“Are you all right?”
“Shaken up, but fine.”
“We’re getting you out of the water.”
Without his input, the mini sub headed across the smooth water toward the mother ship, half a mile away.
26
MANUEL GARZA ENTERED the forensic lab filled with a sense of foreboding. Half a dozen metal chairs had been set up before a large flat-paneclass="underline" a movie theater in miniature, all ready for a most macabre showing.
Garza had lived through the sinking of the Rolvaag. They say that with time, memory of even the worst experiences begins to fade, and this, in fact, was what had happened with him. He wasn’t sure if this was an unhealthy form of repression or merely a self-protective psychological reaction. All he knew was he had spent years avoiding thinking about that terrible night, pushing away any and all thoughts of it, to the point where—he told himself—he hardly remembered what had happened. He had no interest in remembering. Maybe some people dealt with PTSD by going over the events in their mind again and again. Not him: his way of dealing with it was to repress the shit out of those memories, squash them, pretend they never happened.
And now here he was, about to be spoon-fed all those carefully banished memories, one at a time.
“Dr. Garza, welcome!” said Hank Nishimura a little too brightly.
Garza silently took the proffered seat. He knew full well his reputation aboard ship was of someone rude, aloof, and taciturn. He had the same reputation at the EES home office. It had bothered him at first, but when he realized he wasn’t able—or willing—to change, he’d decided the better route was not to care. The mission at hand was all that mattered; screw the rest.
He was early, and as he waited First Officer Lennart came in, followed by Antonella Sax, the exobiologist. Nobody spoke. Finally Glinn arrived. Nobody else had been invited: not Gideon, not Brambell.
Garza looked at Glinn curiously. What they were about to see was, without doubt, going to put the EES director in a very bad light. Bad wasn’t even the word: it would pretty much draw back the curtain on Glinn at his most obsessed and homicidally negligent moment. If these tapes ever made it out into the world, it was quite possible Glinn would spend the rest of his life in prison.
And yet Glinn was wearing his usual mask—his face neutral, ambiguously pleasant, vaguely intelligent, the face of an accountant, perhaps, or a mid-level manager at a consumer goods company.
Glinn sat down.
And now Garza could see just how nervous Nishimura was. He was the only one who had seen the tapes so far, and what he had seen must not have been very nice.
“Dr. Glinn, would you care to say a few words by, ah, way of introduction?” asked Nishimura, hopefully.
Glinn waved his hand. “Play the tapes.”
“Um, yes. Okay.” Nishimura’s eyes darted around, the rictus of an inappropriate smile on his face. “What I did—what Dr. Glinn asked me to do—was to create a composite video of the Rolvaag’s last moments, in strict chronology, highlighting the defining events. The video starts about an hour before the sinking, and continues to the point where the ship broke up and the recording systems went dead.”
He clasped his hands, took a breath.
“We were able to recover most of the data. There were two cams on the bridge, two in the hold, and several others scattered about the ship. Sometimes the quality of the image is degraded, and often the audio is hard to understand, unless it was an electronic communication. There are some…difficult moments in here…Obviously, all this is confidential to this room. That’s why, at Dr. Glinn’s orders, the audience has been kept small. No discussion of this is to take place beyond our circle—correct, Dr. Glinn?”
“Correct.”
An uncomfortable pause. “Dr. Glinn, are you sure you don’t want to say any words about what we are to view?”
Another dismissive wave of the hand.
Nishimura swallowed. “All right, then. I’m going to roll it with no further comment. You’ll note I’ve inserted a running time stamp in the lower right corner of the frame.”
The lights in the room went down. The screen came up black and the time stamp began running:
19:03.44
Then the video began. A scene materialized. It was the bridge of a ship—the Rolvaag. The point of view was from above and to the side, showing the helm, the master’s position, the officer of the watch. The light was gray, a stormy twilight. The bridge was dark, as was normal, with only the red glow of the electronics and several low-lit screens displaying radar and chartplotters.
Garza recognized Captain Britton at the master’s station, the figure next to her Eli Glinn. The first officer, a man named Howell, stood beside the helmsman, whose back was at present turned to the camera. In the rear of the bridge, out of the way, was the rest of the voyage’s main cast: Palmer Lloyd, the billionaire financier of the expedition; Sam McFarlane, the rogue meteorite hunter; and Rachel Amira, the chief scientist. All silent. All watching.
Through the bridge windows was the prow of the ship and, staring at it, Garza’s heart almost stopped as the repressed memories came flooding back.
It was the height of the storm. Enormous seas were erupting over the bow and sweeping the forward deck. Most of the containers and several davits had already been torn from their moorings and swept overboard. Beyond was the sea, a chaos of towering waves with boiling crests—waves the height of ten-story buildings. Only the sheer size of the Rolvaag was saving the vessel. If there was any talk on the bridge, it was completely drowned out by the roaring thunder of the sea. Each person was focused on his or her task, fixated on trying to keep the great tanker under control. As the ship rose on each wave, the winds climbed to a gibbering wail. At the peak of the waves the entire superstructure shook, the camera image trembling, as if the winds were attempting to rip the top off the ship. Then, as the ship sank into the trough, there would be a shudder, the howling of the wind dying off as it fell into the canyon of water—and then it would begin to roll, slowly, achingly. The view through the bridge windows would go down, down, into the looming wall of dark water, webbed by foam, and then, with agonizing slowness, it would heave up again, the view raising past the dirty water to a dirtier sky with no terminus.
Staring, remembering, Garza tried to control a sense of unexpected, overwhelming panic. It was all he could do to maintain his composure.
Now Captain Britton was speaking with Glinn, gesticulating. Glinn was on a handheld radio. “It’s Garza,” he was saying. “I can’t hear him over the storm.”
Britton turned to First Officer Howell. “Patch him through.”
Suddenly Garza heard his own electronic voice, calling from the hold.
“Eli! We’re losing the primary crosspieces!”
Glinn responded with eerie calm. “Stick with it.”
“The whole thing’s unraveling faster than we can keep up with—” A screech of tearing metal drowned out the rest. The ship was slanting crazily, the sea boiling over the rails, the bow buried in water: it looked as if the ship were going to drive itself straight into the ocean.
“Eli, the rock—it’s moving! I can’t—” The audio dissolved in static.
Abruptly, the video cut to the hold of the ship—a place Garza knew well, as he’d been principal engineer of the massive web of struts and braces that held the twenty-five-thousand-ton meteorite in place. There it was: the meteorite, shrouded in canvas, nestled in its cradle, wrapped in giant rubber-coated chains and hawsers and surrounded by a forest of wooden timbers and, beyond those, steel struts for rigidity and strength. Designing that cradle had been one of the great engineering achievements of Garza’s life. And it had worked. It had worked, damn it, and it would have saved the ship, if Glinn, the bastard, hadn’t…