Auftrieb was Johannes Muller’s Germanic term for plankton, known into the 1800s only as nuisance material that clogged fishing and sampling nets. Viktor Hensen later coined the term plankton from the Greek for “tending to wander,” which was an apt description of Garner’s lifestyle during his research career. His initial lack of discernible direction had cost him his marriage to Carol. There had been women since Carol, of course, the last being an extended affair with Ellie Bridges, an emergency-room physician he had met during the cleanup operation in Puget Sound. Ellie attributed her eventual departure to Garner’s unending travel, the long weeks at sea and ports of call without so much as a telephone, much less the comforts of home. Even their home — the Albatross — didn’t have the comforts of home. Global oceanography is not a pursuit to be carried out in an attic apartment or a corner of the garage, and Garner’s absences, though regrettable, were many. Ellie claimed to feel like an anchor in the decidedly fluid sphere of Garner’s life, though such thoughts had never once occurred to Garner himself. After a brief sabbatical, Ellie had regained her passion for medicine and returned to practice in Canada.
In the wake of the affair, Garner immersed himself even deeper in his work. It was a too-familiar reaction. If his career was going to come at someone’s personal expense, then he’d better make it the best possible career he could.
Though still only a master’s graduate, Garner had earned international recognition and support for Medusa and its applications. Medusa’s detractors and critics grew fewer — or at least, less outspoken — as each new research paper was published in outlets ranging from Science and Nature to more specialized tomes like Crustaceana. Eventually, even the National Science Foundation and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration had had to concede substantial long-term funding for Garner’s fantastically promising work. The fact that Garner did not yet have his doctorate seemed irrelevant to everyone but himself.
The work might speak for itself, but Garner’s life offered it little competition. He was his research. His curriculum vitae had become his list of family values. His publications were his progeny. Research cruises were vacations, and society conferences, cocktail parties. Now with a firm hold on a research career, Garner surmised that it must be some other personal failing that continued to interfere with his personal life. After all, no journey to the remotest corners on earth comes without the traveler running away from something. Past regrets began to cloud his concentration and remind him that he was growing old, or at least growing up. That process never got any easier or less time consuming.
Garner rolled over in the seat and tried to sleep. As he dozed off, he recalled the sound of Carol’s voice, asking for his help once again.
She was as close as Garner knew to a constant influence in his life.
Maybe that was why he had never quite gotten over her.
Garner made certain he was awake for each of the fueling stops in South America, including Caracas, where Dunning and Lawrence were replaced by a fresh crew for the next two legs of the marathon journey. The majority of Garner’s time was spent on the phone, trying to secure borrowed gear. It was the next day when Garner awoke from the latest in a series of brief, restless naps, one of the airplane’s flannel blankets drawn up under his chin. Zubov was snoring on a seat across the aisle, a pile of candy wrappers on the seat beside him. He looked like an overgrown child sleeping off a Halloween hinge.
Garner unbuckled his seat belt and moved forward, slightly stooped in the low-slung cabin, and poked his head into the cockpit. The copilot held the controls while the pilot dozed in his seat.
“Welcome back to the States,” the copilot said. “You can tell from the smog.”
“Where’s our next fueling stop?” Garner asked.
“Somewhere in Jersey. Either Trenton or Newark. Depends on the traffic ahead of us. Why?”
“If we have to stop anyway, let’s make it someplace useful,” Garner said.
The pilot stirred beneath his down-turned cap and smiled for the first time.
“Hey now. Jersey’s plenty useful — for certain things.”
“Where did you have in mind?” the copilot asked Garner.
“How about the center of Western civilization?” Garner replied.
The marble vistas and nonstop activity of Washington, D.C. were a jarring change from the trappings aboard the Lansing, not to mention the more pastoral surroundings of Stanley, Sao Paulo, or Caracas. Both Garner and Zubov appreciated the chance to stand fully upright as they walked across the tarmac to the main terminal of Reagan National Airport, but the air felt thick with the grit and odor of an urban Friday afternoon.
After a brief stop at the National Science Foundation’s headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, and the seventh-floor offices of the Division of Polar Research, Garner and Zubov crossed Randolph Street to the Office of Naval Research, or ONR. They were given security badges at the front desk, then escorted upstairs and through a set of doors marked BUREAU OF THE NAVY / NAVAL ORDNANCE LABORATORY. RESTRICTED ACCESS.
Two doors from the end of the hall, Garner recognized a familiar nameplate, as well as the man in its corresponding office.
Scott Krail was lean and handsome in a boyish way, with a compact physique that didn’t look as though it had altered the fit of his uniform since his graduation from Annapolis. Just a handful of years older than Garner, Krail was one of the Navy’s youngest commanders — a distinction that Garner would doubtless have shared with him sooner were it not for life’s Auftrieb. In addition to being a master tactical analyst, Krail was one of the Navy’s best-educated officers, with a depth and breadth of knowledge that ranged from nuclear engineering to seamanship to the odds-on favorite for the week’s Monday Night Football game.
When Garner left the Navy, Krail had just been assigned to special projects for NOL. God only knew what he was up to these days.
“Great to see you, buddy!” Krail said. He jumped to his feet as the two men strode into his office and greeted them both with a vigorous handshake.
“What’s it been? Four years? Five?” He snapped his fingers as he remembered.
“Yeah, five. We met for a drink down at the Old Ebbitt Grill just before I transferred down to this backwater from Nav Intell.” Without pausing for breath or waiting for a reply, Krail stood back to look at his guests.
“Even Lewis and Clark had better fashion sense than you two,” he said with a laugh.
With the exception of their cold-weather jackets, grossly unsuited to Washington in late spring, Garner and Zubov were still wearing the same clothes they had worn when they departed the Lansing. Neither man had showered or shaved in nearly a week and both still had the gaunt, vaguely haunted look of the wilderness. To complete their accoutrements, both now carried an armload of U.S. Geological Survey maps and Coast Guard navigation charts borrowed from another friend of Garner’s at NSF.
“We’ve been on the road again,” Zubov admitted. “Don’t mind the smell.”
“Pole to pole in two days.” Krail shook his head. “Sounds like some kind of publicity stunt for the Explorer Channel you sure that woman of yours is worth it?”
“She’s not mine anymore, but yeah, she’s worth it,” Garner said.
“You know that.” Krail had known Carol and her stepbrother, Mark, when Garner was still in the service. Krail had, in fact, been among the first to suggest that Garner consider academe as a civilian outlet for his obvious affinity for the sea.
“I do,” Krail said. He motioned for his guests to take a seat, then poured three mugs of coffee from the carafe on his credenza.