting task of assessing the dimensions of the salvage operation and planning its implementation must now begin. “Casualties?” he asked.
Of the burn victims, one had been dead on arrival and two were in critical condition. 12 people, including three firefighters, required intensive care. Over 40 comparatively minor injuries had received treatment.
“The locks?”
The senior lockkeeper, a white-haired veteran, shook his head sadly. At least two vessels had collided with the gates. There was considerable damage above water and an underwater examination would be necessary. He was not hopeful. At the very least significant repairs would be called for. Structural rebuilding was not inconceivable.
The next question came hesitantly and it was directed to a chemist. “What about this mess?”
The CO was pointing to the seething scum visible between floating sheets of dirty foam. When the chemist delayed his reply, the lock-keeper tried to be helpful.
“We do have cargo manifests from all the ships, so we can give you a list of the materials involved.”
“It’s not that simple.” Somehow the CO had suspected it would be complicated.
“Go on,” he said tersely.
“There is the possibility of chemical combination between different spills. The testing procedures are elaborate and will take days. On the other hand I think I can tell you about one problem right away. I’m fairly sure that you have something corrosive down there.”
The lockkeeper produced an anguished yelp that the CO ignored.
“And in the meantime? Can we start removing this filth?”
He was told that pumps of the size required were currently at work in eastern Germany. It would be days before they could be in place. The CO gritted his teeth. Over and above this difficulty, there remained the vast physical blockage. Sunken hulls would have to be removed, other vessels must be repaired or towed, the floating debris had to be swept up, and underwater sweeps begun. With sudden prevision, he recalled those endless news items about projects in the east. Pumps, giant cranes, and experienced frogmen would all turn out to be somewhere near the Polish border.
“Well, we need all the help we can get. I’d better start calling. I’ll contact the navy, the ministry in Bonn, the authorities in Holstein, and of course the city of Kiel.” But Town Hall in Kiel, which had responded magnificently to last night’s calls for assistance, was now strangely uncooperative, in fact, almost hostile.
“No, you can’t have any of our equipment. We need it ourselves,” they snapped.
“But this is an emergency.”
“My God, haven’t you even looked at the harbor? They kept coming in to use the canal. When they couldn’t, they entered the inner harbor. And of course nothing could leave, so now . . .”
There was a dramatic pause.
“So now we have gridlock.”
The menace that loomed over all major urban centers had descended on the small city of Kiel in an odd fashion. Foremost among their embarrassments was a giant car ferry from Oslo, trapped in the middle of the mess.
“We will get those Norwegians ashore,” vowed Town Hall, “if we have to take them off two at a time in canoes.”
Then there was the final commuter ferry to set forth yesterday. It had made it as far as Kitzeberg before being sucked into the snarl and its passengers were in dire straits. The Norwegian ferry was basically a cruise ship; its occupants had showers, clean clothes, hot meals, and a bar at their disposal. The poor commuters not only lacked these amenities, but most of them were due at work within hours.
“City transportation is also affected,” the steely voice continued. “With the ferries out of action, new bus routes must be established. We not only have to worry about the work force, but a large proportion of the school children as well.”
An equivocal grunt simply stung Town Hall to further fury.
“My God, don’t you understand yet? Those Goddamned ships are still coming in.”
Suddenly the CO realized that the performance of his own people was being criticized. Last night, after the first intimation of trouble, standard procedure had been followed and vessels rounding the Kiel Light had been warned that the Holtenau locks were out of commission. As the crisis developed, a message had flashed to the southern end of the canal advising that egress to the north was impossible. But no alerts had been issued to European shipping in general.
Grounding the phone, the CO began to remedy his omission. Grim-faced, he barked orders at his assistant.
“. . . to the ministry of transport, to the admiralty, to IMCO in London, to the chamber of shipping. The same message . . .”
“And what about the BADA traffic service?” the assistant suggested. “Everybody listens to that.”
“All right, BADA too. Tell them all that. . .”
The CO had to swallow visibly before he could bring himself to formulate the unthinkable.
“The Kiel Canal is closed indefinitely.”
Chapter 4
Trade Winds
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br /> Several hours earlier Wanda Jesilko’s sleep-drugged mind had struggled to grasp the significance of the words just spoken.
“Inform Madame Nordstrom at once!”
Thanks to Stefan Zabriski’s insistence on staying abreast of every fluctuation in Baltic activity, Wanda was accustomed to predawn telephone calls whenever he was spending the night. Long ago she had developed the ability to drift off as he was happily rapping out instructions. But this was different. Orders to rouse Madame Nordstrom at four o’clock in the morning meant that there was a real emergency or, alternatively, that Stefan had lost his mind.
“What’s happened?”
He had already tossed back the covers and was padding over to the closet. “An accident in the Kiel Canal. And it sounds like a bad one.”
“I’m coming,” she declared, sounding more alert by the second. “Just give me a couple of minutes in the bathroom.”
“I won’t bother shaving,” he called after her.
“Oh, yes you will.”
As a result of this firmness they were both reasonably presentable when Annamarie, not a hair out of place, hurried into BADA headquarters a short while after their own arrival.
“How serious is it?” she asked.
“We can’t tell yet,” said Zabriski. “The information is coming in trickles.”
The first details were not encouraging.
“Kiel is reporting casualties,” announced someone scanning the wire. “The German news services are moving faster than official channels.
“That doesn’t tell us what we need to know,” Zabriski said impatiently. “They could all be the result of the same collision. If only one or two vessels are involved they can clear the canal quickly.”
But succeeding hours brought more hulls disabled, more cargoes lost, more contaminants spilled. Fires, explosions, and sinkings were reported nonstop. As the list lengthened Zabriski became quieter and quieter.
“It sounds unbelievable,” Madame Nordstrom commented after another grim printout. Before Zabriski could reply communications rang through.
The Kiel is closed to all traffic.”
Drawing a deep breath Zabriski asked for the worst. “How long?”
“Indefinitely.”
The stark announcement produced a moment of paralysis, then Annamarie rose. That means you’ll be very busy down here. I’ll be in my office,” she said to the room. At the door she paused and looked back. “Believe me, Stefan, I know how lucky BADA is to have you right now.”
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I’ll do my best.”
His promise initiated a spurt of activity that eclipsed previous BADA efforts. In a remarkably short time he had partial results to carry upstairs. Madame Nordstrom, as she reviewed the list of ships that had been scheduled to use the canal, was dismayed.
“And that,” he pointed out, “is just for the next three days. A lengthy closure would involve much more.”
Annamarie knew they were not talking just about shipping losses. Raw materials for manufacturing would not arrive. Finished products would not leave. Enterprises unaffected by either of these considerations could be shut down by a shortage of fuel.
“Good God!” she cried. “Everybody in the Baltic’s been hit by a commercial earthquake!” The ramifications reached further afield than that.
“The Japanese have two super freighters stuck,” reported Zabriski. “And it will cost them $3000 a day until Kiel reopens. Denmark’s just imposed restrictions on passage through the islands. They’ve got more traffic than they can handle now. And if, God forbid, the weather worsens . . .”
Their immediate predicament was enough for Madame Nordstrom. “We can let the Japanese take care of themselves, Stefan,” she replied with a pained grimace. “They, at least, have adequate insurance.”
But Zabriski was already addressing the needs of BADA members. His list of emergency measures had been prepared a long time ago. “. . . and expanded regional traffic alerts,” he added.
“Don’t forget coordination with naval and civil defense people,” she reminded him.
“Wanda’s already activating our backup arrangements.”
Zabriski’s voice never varied in its gravity, but his whole body was vibrating with controlled excitement, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Annamarie studied him sympathetically. His early insistence on acquiring all that expensive equipment, his lust for an ever-expanding database, his months of daily study were now all going to be justified. Who could blame the man if there was an element of satisfaction in his response to this emergency? But he was looking beyond these considerations.
“You know, Madam Chairman,” he said, bending low over the papers he was pushing together, “tragic as this occasion is, it might provide just the opening that BADA needs.”
“Yes . . .” she murmured, “Yes, that had occurred to me.”
Raising his head to reveal what was now frank exultation, he sounded almost conspiratorial as he continued. “This might be the ideal time for you to speak seriously with the German government.”
Then, without waiting for her reaction, he bustled back to his command post. Annamarie shook her head sadly as she watched him leave. If only Stefan’s perceptions about people matched his understanding of marine complexities. He had sensed correctly that they were sharing the recognition of an unexpected opportunity to further cherished plans. But she was willing to bet that he had not the slightest conception how far those plans might diverge.
* * *
Everett Gabler was not surprised to find messages at the hotel desk deferring his appointments with BADA’s chairman and chief of staff. CNN, that beacon of light for English speakers in Eastern Europe, had already informed him of the Kiel disaster. Both notes were couched in the stately language of institutional apology, but Madame Nordstrom had enclosed, with her regrets, a thick packet of financials in case Mr. Gabler wished to use the time for a preliminary review of BADA. Very few potential borrowers from the Sloan had managed to elicit a nod of approval from Gabler and only his colleagues could have appreciated Annamarie’s achievement.
Gabler, a lifelong adherent to the sane-mind-in-a-sound body principle, took regular precautions when traveling. He had every confidence in the ability of his intellect to surmount any degree of disruption and deprivation. The weak reed in the structure was his cosseted digestive system. Accordingly, after four hours of intensive application, he sallied forth to combine wholesome exercise with a study of harbor conditions in Gdansk.
Having satisfied himself that reports of economic decline were accurate, that even the shipyard famous for the birth of Solidarity lay silent and moribund, he returned to his hotel with glowing cheeks and renewed dedication. Next on the agenda was a healthful meal to be followed by another bout with Madame Nordstrom’s packet. He was drying his face in the bathroom when a knock on the hallway door brought him forth, towel in hand, and torpedoed his schedule.
“John! What in the world are you doing here?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Thatcher grumbled. This is Peter von Hennig’s doing.”
“Von Hennig of Finanzbank?”
“That’s right.”
Briefly Everett considered the magnitude of the German’s usual financial activities, the infinitesimal commercial opportunities in Gdansk, the fledgling status of BADA, then arrived at a conclusion.
“There is more to this than meets the eye,” he said sternly.
“Absolutely,” agreed Thatcher, plunging into an account of Bowman’s hopes for the Kiel Canal. Any project so worthy of the Sloan Guaranty Trust, as well as Finanzbank, was guaranteed to command Gabler’s attention. Instinctively disposing of his towel and donning his jacket to signal the importance of their discussion, he perched his meager frame upright on the edge of his chair, looking like an alert sparrow on a tree branch.
“And what did von Hennig have to say?”
“Not much,” Thatcher confessed. “I had barely been with him ten minutes whe
n the canal disaster preempted his attention for the day. On top of that he’s the German delegate to BADA, and there’s an emergency meeting of their council tonight. He suggested I travel with him to Gdansk but I decided to come early so I could put you in the picture. According to Peter there’s no doubt a canal project is inevitable. However, the best thinking puts the start of the venture about five years off. There’s no consensus yet about the exact scope of the undertaking and there is going to be major jockeying between different factions.”
Gabler had spotted a crumb. “But when did von Hennig say this?”
“Before we knew the extent of the disaster.”
“Ah ha! So that could make a substantial difference.”
Thatcher shrugged. “If current repairs are going to require massive costs, that certainly strengthens the position of those pushing for an early start to the project. They’ll argue that while you’re paying all those earthmovers and engineers, you may as well do the job thoroughly.”
“A valid point.”
Thatcher waved away this contribution. “True enough. But Everett, we have to be more concerned with the timing aspect. Finanzbank has obviously been hoping to put together an international consortium that would submit a proposal for financing the undertaking. Peter thought he had several years for all that involves. If they decide to jump-start the project, everybody’s going to have to scramble.”
“And no doubt reap the consequences of undue haste.” Everett’s reply was, by his standards, almost perfunctory. He was far too excited by the prospect to deliver his customary lecture about the need for meticulous preparation. “But what I do not understand, John, is BADA’s role in all this.”
“That’s the mystery. And we’ll have to wait for Peter to explain it.”
* * *
It was 10:30 before the long-awaited arrival. As always Peter von Hennig presented the appearance of an imperturbable aristocrat. Lean and vigorous, he moved with an air of effortless command. From his impeccable silver hair to his handmade shoes he was immediately recognizable in the West as one of the privileged few. In Poland he stood out like a visitor from another planet.
