than he had the last time he saw her, he didn’t show it.
Shifting a wooden case containing a rack of glass vials to his left hand, he saluted with his right. “Colonel.”
Jess returned the courtesy, waiting until Weathers had scurried off to take another radio call from the tug captain to inquire how Babcock was doing.
“I haven’t touched a drink since that night at the club, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She didn’t pretend otherwise. “It is, and I’m glad.”
The forthright reply surprised him. The glass jars rattled as he shifted his kit again.
“I didn’t thank you the other day for not handing me my walking papers. I wasn’t expecting another chance.”
Jess hadn’t expected to give him one, either, but knew better than to mention how persuasively his ex-wife had pleaded his case.
“Sergeant Weathers mentioned that you used to be in charge of the docks,” she said instead. “Why don’t you talk me through the off-load procedures?”
Off-loading a million or more gallons of jet fuel, she discovered, required patience, vigilance, and a good deal of muscle power. The Defense Supply Center purchased Eglin’s aviation fuel in bulk from refineries in Houston and New Orleans. The military package included a variety of additives that included everything from the ice inhibitors to conductivity eliminators so necessary for aircraft that might deploy to bases strung from the Arctic to the Sahara. Exxon in turn subcontracted with various tug companies to supply Eglin, Hurlburt Field and Tyndall Air Force Base, further east on the coast. The tug captains hired their own crews and made the fourteen-day round trip at scheduled intervals.
“Most of their crews are foreign nationals,” Babcock told her. “Too many of them either ignore or aren’t able to read safety warnings. Once, I caught a man dragging a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket during an off-load operation. He was just about to light up when I tossed him and his cigarettes into the bayou.”
Suddenly, the merciless noon heat blazing down on Jess’s head and shoulders didn’t seem quite so unbearable. She could only imagine the inferno that would erupt if several million gallons of jet fuel ignited.
As a consequence, she took a somewhat personal interest when a long, flat barge appeared a few minutes later. A second followed, nosed along by the squat, black and white tug that churned up a steady wake as it approached the dock.
When Sergeant Weathers’s people climbed into a motorboat and putt-putted out to deploy the floating booms behind the tug, Jess relaxed a bit. Only a bit. The booms would contain minor spills, but a spill of forty gallons or more would have to be reported. After her last session with the EPA, she wasn’t anxious for another. She didn’t breathe easy until the barges were tied to the dock.
“We’re off-loading a million-point-two gallons this shipment,” Babcock informed her. “It should take about eighteen hours. I’ll draw samples from all eight compartments in each barge before they begin off-loading, halfway through the discharge, and again when they finish.”
“Looking for?”
“Sediment. Water contamination. Prohibitive levels of conductivity. I also have to make sure the refinery put in the required additives.”
He hesitated a moment before extending a grudging invitation.
“You’re welcome to come back to the lab and watch while I run the tests.”
“I’ll do that.”
By the time Sergeant Babcock finished taking his initial samples, sweat plastered Jess’s fatigue shirt to her back and her breasts. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks for the Mustang’s air conditioning, she followed Babcock’s truck up Eight Street past sprawling, brown-and-tan painted airmen’s dormitories to Building 89.
Refuelers were lined up outside the building, ready to fill up and dispense JP-8 to the test aircraft parked along the aprons stretching to the east. The planes were only a
Shifting a wooden case containing a rack of glass vials to his left hand, he saluted with his right. “Colonel.”
Jess returned the courtesy, waiting until Weathers had scurried off to take another radio call from the tug captain to inquire how Babcock was doing.
“I haven’t touched a drink since that night at the club, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She didn’t pretend otherwise. “It is, and I’m glad.”
The forthright reply surprised him. The glass jars rattled as he shifted his kit again.
“I didn’t thank you the other day for not handing me my walking papers. I wasn’t expecting another chance.”
Jess hadn’t expected to give him one, either, but knew better than to mention how persuasively his ex-wife had pleaded his case.
“Sergeant Weathers mentioned that you used to be in charge of the docks,” she said instead. “Why don’t you talk me through the off-load procedures?”
Off-loading a million or more gallons of jet fuel, she discovered, required patience, vigilance, and a good deal of muscle power. The Defense Supply Center purchased Eglin’s aviation fuel in bulk from refineries in Houston and New Orleans. The military package included a variety of additives that included everything from the ice inhibitors to conductivity eliminators so necessary for aircraft that might deploy to bases strung from the Arctic to the Sahara. Exxon in turn subcontracted with various tug companies to supply Eglin, Hurlburt Field and Tyndall Air Force Base, further east on the coast. The tug captains hired their own crews and made the fourteen-day round trip at scheduled intervals.
“Most of their crews are foreign nationals,” Babcock told her. “Too many of them either ignore or aren’t able to read safety warnings. Once, I caught a man dragging a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket during an off-load operation. He was just about to light up when I tossed him and his cigarettes into the bayou.”
Suddenly, the merciless noon heat blazing down on Jess’s head and shoulders didn’t seem quite so unbearable. She could only imagine the inferno that would erupt if several million gallons of jet fuel ignited.
As a consequence, she took a somewhat personal interest when a long, flat barge appeared a few minutes later. A second followed, nosed along by the squat, black and white tug that churned up a steady wake as it approached the dock.
When Sergeant Weathers’s people climbed into a motorboat and putt-putted out to deploy the floating booms behind the tug, Jess relaxed a bit. Only a bit. The booms would contain minor spills, but a spill of forty gallons or more would have to be reported. After her last session with the EPA, she wasn’t anxious for another. She didn’t breathe easy until the barges were tied to the dock.
“We’re off-loading a million-point-two gallons this shipment,” Babcock informed her. “It should take about eighteen hours. I’ll draw samples from all eight compartments in each barge before they begin off-loading, halfway through the discharge, and again when they finish.”
“Looking for?”
“Sediment. Water contamination. Prohibitive levels of conductivity. I also have to make sure the refinery put in the required additives.”
He hesitated a moment before extending a grudging invitation.
“You’re welcome to come back to the lab and watch while I run the tests.”
“I’ll do that.”
By the time Sergeant Babcock finished taking his initial samples, sweat plastered Jess’s fatigue shirt to her back and her breasts. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks for the Mustang’s air conditioning, she followed Babcock’s truck up Eight Street past sprawling, brown-and-tan painted airmen’s dormitories to Building 89.
Refuelers were lined up outside the building, ready to fill up and dispense JP-8 to the test aircraft parked along the aprons stretching to the east. The planes were only a
Similar Books
