Kevin J. Anderson - Ill Wind

It is the largest oil spill in history: a supertanker crashes into the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco Bay. Desperate to avert environmental damage (as well as the PR disaster), the multinational oil company releases an untested designer oil-eating microbe to break up the spill.

What the company didnt realize is that their microbe propagates through the air... and it mutates to consume anything made of petrocarbons: oil, gasoline, synthetic fabrics, plastics of all kinds. And when every piece of plastic begins to dissolve, its too late....

ILL WIND

by

Kevin J. Anderson and Doug Beason

1996 by WordFire, Inc. and Doug Beason

Originally published by Tor Books

Published at Smashwords by WordFire, Inc.

Chapter 1

Crashing through 20-foot waves, the supertanker Zoroaster drove through the Pacific night like a great steel behemoth.

Longer than three football fields and 170 feet wide, the Oilstar supertanker was one of the largest objects ever constructed. Weather and salt water had left a patina of blisters and rust on a deck that had once been painted silver. Behind the ship, the wake looked like a bubbling cauldron of green foam, lit by a wash of moonlight.

Four days earlier, the supertanker had left the Alaskan port of Valdez after filling its twelve massive tanks with crude oil piped from Prudhoe Bay. Fully loaded, the Zoroaster had churned out of the Gulf of Alaska, bound for the Oilstar refineries in the San Francisco Bay.

Oilstar representatives claimed the massive ship could function with a minimal crew of 28 because of highly efficient computer warning and navigation systems. Internal corporate memos included terms like increased profit margin and downsizing. Only the long, exhausting shifts broke the tedium for the crew.

No one wanted to think about what could go wrong with so large a ship... and so few people to respond to it.

#

The lower corridor of the Zoroaster s deckhouse was empty. Good. The only sounds were the continuous groans of the tanker, the whisper of the Pacific, and the distant throb of the engines. Everyone asleep. Along the corridor, the gunmetal-gray cabin doors had been sealed against the deep night. This ship always stank of fumes.

Connor Brooks did not hesitate. Sweating with excitement, he yanked down the fire alarm. It would create one hell of a diversion, and he would be glad to destroy the papers and get his sorry ass out of sight. Let the Oilstar pricks do all the explaining.

Electronic whoops clamored through the intercom, making the whole ship echo. Christ, it was loud enough! Connor grabbed his metal food tray and raced up the narrow corrugated stairs to the bridge. Keep everything moving. His entire plan depended on timing. Come on, come on!

Connors heart hammered as he bounded up the stairs. His shaggy blond hair flew backward; his scalp prickled with sweat. That butthead, Captain Miles Uma, would take a few seconds to respond to the emergency, and Connor would get his chance. About time, too.

He had to get everyone off the bridge so he could break into his personnel file, trash the evidence that was going to get him in trouble with the authorities. As the Zoroaster approached the end of her four-day journey to San Francisco, Connors time was running out. The supertanker would pass through the Golden Gate in less than an hour.

He wanted to kick someone in the kneecaps with his heavy workboot. So he had been caught with a few credit cards he had lifted from the wallets of other crew membersbig fucking deal! Nobody was liable for more than fifty bucks or so from purchases made on a stolen card anyway. Besides, Connor had never imagined anybody would notice until long after he jumped ship in San Francisco. What would someone use a credit card for on an oil tanker , for crying out loud?

Connor deserved a decent break in his life. Just one. He had run to Alaska in the first place to hide from a lot of things he did not want to remember, things that other people refused to forget. The port of Valdez in Prince William Sound was full of dirty jobs, working the slime line in fisheries or scrubbing out tankers before they refilled from the Trans-Alaska pipeline. He had hired onto the Zoroaster as a bottom-rank seaman, which meant serving meals and cleaning toilets. Connor hadnt counted on the captain being such a stuffed-shirt butthead! Why was the world so full of pricks?

Uma wasnt going to give him a break, so Connor had to take matters in his own hands.

Still running from the deafening fire alarms below, Connor reached the top deck with the tray of food. He wore a stained cooks apron over his muscular frame.

He paused a second to catch his breath before stepping onto the bridge. He was tempted to whistle a bit, just to show how casual he felt, but that would be too obvious. Old Butthead had the night watchdidnt the man ever leave his station? Damned Eskimo/Negro mixup. Short and bearlike, Buttheads swarthy skin, frizzy black hair, huge beard, and heavy eyebrows, made him look like a gorilla trying to pass himself off as human. He kept his Oilstar uniform neat, and he didnt drink booze. At all.

Butthead Uma whirled upon hearing Connor. Brooks! What the hell are you doing here?

Amid the confusion of panicked sounds, Connor put on a big Yes sir! smile. Brought your late-night snack, Captain.

Butthead ignored him and turned instead to the second mate. Where is that damned alarm coming from, Dailey?

The second mate looked up from a display panel, shoving his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. Two decks down, sir!

Right here in the deckhouse? Butthead said. At least its not out by the cargo holds.

Connor spoke up. Yeah, I just came from down there. It looked pretty bad, and the others were calling for you. The intercom is busted or something. He shrugged. The alarm kept yammering.

Fire control activated, Captain, said the second mate.

Uma seemed suspicious. Dailey, take the conn. Brooks, put that food down and come with me. Why didnt you let me know?

Connor cursed under his breath. Now he had to go with Butthead! How the hell was he going to get at the records?

The second mate looked out the wide, salt-spattered windows of the bridge, squinting through thick glasses toward the glimmering lights that stood out on the coast. Captain, were approaching the Point Bonitas lighthouse. Only two miles out of the Golden Gate. The Bay pilot is on his way to come aboard and take us through.

I cant sit around if theres a fire on my ship. Uma dashed to the bridge doorway. Brooks, get a move on!

Connor refrained from assisting Butthead down the stairwell with a hard kick in the ass. He had to delay, get the second mate out of the picture. The captains heavy boots clomped down the corrugated stairs like bricks falling on a brass gong.

Connor set the food down on the chart table, keeping the heavy metal tray. The moment the captain disappeared from view, Connor whirled, smashing the metal tray against the second mates head. The second mate held up an arm to fend off Connor, then fell to one knee; his glasses broke as they clattered to the floor. Two more blows to the head knocked the man unconscious.

Sorry, shipmate, Connor said as he ground the broken eyeglasses under the heel of his stained boot. You should have gone with Butthead.

He tossed the tray to the side, and the clatter vanished in the throbbing noise of the alarm. He rushed over to the personnel records bureau next to the captains station. Secure locks had never been a high priority, considering the supertankers limited crew and long voyages. Connor diddled with the lock, using the screwdriver in his pocket. He slapped his palm against the handle of the screwdriver, and the drawer popped open.

Connor dug through the manila folders, finding his own file: Connors hiring record, Umas incident report, and an arrest order. His face darkened. He had to be long gone before everybody stopped running around in circles.