“We did turn turtle,” he said.
“At least this turtle found her legs again,” Dokey said.
“All right,” he said, “environmental systems first.”
He turned halfway around in his seat and held the light beam on the circuit breaker panels for the life support systems at the rear of the hull, near Otsuka’s legs. All of the breakers had blown.
“Go ahead, Kim. Oxygen, first.”
She tried the switch tentatively. It held in the closed position, and the gauge above it immediately blinked itself to life.
“We have oxygen flow,” Brande said.
“In that case, I’m going to take my first deep breath,” Dokey told them.
“Lithium hydroxide blower, Kim.”
She closed the switch, and the minor hum of the motor sounded blissfully in his ears.
“Let’s open up the emergency oxygen bottle for awhile, until the main system stabilizes,” Brande told her.
She reached under her seat, and under the guiding light of the penlight, found the valve for the backup oxygen bottle. Watching the gauge at the top of the bottle, she twisted the valve a half-turn.
Twisting back into his seat, he trained the light on the center control pedestal.
“I think the weights are next.”
“I think you’re right,” Dokey said. He reset the circuit breaker on the weight monitoring readout. It blinked, then showed them one “LOCKED,” and one “CLEAR,” indication.
“We lost one weight when we did our somersault, Chief.”
“Let’s lose the other.”
Dokey thumbed the switch for the portside weight, and a green light immediately flared, and the digital readout changed to “CLEAR.”
“Weight dropped. We’re on the rise.”
Brande couldn’t feel the movement, but he had to trust history. In the past, when they dropped weights, they went up. If nothing major had altered their buoyancy configuration, it had to work the same way again.
Panel by panel, they slowly went through each system of the submersible. It took them half-an-hour, and when they were done, they had recovered only about twenty per cent of the operating systems. Some light was coming from the panel dials and readouts now. None of the Loudspeaker components — data or voice — would come up. Sonar, video, and altimeter transponders were inoperative. They had no idea of their position, longitudinally, latitudinally, or relative to the ocean surface.
“I think we got a dose of EMP, Okey.”
“You’re right. Those systems that have elaborate electronics in the circuit are the ones we’ve lost.”
“The rad… radiometer reading is dropping,” Otsuka said.
Brande looked up at the gauge.
“Do you remember how high it went, Kim?”
“No. I looked, but it was too dark.”
“Well, it’s low enough to shed this damned hood,” Dokey said.
Brande ripped the Velcro closure and shrugged his way out of his hood. The freedom of movement helped immensely, and the cold air of the interior seemed to spark his energy. He hadn’t realized how his confined body heat had warmed his face.
“I wish we could see the exterior, to see if there’s any physical damage,” Dokey said.
“Try Atlas.”
The robot was still in her sheath, but wouldn’t respond to inputs from Dokey’s controls.
“So much for that. How’s the atmosphere, Kim?”
“Coming back to normal,” she said, the edge of fear somewhat lower in the tone of her voice. “I’m going to shut down the emergency supply now.”
“Fine.” Brande knew she wanted to conserve it in case they lost the main source again. He didn’t blame her.
“The others will be worried about us,” she said.
“I know, dear. We’ll just have to surprise them when we pop out.”
“We can’t give them a locator beacon, Dane. It’s not working either.”
“I’ll bet Mel’s already pinpointed us,” Dokey said. “Trust to fate, Dokey, and Mel Sorenson, honey.”
“All right.”
Both of the chronometers on the panel were working again, but Brande didn’t know how far they had risen from the seabed. He figured they had at least a couple hours to wait, and probably more.
“Anyone for three-handed bridge?” he asked.
“No cards,” Otsuka said.
“I wish I’d saved my apple from lunch,” Dokey said.
After some debate, Dokey got them playing a verbal trivia game which lasted for forty minutes, until the lithium hydroxide blower shut down.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A short nap was all it took to revive Penny Glenn physically. She had a small, spartan cubicle of her own on the bunkhouse deck, barely five feet by six feet, and when she rolled her legs out of the bed, they almost hit the opposite wall. She got up, donned heavy undergarments and a jumpsuit in the cramped space with awkward familiarity, made the bed to military standards, and went down the corridor to use the communal bathroom.
She wasn’t exactly revived mentally. The decision — made by Deride — to eliminate Dane Brande had both relieved and repulsed her. On one side of that issue, she would be allowed to complete her program without interference. On the other side, there was no reason now to visit San Diego — she could order the Phantom Lode back to Hawaii. She was afraid that that was going to be her loss. She had never before had the feeling, as she had with Brande, that something positive could come out of a relationship. She was deeply saddened.
Trying to set aside those feelings for the time being, she descended the spiral staircase to the main deck, got coffee and a danish from the galley counter, and carried them into the control room.
“Good morning, Uncle Paul.”
He was sitting at the big table in the center of the room, surrounded by reams of report folders and geologic samples tagged in plastic bags. They were heaped in untidy arrays all around him. He had a plastic coffee pitcher and a mug in front of him, and she could see the stains where coffee had been spilled on the table top and a few of the papers.
Two technicians were manning two of the consoles, and she automatically checked the status monitor which told her where all of the undersea vehicles were located. They were about where she expected them to be. The technicians went about their chores quietly and competently. If they had reservations about the events of the last few days, they weren’t saying much about them. In fact, she thought, there wouldn’t be one employee on AquaGeo payrolls who would voice a complaint about Dane Brande or Marine Visions. Because of the harsh environment in which they worked, they were all hard and tough men, and they were paid exceptionally well. To them, Brande had only been an impediment to payday.
“Hello, Penny.” Deride’s smile was dour.
“You’ve been reviewing the reports, I see.” She sat down opposite him.
“Yes, I have. They don’t bloody well tell me what they’ve been telling you.”
She wasn’t too worried about that. Beyond the amateur sense, he was not a geologist.
“Oh? In what way, Uncle Paul?”
“Test Hole D, where we’re deploying a half-billion dollars of equipment? This report says the manganese content in the ore is less than five per cent.”
She took the page from him, turned it around, and glanced at the heading.
“Because, Uncle Paul, you’re reading the assay from the seabed surface. The report from the bottom of the test hole is significantly different. That is, after all, why we dug the test hole.”