Pacific Coast, California
Vincenzo Anastas peered through the thick fog, unable to see the bow of his ship, the MV Caliente, a supertanker carrying almost two million barrels of oil. Yet he wasn’t worried. A few decades ago, he’d be anchored offshore, waiting for the fog to clear, but not in the 21st century with satellite navigation. As long as everyone obeyed the rules, radar and GPS satellites would keep them on course and away from the navigation hazards present off most shores.
He stared at the computer display showing their location, the shore to the east off their port bow. He peered out the window, seeing nothing but fog.
Or was it?
He could have sworn he saw something, just a glimpse. He stepped out onto the weather deck and leaned over the rail, peering hard into the fog. He could hear horns from other ships and the sounds of birds. Nothing out of the ordinary. He turned to go back inside when he heard something he shouldn’t.
Sea lions.
Very close sea lions.
He rushed back to the railing and looked over the side at the water below, and not fifty feet from their hull was a large rock jutting from the water, dozens of sea lions spread out over its surface. “We’re off course!” He rushed back inside. “All stop! All stop!”
“Aye, Captain, all stop!” His helmsman killed their speed, the massive propellers slowly winding down, stopping a behemoth like this a long process.
“Sound collision alarm.”
“Sounding collision alarm, aye!”
A wail no mariner wanted to hear tore through the air.
“What is it, Captain?”
He ignored his First Officer, instead examining the map. He pointed to the port side. “There. That should be three hundred meters off our bow.”
“Yes, sir. It isn’t?”
“No, it’s right there!” He jabbed a finger toward the sea lions’ perch, through the deck. His jaw dropped as he continued to examine the map. “Oh no!” Another hazard was indicated, and if he estimated their actual position, they were about to run straight into it. “All engines astern!”
“All engines a—”
The ship jerked, tossing them all forward before his order could be fully acknowledged. He slammed into the helm, his ribs protesting as he swore he heard a series of cracks. He gasped in a breath, the pain sharp and overwhelming as the din of tearing metal screeched through the ship.
Then he heard the engines building up power as his last order was executed.
“Stop the engines! All stop!”
But no one was at the helm. His helmsman pulled himself to his feet, reaching for the controls, yet it took several seconds before he could kill the engines.
And it was too late.
He could feel them drifting off the shoal, the damage already done.
“Captain, we have a breach of the forward hold!”
He clasped his ribs and limped over to where his First Officer stood, the displays indicating the integrity of the holds storing their precious cargo showing the forward hold losing pressure.
And that meant only one thing.
They were spilling oil off of Long Beach, California.