At dusk, Pitt called a status meeting, over barbecued ribs and beer ferried from a restaurant on Grosse Pointe.
“The evacuation tanker is running at full bore,” Cruz reported. “The last of the storage tanks should be dry by midnight.”
“That’s when our next Army Corps barge is due in,” Pitt said. “We’ll turn things over to the second shift and get some shut-eye. Let’s reconvene at midnight and see if we can rig for a predawn lift.” He turned to Audrey. “How’s our bioremediation stock holding up?”
“We have plenty on hand to see us through another day or two,” she replied, stifling a yawn.
Cruz nodded as he finished the last of the ribs. “Sleep sounds good, but I think I’ll take a quick survey dive to make sure we’re pumping clean.”
“Why don’t you take Al with you?” Pitt said. “A solo night dive in this current is not advisable.”
“Not necessary, I’ll be in and out before your heads hit the pillow,” Cruz said with his usual grin. “I’ll see everybody at midnight.”
A few minutes later, Cruz grabbed an air tank, squeezed into a dry suit, and slipped over the side. He switched on his underwater scooter’s headlamp and motored the short distance to the Mayweather’s bow. He skimmed above the top deck, slowing to see through the murky water. He had to bob and weave to avoid the maze of pipes and catwalks that crisscrossed the tanker’s deck.
Near the inshore rail, he stopped at a thick white hose that wiggled from the surface. It was connected to an inlet pipe, which ran to one of the Mayweather’s storage tanks. Through it, the thick tar sands oil was being sucked into the evacuation tanker. An ROV was perched on the deck and aimed at the hose, its cameras providing a live feed to crew members on the tanker. Finding no leaks, Cruz gave the camera a wave, then turned and headed forward.
Red ribbons tied to two remaining valves indicated there were just two tanks left to empty. The oil removal process was right on schedule.
He crossed the deck, returned to the serrated midsection, and descended to the riverbed, examining the sheared sides of the exposed storage tanks. He hesitated at a pair of yellow BioRem hoses, spaced several feet apart, clamped to the edge of a ruptured and leaking tank.
Cruz inched close to the nearest hose and waved his hand over the nozzle, expecting to feel the flow of the microorganism dispersant. He felt nothing. He moved to the second hose, which was similarly inactive. Cruz followed the hoses across the river bottom as they snaked along the forward hull. About twenty feet past the tanker’s bow, the hoses came to an abrupt end.
Cruz examined the open hose ends, weighed to the riverbed with rocks, then aimed his scooter toward the surface.
The dark outline of the BioRem freighter was faintly visible overhead. Perhaps the crew was changing the outlet hoses. Then Cruz noticed two thin lines extending from the ship, running aft. He cut the scooter’s throttle and let himself drift with the current until he could identify the lines as a pair of black hoses. They led to the bottom, but trailed in the opposite direction from the Mayweather.
Cruz engaged the scooter and followed the hoses. Nearly two hundred feet downriver, the hoses slithered over a rocky berm and ended at a wide metallic grate set in concrete. Their nozzles were clamped to the grate, and when Cruz waved a hand in front of them, he felt a rush of fluid being discharged.
There had to be an explanation. Cruz didn’t know what it was. Waste discharge? He’d radio Audrey McKee when he got back to the barge.
He advanced the scooter throttle to overcome the current and turned upriver, retracing the path of the hoses.
As he neared the BioRem ship, two small lights appeared in the water. Drawing closer, he could see a pair of divers about ten feet apart heading for him with similar scooters. Cruz slowed as they approached on either side, realizing too late that they were towing an object between them.
It was a mesh net, and he motored right into its center. He flicked the scooter over his head to try to slide up, but the divers were already converging behind him. One reached over and knocked the scooter from Cruz’s hands, while the other inserted a plastic tie into the netting at his back and cinched it tight.
Anger flared through Cruz as he tried to kick clear of the net. One arm broke free, and he reached over and grabbed one of the divers.
As he pulled him close, Cruz felt a cold blade slap the side of his neck—and he drew a mouthful of water. The other diver had cut his air hose from behind and was pulling him toward the bottom.
Cruz reached for the first man’s throat. He had only one arm against two, and the other man twisted free.
Anger turned to panic as the struggle to breathe overcame all senses and he fought to free himself. The two divers were now at his back, and they forced him face-first into the river bottom.
Driven into the mud, he fought with all his strength to break free. It was to no avail. Out of breath and pinned to the bottom, he sucked in a mouthful of river water and faced his death amid a black cloud of silt.
13
Mike has gone missing.”
The words stung Pitt like a punch to the midsection. “How long?” he asked, rising from his bunk and shaking off the cobwebs.
“He left the barge an hour ago,” Giordino said. “The deck watch reported him missing ten minutes ago. He’s in the water on a tank, no communications system. The extrusion tanker reported seeing him on their video feed about twenty minutes ago.”
“Could be stretching his air, but let’s get every available diver in the water. And now!”
“I’ll have a deckhand position a tender off the Mayweather’s bow, just in case.”