how crazy women are.”
That had ended that episode, and it had been done with such disarming geniality that the tycoon had no alternative but to buy another round and leave, putting as good a face as he could manage on it. It was this mixture of childlike honesty and worldly sophistication that had constantly surprised and delighted Sutherland.
Henricks coughed politely, waiting for the President’s orders, but Sutherland was back on Kauai, on the day he and Elaine had walked hand in hand along the deserted, straw-colored beach and swum in the cool green sea just as the red disk of the sun disappeared behind the macadamia trees. That day their lovemaking had been the best. Afterwards they had strolled along the more inhabited beach at Poipu, in the soft twilight, watching the torches of the hotels flicker and wave in the gentle trade wind, listening to the surf pounding over the reef and surging onto the curving, palm-backed beaches, awash with moonlight.
And now she might die.
Henricks coughed again, louder.
Sutherland tried to marshal his thoughts, to put the memories out of his mind, but the more he tried, the more they rushed back at him. “Are there any other surface craft out there?” he asked curtly. “Any nationality at all?”
“A Japanese LNG off Chichagof Island out of Juneau. She’s under contract to El Paso Company—heading towards Point Conception just north of L.A. But she’s too far off at the moment, too.”
The President slapped the table angrily. The telexes kept chattering like recalcitrant children as everyone fell silent. “Would you all stop trying to impress me with your technical expertise and talk to me in plain, simple English.” There was a long silence. The President reached into his pocket and threw several small balls of Kleenex into the wastebasket. After a few seconds he asked quietly, “Now, Bob, what in Christ is an LNG? Just so a simple old Harvard boy like me can understand.”
“It’s a liquefied natural gas carrier, Mr. President,” Henricks explained. “It’s like a regular tanker, only it has three—maybe five—cylindrical tanks sunk into the deck.”
Sutherland nodded his thanks. “Then it won’t be any use at all. Matter of fact, it’d be downright dangerous having it anywhere near the fire. Right? Wouldn’t the gas expand in those tanks?”
It seemed no one in the room had thought of this possibility. “Well, wouldn’t it?” asked the President. “As I remember it, natural gas has to be refrigerated for transporting; otherwise it becomes extremely unstable.”
Henricks answered, “Yes, sir, it probably would. Be dangerous, I mean.”
The President wasn’t listening. He pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet, slamming his fist on the table. “The Canadian sub! It can go under and get them out!”
It was a rough day for Henricks. Again duty obligated him to be the harbinger of bad news. “Sorry, sir, it’s trapped like the boat—only beneath the fire. Admiral Klein has been in contact with Canadian Maritime Command at Esquimalt in British Columbia. They say it’s a nonnuclear, conventional trainer type—post-World War Two, but not much. It’s modernized, but apparently it will have to surface soon to recharge its batteries and replenish its air supply. Klein says it could perhaps make it under the fire to the boat, but in order to return it would have to recharge and reoxygenate.” Henricks hesitated. “That is, of course, if the Canadians agreed to try it.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” enquired the President.
Jean Roche answered quickly. “Along with Washington and Oregon, they fought hard against supratanker routes down their coast, Mr. President. They’ve always been afraid of spills. They feel very strongly about it, I’m afraid.”
“Of course,” grumbled Sutherland, obviously piqued. “They don’t have to import as much.” He turned back to Henricks. “You said its batteries ‘apparently’ need recharging.
That had ended that episode, and it had been done with such disarming geniality that the tycoon had no alternative but to buy another round and leave, putting as good a face as he could manage on it. It was this mixture of childlike honesty and worldly sophistication that had constantly surprised and delighted Sutherland.
Henricks coughed politely, waiting for the President’s orders, but Sutherland was back on Kauai, on the day he and Elaine had walked hand in hand along the deserted, straw-colored beach and swum in the cool green sea just as the red disk of the sun disappeared behind the macadamia trees. That day their lovemaking had been the best. Afterwards they had strolled along the more inhabited beach at Poipu, in the soft twilight, watching the torches of the hotels flicker and wave in the gentle trade wind, listening to the surf pounding over the reef and surging onto the curving, palm-backed beaches, awash with moonlight.
And now she might die.
Henricks coughed again, louder.
Sutherland tried to marshal his thoughts, to put the memories out of his mind, but the more he tried, the more they rushed back at him. “Are there any other surface craft out there?” he asked curtly. “Any nationality at all?”
“A Japanese LNG off Chichagof Island out of Juneau. She’s under contract to El Paso Company—heading towards Point Conception just north of L.A. But she’s too far off at the moment, too.”
The President slapped the table angrily. The telexes kept chattering like recalcitrant children as everyone fell silent. “Would you all stop trying to impress me with your technical expertise and talk to me in plain, simple English.” There was a long silence. The President reached into his pocket and threw several small balls of Kleenex into the wastebasket. After a few seconds he asked quietly, “Now, Bob, what in Christ is an LNG? Just so a simple old Harvard boy like me can understand.”
“It’s a liquefied natural gas carrier, Mr. President,” Henricks explained. “It’s like a regular tanker, only it has three—maybe five—cylindrical tanks sunk into the deck.”
Sutherland nodded his thanks. “Then it won’t be any use at all. Matter of fact, it’d be downright dangerous having it anywhere near the fire. Right? Wouldn’t the gas expand in those tanks?”
It seemed no one in the room had thought of this possibility. “Well, wouldn’t it?” asked the President. “As I remember it, natural gas has to be refrigerated for transporting; otherwise it becomes extremely unstable.”
Henricks answered, “Yes, sir, it probably would. Be dangerous, I mean.”
The President wasn’t listening. He pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet, slamming his fist on the table. “The Canadian sub! It can go under and get them out!”
It was a rough day for Henricks. Again duty obligated him to be the harbinger of bad news. “Sorry, sir, it’s trapped like the boat—only beneath the fire. Admiral Klein has been in contact with Canadian Maritime Command at Esquimalt in British Columbia. They say it’s a nonnuclear, conventional trainer type—post-World War Two, but not much. It’s modernized, but apparently it will have to surface soon to recharge its batteries and replenish its air supply. Klein says it could perhaps make it under the fire to the boat, but in order to return it would have to recharge and reoxygenate.” Henricks hesitated. “That is, of course, if the Canadians agreed to try it.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” enquired the President.
Jean Roche answered quickly. “Along with Washington and Oregon, they fought hard against supratanker routes down their coast, Mr. President. They’ve always been afraid of spills. They feel very strongly about it, I’m afraid.”
“Of course,” grumbled Sutherland, obviously piqued. “They don’t have to import as much.” He turned back to Henricks. “You said its batteries ‘apparently’ need recharging.
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