Charon's landing

“Green across the board, Captain. Engines are on line, turning at sixty-nine rpms.” Because of its massive size, the Hyundai engine could turn at such low revolutions and still produce over 36,000 shaft horsepower. Enough to move the oil tanker at a nominal cruising speed of sixteen knots. “All hydraulic pressures are up and stable.”

“Visual inspection of the steering gear?”

“Chief says it looks fine.”

While it was maritime law for the steering gear and engine to be checked by the Chief Engineer twelve hours prior to entering the harbor, Hauser wanted a second inspection to put his mind at ease about his new ship. In 1979 the 220,000-ton supertanker Amoco Cadiz lost hydraulic pressure to her massive rudder and slammed into the coast of France, spilling nearly her entire cargo into the English Channel. Since then, Hauser made sure that his gear was given a personal inspection by the Chief Engineer before he moved any of his charges from her berth. The visual inspection may or may not turn up an internal flaw in a weld or a slight tear in a rubber gasket, but it was better than nothing. Yet another of his many superstitions.

“First Officer?”

“Here, sir,” JoAnn Riggs squawked through the walkie-talkie.

Hauser peered toward the twin towers of the manifold system located amidships, nearly six hundred fifty feet away. In the artificial daylight from the dock and at this great distance, Riggs was a tiny figure, visible only because of her bright yellow rain slicker.

“Give the order to cast off bowlines, Bridge ahead slow, please.”

He watched as the massive hemp and nylon rope was slipped from the bollard and drawn into the ship by a mechanical windlass. With the last thread to land removed, the Petromax Arctica was free to begin her journey to southern California.

Belowdecks, the nine-cylinder diesel engine felt the strain of the water as the propeller shaft was engaged and began fighting against the ship’s tremendous inertia. According to Newton’s law, a body at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by another force. Because this particular body weighed 255,000 dead weight tons (dwt), the force needed to move it had to be equally as large. Under her flat stern, the ferro-bronze propeller, a twisted sculpture the size of a commercial aircraft’s wing, ripped at the water, torquing it so that slowly, slowly it began pulling the ship. Though located at the back of a vessel, a ship’s prop works the same as that of an airplane, creating low pressure before the blades and high pressure behind them. They do not push through the water; they pull.

The pistons, each over a yard in diameter, had the power to send a shiver through a ship even the size of the Petromax Arctica. To Hauser, the slight rattle beneath his booted feet was a comforting feeling.

Hauser changed frequencies on his walkie-talkie before speaking again. “Alyeska control, this is the Petro-” He corrected himself quickly. “This is the Southern Cross. We are underway at 2:43 A.M., en route to el Segundo.” Damn name change.

“Roger, Southern Cross. An ERV is standing by for escort duty.”

The ERVs, or Escort Response Vessels, were one of the latest safety features incorporated at the terminal, one of the many changes following the Exxon Valdez disaster. Each tanker that berthed at Alyeska was shadowed by a specialized ship until it reached the Gulf of Alaska. Designed for an immediate response to oil spills, ERVs were equipped with nearly a mile of oil-absorbent material called boom that could be laid around a slick like a floating dam. They also carried drop mats for small spills and water cannons for moving oil across the surface of the Sound. The crews of the ERVs were all highly trained specialists in the field of oil spill cleanup. The 182-foot-long ship that followed the Petromax Arctica down the length of Valdez Bay, actually a twelve-mile-long fjord, was the newest addition to Alyeska’s fleet.

The Arctica was on her way. Captain Hauser was the only member of the command crew with a certificate to guide a fully burdened VLCC through these dangerous waters, so he had to remain on the bridge until they cleared Prince William Sound. He moved into the bridge from the port wing and wedged himself into the master’s chair, a cup of coffee at the ready. His first standing order since taking command was that fresh coffee was to be available at all times of the day or night and each pot was to be no more than thirty minutes old. He was good for at least twenty-five cups per day. He’d been able to break himself of his nicotine addiction, but his need for caffeine would never be shaken.

Already the cruise wasn’t going well. The ship was running flawlessly, but Hauser was having a tough time with his crew, especially JoAnn Riggs. He had spoken to her briefly about the accident that had maimed the former captain but still wasn’t satisfied with her answers. She had been extremely evasive. The remaining officers and the chief engineer appeared competent, but they had not been present when Captain Albrecht had lost his arm and could add nothing to Riggs’ account.

The hours dragged on without incident. The great tanker powered south, her huge bows forcing the water aside rather than cleaving through it. For a ship this big, the stormy seas of the Sound weren’t even noticeable. They swirled around the hull but couldn’t cause even a slight roll.

“ERV to Southern Cross.” The radio call was the first voice on the bridge for the past two hours except for Hauser’s quiet course corrections.

“This is the Cross. Go ahead.”

“Though we can’t see it, the Loran says we’re at the entrance to the Sound. You’re on your own.” The voice over the radio was tired.

The storm that had dumped four inches of snow aboard the tanker at Valdez had not abated. A steady white curtain was drawn against the armored windscreen of the bridge, the snow racing in one direction, then another without a moment’s pause. It was impossible to discern a horizon line between the sea and sky; each was dark and angry. The tanker’s bow lights looked like a dim constellation, far removed from the heated comfort of the spacious bridge.

“Roger that. This is the Southern Cross acknowledging that we have been escorted out of Prince William Sound,” Hauser replied formally. The ship was on her own.

He waited for another ten minutes before taking his leave from the bridge, making certain that everything was functioning properly. He took a slow circuit of the huge compartment, his weathered hands clasped behind his back as he read the dozens of gauges and dials that indicated the ship’s status. As he’d suspected, the ship was running in perfect order. When he’d finished his brief tour, he paused at the exit to the bridge, near the large plotting table.

“Helmsman” — Hauser didn’t recall the man’s name from the hasty introduction just before leaving the terminal — “First Officer Riggs is eight minutes late for her watch. When she arrives, tell her this has been noted on my log. If she hasn’t shown in ten minutes, call me in my cabin.” Hauser had to use the bathroom so badly he couldn’t wait for Riggs to replace him on watch.

Because a modern supertanker operates with just a skeleton crew of thirty, there was a great deal of space for each person aboard. Most rated a private cabin or shared with only one crewmate. The captain, especially, was afforded every luxury. The Master’s Suite was located one level below the bridge and included a large front office, called the Day Room, as well as a sleeping cabin the size of a generous apartment. The carpet was a rich blue pile, thick and soft, and the woodwork around the cabin was of the finest quality, not the cheap commercial paneling found in the other officers’ quarters. There was already a stack of paperwork mounded on his desk that needed his immediate attention. He hated to admit that the job of Master had become one of administrative details rather than saltwater and hard steel. Such was the nature of the business today. Once, captains had been cut from a romantic cloth, heaped with legend and lore. Now they were nothing more than glorified managers buried under bureaucratic paper shuffling.

He kicked off his boots and shed his black worsted wool uniform jacket. He’d stuffed the tie that went with the uniform into a pocket hours before and vowed he wouldn’t retrieve it until the ship was in sight of Long Beach. He’d never felt that discipline aboard ship was maintained by strict dress code. Let the crew be comfortable and they would work better had always been his style of command.

Hauser was finishing in the bathroom when the intercom chimed. “Yes, what is it?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain.” It was the helmsman. “First Officer Riggs hasn’t shown yet. I paged her cabin but got no reply.”

“I’m on my way,” Hauser muttered irritably. Riggs’ actions had gone beyond rude. She was showing a serious