Now they were approaching their projected target range of eighty to a hundred miles from the last detonation site, Number Ten.
Under the six million candlepower floodlight glare ahead of them, Brande saw the seabed abruptly disappear. One second it was there, the next, they were floating over an abyss without an apparent bottom.
He tried the sonar, which was displaying its readings on the center monitor.
“Rather a sharp drop off, Okey. I show bottom four hundred feet down. Let’s go take a look.”
“Going, Chief.”
The sub nosed downward and glided at a slower pace as Dokey retarded the motor controllers. Soon, the seafloor gleamed in the floodlights once again, and Dokey made his glide path shallower.
“I’m hungry,” Otsuka said.
“Go back to sleep,” Dokey told her. “That way, you can at least dream about a steak.”
Brande extended the range on the sonar and aimed the antenna downward. He found nothing but undulating seabed.
“No contacts,” he said.
“They’ve got to be somewhere out there,” Dokey said.
“Why?” Otsuka asked.
“Dane and I think they have to work in teams of a sub and a crawler. The crawler will have to drill the hole and set the charge since the subs don’t have manipulator arms.”
“So we’re looking for a floor crawler?”
“Right on, doll.”
“And what then?”
“We’ll try to disable it, just like we took care of the last one.”
“And what if our timing is absolutely perfect?” Otsuka asked.
Dokey and Brande both looked back at her. In the dim illumination from the cabin lights, her face was creased with concern.
“Meaning?” Dokey asked.
“We could find the site just as they detonate a nuclear blast.”
Brande switched his gaze to Dokey.
“The lady has a point,” he said.
Paul Deride stood on the upper hull of the Perth, only partially protected from the spray by the sail. Fine droplets pelted his face and upper torso.
He took another deep breath and scanned the horizon. The Canadair seaplane was on its takeoff run, its hull bouncing from the wave tops. As he watched, it clawed its way into the air, then quickly disappeared into the overcast. The pilots had been overly anxious about making the landing in the first place, and Deride had to admit it had been a harrowing experience. He had given them permission to return to San Francisco, rather than wait it out on the surface.
To the east, he saw the hazy silhouettes of the three freighters they had circled before landing. They were still moving east, and he knew they were loaded with the specialized equipment required for mining at depth. There were three more submersibles, six more floor crawlers, a living module, and a nuclear power module along with the excavators, conveyors, and power washers. Two days from now, two more freighters would arrive with supplies and high-pressure pumps on board. There was, he estimated, a half-billion dollars sitting on board those fragile ships. His equity, of course, was as small as he could make it. The bulk of the investment, and the risk, was in the hands of the international bankers who had learned that Paul Deride delivered on his promises.
Once they were on station above Site D — where Penny had decided to initiate the mining phase, it would take eight to ten days to get everything set up on the bottom. In another six days, the refiner ship, Dolly Cameron, would be in place, accepting the crushed-rock sludge pumped up to her from below, and performing the first rough culling of the ore. With the content readings that Penny Glenn had been reporting, Deride expected that they would extract a quarter of a ton of manganese-rich ore from each ten tons pumped from the seabed. Over nine tons of rubble would be dumped back into the ocean; there was no economic sense in transporting the raw ore to Japan. The next stage of refinement, conducted in Japan, should produce roughly two hundred pounds of pure manganese. The ratio promised to get better and better as the mining operation moved north, following the trail Penny was preparing.
He fully expected that within two weeks he would be seeing the first shipment of partially refined ore on its way to the more sophisticated processing center. Within a year, he projected, Matsumoto Steel would be undercutting the hardened steel price worldwide. Two years after that, Matsumoto and Deride would own the world’s steel market.
The anticipation of that event almost made him forget that he was about to go where he didn’t want to go.
With a final deep breath of salt-laden air, Deride hunched his shoulders against the cold and his mind against the coming confinement, slipped down the ladder, and slammed the hatch behind him.
The pilot came halfway out of his seat, his eyes automatically darting upward to check the seal of the hatch as he extended his hand.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Deride.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jerry Tompkins, sir. Pilot of the Perth. Hyun Oh, here, is co-pilot.”
Deride didn’t bother shaking hands. He nodded curtly to Oh, who appeared to be Korean, then flopped heavily into one of the four rear seats.
Tompkins twisted his way back into his seat, and soon, the submersible began to settle below the surface. The smoothness was comforting, though it couldn’t override the building anxiety he felt about losing touch with the surface.
Penny’s summons — she wouldn’t talk about it on the phone — had damned bloody well better be worth the discomfort he was undergoing.
As soon as Pamela Stroh had hung up, Carl Unruh dialed Hampstead’s number.
The secretary put him right through.
“Hello, Carl. You inviting me to lunch?”
“It’s not a lunch-type day, Avery. We’ve got legal problems.”
“We? In what way?”
“I just talked to Pam Stroh at Justice. I called her to see what they were doing about Brande’s claims against Deride.”
“And?”
“It’s gone the other way around. AquaGeo has filed briefs and lawsuits at the Maritime Commission, the World Court, and in U.S. District Court. The Maritime Commission has already issued an injunction.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Of immediate concern,” Unruh said, “is that Brande, Marine Visions, and any sponsoring organization, has been enjoined from interfering with the mining operations of AquaGeo Limited. That’s pending a hearing, probably to be set for January, Stroh said.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Hell, no. They’ve also asked for copies of all contracts between Marine Visions and its sponsoring organizations. You happen to have a contract, Avery?”
“Actually, it’s right in front of me. I’m just now working on a few of the clauses. I’m adding a compensation paragraph for the robot they lost. You and the Navy are paying for it.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to live with it, Carl.”
“Oh, hell. Yeah, I’ll live with it.”
“Anything else you think I should put in?”
“You mean this contract’s not even signed yet?”
“Brande and I trust each other, and if you’ll recall, everyone involved was in a big hurry.”
“Shit. Ms. Stroh is going to come unhinged.”
“Who is this Stroh?” Hampstead asked.
“Our attorney.”
“I don’t get a choice? I’d prefer F. Lee Bailey or Melvin Belli or the guy from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. You know, somebody who can win.”
“Don’t joke, Avery.”
“So what do we do?”
“Send me any notes you have about the contract, as well as what you have of it. Then, get on the phone and tell Brande to back off.”