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The questions were given out and the answers returned. Zale, Loren could see, was not about to be daunted. He well knew that he controlled three of the five members on the Unfair Practices Committee, and he felt in total control. Except for occasionally sneaking a look at his wristwatch, he was completely unfazed.
Loren lifted her eyes to the clock on the far wall just as often. She found it almost impossible to keep her mind from wandering to the disaster approaching San Francisco, and wondered if the Coast Guard and Special Forces were going to stop it in time. It was especially discouraging knowing she could not confront Zale with her knowledge and accuse him in advance of attempted mass murder.
46
The sea's surface rolled and marched in endless formation. There were no whitecaps, and the troughs curled like furrows in a plowed field. There was a strange silence about the sea. A light mist floated over the waves, muting any sound of moving water, barely hiding the stars dipping over the western horizon. San Francisco's lights glowed in a creamy cloud against the dark sky to the east.
It was an hour before dawn when the Coast Guard cutter Huron, running at full speed, intercepted the gargantuan supertanker Pacific Trojan twenty miles west of the Golden Gate. Two Coast Guard helicopters circled the big ship, accompanied by the latest addition to Marine Air, a Goshawk copter that carried Captain Garnet and his thirty-man Marine Recon Team. A fast, armored Army patrol boat followed at the stern of the tanker. Onboard were Commander Miles Jacobs and his Navy SEAL team, prepared to shoot grappling hooks attached to ladders onto the vast deck of the tanker.
Admiral Amos Dover, who was in charge of the boarding operation, stood with binoculars pressed against his eyes. "She's a big one. As long as five football fields end to end, and then some."
"An Ultra, Ultra Large Crude Carrier," observed the cutter's commander, Captain Buck Compton. Twenty-three years in the Coast Guard, Compton had served around the world, commanding cutters in daring rescues in stormy seas, and stopping ships whose cargoes were illegal immigrants or drugs. "You'd never know that eighty percent of her mass is below her waterline. According to her specs, she can carry over six hundred thousand tons of oil."
"I wouldn't want to be within ten miles if her cargo of oil explodes."
"Better here than in San Francisco Bay."
"Her captain is making no attempt at skulking into the bay," Dover said quietly. "He's got every light from bow to stern turned on. It's almost as if he wants to announce his presence." He lowered his glasses. "Strange that he would advertise his presence so conspicuously."
Still studying the tanker, Compton could clearly see the ship's cook empty a pail of garbage into the sea, as gulls swooped down into the water rushing past the gigantic hull. "I don't like the looks of it," he said flatly.
Dover turned to his radioman, who was standing nearby with a portable radio plugged into the bridge speaker. "Contact our helicopters and ask if they see any signs of hostile activity."
The radioman complied and waited until a voice replied over the speaker. "Admiral Dover, Lieutenant Hooker in Chase One. Except for a crewman who appears to be checking pipe fittings and the ship's cook, the decks appear empty."
"The wheelhouse?" Dover inquired.
The message was relayed and the answer came back quickly. "The bridge wing is vacant. All I can make out through the bridge windshield is two officers on watch."
"Pass on your observations to Captain Garnet and Commander Jacobs and tell them to stand by while I hail the tanker."
"She carries a crew of fifteen officers and thirty crewmen," said Compton, studying the computer data on the tanker. "British registry. That means all hell will break loose if we board a ship flying a foreign flag without proper permission."
"That's Washington's problem. We're operating under strict orders to board her."
"Just so long as you and I are off the hook."
"You do the honors, Buck."
Compton took the transmitter from the radioman. "To the Captain of Pacific Trojan. This is the captain of Coast Guard Cutter Huron. Where are you bound?"
The supertanker's captain, who was in the wheelhouse as his ship neared the United States coast, answered almost immediately. "This is Captain Don Walsh. We are bound for die offshore oil-pumping facilities at Point San Pedro."
"The answer I would expect," muttered Dover. "Tell him to heave to."
Compton nodded. "Captain Walsh, this is Captain Compton. Please heave to for a boarding inspection."
"Is this necessary?" asked Walsh. "It will cost the company time and money to stop and it'll throw us off our schedule."
"Please comply," answered Compton, in an authoritative tone.
"She's riding low in the water," commented Dover. "Her tanks must be filled to the brim."
There was no answer of compliance from Captain Walsh, but after a minute Dover and Compton could see that the wake caused by the tanker's churning screws was falling off. She still held the bone of foam on her bow, but both men knew it would take nearly a mile to bring her huge mass to a complete stop.
"Order Commander Jacobs and Captain Garnet to board the ship with their assault teams."
Compton looked at Dover. "You don't wish to send over a boarding crew from the Huron?"
