Maria knew she had to find a way to arrest the list. Like all other car carrier captains, she had heard the story of the Cougar Ace, an auto transport vessel like hers that nearly capsized when the captain was cycling the ballast water before entering U.S. waters off Alaska to avoid contaminating American shores with nonnative foreign species. A malfunction during the transfer sequence caused the Cougar Ace to keel over, but not so far that she completely capsized. It took the valiant efforts of a salvage team to right her again after thirty days on her side.

Unlike container vessels where most of the stowage is on open decks, a car carrier is fully enclosed. No other type of cargo ship could have survived turning on its side because at such an extreme list the lower outside decks would have let water into the hull.

Ever since the Cougar Ace accident, most large ships, including the Ciudad Bolívar, had been equipped with a load monitor computer application that helped her crew determine how to arrange the vehicles in the vessel for optimum stability. It also made sure that transferring ballast water was done as safely as possible.

Emptying the ballast tanks on the Cougar Ace had caused the accident, but perhaps Maria could save her ship with the same tactic.

“Miguel,” she said, “send out a distress call. Jorge, input the flooded spaces into the load monitor.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know which portside ballast tanks to drain.” When he looked at her like she was crazy, she prodded: “Hurry.” The list was now fifteen degrees.

“Aye, Captain.”

While Miguel transmitted the distress call, Jorge’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Two minutes and another five degrees of list later, he said, “Ballast tanks three and four are our

best hope. But if the numbers are wrong, we won’t have time to abandon ship.”

As much as the cargo was her responsibility, the crew was an even higher priority.

“Jorge,” she said, “take Roberto and Miguel to gather the rest of the men at the muster station and prepare to launch the lifeboat.” Since it was on the port side and closer to the water, they should still have time to lower it. At least there was no danger of dying from exposure in the tropical climate.

“We’re staying, Captain,” Jorge said. Miguel and Roberto nodded in agreement.

“No, you’re not. It only takes one of us to do this. If it works and the ship is righted, I can bring you back aboard. But if it capsizes, there’s no reason for us all to go down.”

“Just you?”

“It’s my ship. Now, go take care of the men. Let me know when you’re away.”

Jorge swallowed hard, but he could see that further objection was useless. With forced smiles and good luck wishes, the three of them scrabbled out, holding on to anything they could as they walked on the inclined deck.

By the time the crew had reached safety, she might not be able to hold herself upright or even climb out of the bridge. She wasn’t suicidal or excited about a hero’s death. She wanted to survive if at all possible. If things went wrong, she wanted a backup plan.

Maria went outside the bridge to the wall-mounted fire hose. She opened the case and pulled the hose out, unreeling it so that the nozzle snaked into the bridge and slid all the way to the other side. When it was completely unreeled, she went back in to the computer terminal and looped the hose around her waist.

Two minutes later, Jorge radioed that the lifeboat was launched and all crewmen were accounted for. They were motoring to a safe distance, ready to pick her up if she decided to leap from the ship. She thanked him and told him he’d know her choice when he saw what happened to the ship.

The list was now forty degrees, and the hose cut into her hip as the tilt threatened to make her lose her footing. If her plan worked, it would save the ship. If not, the new imbalance might turn it over before she had a chance to escape.

A faithful Catholic, Maria crossed herself and kissed her crucifix pendant. Then she pressed the command to empty ballast tanks 3 and 4, praying that the pumps were still working.

The immediate impact was anticlimactic. No sudden movement, no noise of machinery winding into action. But the screen indicated that the pumps were functioning. The levels of tanks 3 and 4 were declining.

A jolt rocked the ship, increasing its list by ten degrees in seconds, and Maria feared that she had made the wrong choice. Her last order would be the one that killed her and sunk the ship.

The soles of her shoes finally lost their grip and Maria’s feet flew out from under her. Her shoulder smacked into the rubber-coated floor. The hose was the only thing that kept her from tumbling out the door and over the railing, spiraling to the metal deck below.

Like a climber rappelling down a cliff, Maria planted her feet against the floor and gripped the hose with both hands. She needed to get up to where it was attached to the exterior wall before the angle of ascent wouldn’t allow her to use her legs to support her. She was strong, but her arms weren’t muscular enough to pull herself up by her hands alone.

It was a race between her and the ship’s tilt. She clambered up, making sure she had one hand on the hose at all times. One slip and she could smash her head against any of the consoles.

She was halfway up when the hose knocked against the radio on her belt. Before she could grab it, the walkie-talkie detached and tumbled gracefully through the air until it shattered against the railing, a fitting demonstration of what would happen to Maria if she followed it.

With renewed vigor, she climbed the final steps and hauled herself out onto the exterior metal wall of the bridge. She lay back and sucked in deep breaths, exhausted from the effort. It was only then that she realized the list had stabilized. Although the ship wasn’t righting itself, it wasn’t in imminent danger of turning turtle, either.

Maria estimated that the list was seventy degrees, making the whitewashed walls temporary floors. She untied herself from the hose, stood, and walked along the exterior of the crew’s living area situated atop the ship, careful to avoid stepping on the windows. There was no point in going back inside the bridge and trying to adjust the ballast tanks further in the hopes of righting the ship. She could just as easily capsize it. Better to let an expert salvage company do the job.

Tags: Clive Cussler Oregon Files Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net