mass of the tanker appeared. The black-colored hull had settled evenly, the white-painted Plimsoll line missing the mark by several meters. Pitt drifted with the current, sliding past the bow plates, until he reached the bulbous nose of the prow.
With Giordino and Cruz at his heels, he turned upriver to where the Duluth had struck the tanker. Pitt swam along the angled interior, peering at the sides of the corrugated storage tanks that had been sheared open. The water grew darker as black streams of oil swirled from multiple fissures in the bulkheads. Pitt ascended to the main deck, where he could see the freighter had come within ten feet of splitting the ship in two.
Pitt throttled the scooter and took a full spin around the sunken vessel before surfacing and motoring to the barge. As he swam up to the platform, a pair of soft, feminine hands reached down and took the scooter so he could climb aboard.
Pitt climbed onto the platform to face a red-haired woman in a tight-fitting jumpsuit. She stood with a confident bearing, and wore a petulant look. “Are you boys done with your swim so I can attack this oil spill?” she asked.
Pitt pulled off his mask and grinned at her forwardness. As she looked into his eyes, she fumbled and dropped the scooter to the deck. Pitt stripped off his dive tank and weight belt as she retrieved the scooter, then he stood and shook her hand.
“Yes, we’ve completed our survey. And thanks for the assist. I’m Dirk Pitt.”
“Audrey McKee, field manager with BioRem Global. The barge supervisor told me you were inspecting the Mayweather.”
“McKee? You must be the daughter of Evanna McKee. I just met your mother last night.”
Audrey squinted at him. “She’s in Washington,” she replied.
“We just flew in this morning.”
Giordino and Cruz surfaced and climbed aboard, and Pitt made the introductions.
“I hope you brought a big bag of hungry bacteria with you,” Giordino said.
Audrey pointed to a small freighter moored on the Canadian shoreline. Two large stainless steel tanks were visible on the forward deck.
“We are fully stocked with a supply of bioremediation agent designed for tar sands oil, which we’re ready to deploy.”
“Live bacteria?” Cruz asked.
“Several proprietary varieties of microorganisms, actually, that feed on hydrocarbon molecules.”
“Aren’t they dangerous to marine life?”
“Not at all,” she said. “They are completely safe to marine animals—and the environment. Sort of like the good bacteria that live in your stomach.”
“Any word,” Pitt said, “on its approval for use in U.S. waters?”
“A special waiver was signed by the EPA this morning. We now have authorization to operate in the Detroit River.”
“That’s good news,” Giordino said. “How do you plan on deploying the stuff?”
“We’ll run hoses to the ruptured parts of the ship and slowly disperse the agent with fresh water. The microbes will attach to the oil and break down, then, ultimately, metabolize the pollutants. Unfortunately, the current will make it impossible to fully contain the contaminants. But if we can pinpoint the spillage areas, we can effectively treat a high percentage of the oil.”
“We have a pretty good idea where those are.” Pitt turned to Cruz. “Mike, how soon can we get the evacuation tanker online?”
“We can begin sucking out the undamaged storage areas this afternoon, starting with the stern section. Probably take two days to get everything evacuated. I’ve got my team split into three units so we can run around the clock.”
Pitt turned to Audrey. “Looks like we may not need your hungry bugs for very long.”
“I don’t like seeing the river polluted with oil any more than you do.” She pointed toward the Mayweather’s submerged bow. “We’ll set up just downstream and begin running dispersal lines to the damaged areas right away.”
“I think we have the makings of a plan,” Pitt said.
“I can communicate with you here on the barge?” Audrey asked.
“Al and I won’t be aboard much, so you best coordinate with Mike.”
Cruz gave him a quizzical look. “You’re not managing operations from our luxurious river barge?”
Pitt gazed at the Mayweather’s exposed blockhouse.
“Nope,” he said, with a shake of the head. “Al and I will be spending our time in the river, cutting that big, ugly beast in half.”
12
The underwater cutting torch burned with the brightness of the midday sun. Steadying himself against the hull with a large suction device, Pitt guided the torch across the Mayweather’s half-inch-thick outer steel hull. Thirty feet away, but on the ship’s interior side, Giordino was duplicating the cut, slicing through a slimmer inner