Operation Underworld Read Free Page B

air while he searched for his two derelict ship fitters. Grasping at the latch handle, he stared in dismay as the case opened and in lieu of the life-saving device a large, pink inventory tag appeared.
    “Fucking bean counters!”
    After an eternity of choking through the ever thickening grey smoke, he reached the Paints, Oils and Lubricants cages and his attention was immediately diverted as he detected singing in the far corner of the large storage area.
    Through a shroud of grey, he saw the two men he had chewed out earlier that morning, both with sledge hammers, alternately beating a four inch water spigot in unison to the Anvil Chorus . Over the roar of the encroaching flames, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “What the hell are you two assholes doin’ here?!”
    “Tryin’ to rig a leak!” Both continued to pound away at the thick brass spigot. As if on cue, the fixture burst and the resulting torrent of water dowsed the flames just as they were about to reach the main POL stores. Breaking into a celebratory dance, both men dowsed themselves in the water.
    “Never mind that shit! Get the hell outta here!” Smiling angrily and following the men out of the compartment, the Foreman muttered to himself. “Assholes!”
    Back on the dock area, a few of the men who had initially fled were now returning to lend a hand and began to set up an area away from the ship to gather the casualties for the docs to assess.
    One of the men was the man who earlier had asked what a triage was.

    Staring through the oversized binoculars, the young boy felt more like a man then he had ever done sitting in a classroom. Jimmy had quit school two months ago when the war broke out and, through some friends who were connected, got a job in the Harbor Master’s shack. Next year, when he turned seventeen, he would sign up.
    Although the building which housed the Harbor Master and his team was still referred to by its eighteenth century name, it was anything but a shack.
    The red-enamelled, two storey, clapboard structure, which sat on what was essentially two sets of steel stilts, overlooked most of the harbour from its strategic position on the tip of Pier 62 just off West 23rd Street, and was equipped with the latest in modern advances. High definition FM radio, lamp-lit map boards and a dedicated direct telephone line to the fire tug outposts along Manhattan Island.
    Due to the immensity of the New York Harbor, it was impossible to view the entire area at one time from any land or sea position, so Jimmy was unsure exactly where the smoke plume he now observed originated. In this instance, protocol dictated an emergency procedure be enacted whereby the area of the potential trouble was approximated, and a grid mapped out. Then all hands would man the radio and phone lines to pinpoint the location of the problem and notify the nearest tug team.
    “Hey, Mr. Rorro. Mr. Rorro, sir. I think I see something way out there,” Jimmy said, squinting through the ship’s binoculars.
    “You’re supposed to see something way out there, Jimmy. That’s what binos are for.” The old HM was annoyed but tolerated his work being interrupted by the young boy’s enthusiasm.
    “Sir, can you have a look at this, please?”
    “Son, I have got to get these tug escort reports done today! So stop buggin’ me!” The old man remained at the desk and continued to write.
    “Sir, it looks like something. A fire maybe.” The old man’s head came up from the paperwork. “Out near the tunnels.”
    The HM walked over and took the glasses from the boy. Even before he raised them, he knew. “That’s a fire alright! Get on the grid! I’ll notify the tugs!”
    Just as he reached for the emergency line, it rang.
    “Hello! HM shack, who is this?” It was Lance Corporal Deuth. “Yes, corporal! Have you notified the fire and police departments? Alright then, keep the main gate clear of traffic and continue to man your station. Report to the fire