“In the grander scheme of things,” Shaefer said, “The disturbances are located between the Murray Fracture Zone on the south, here, and the Pioneer Fracture Zone on the north.”
The two zones were formed along east west lines, their ends abutting the North American Continent. The Pioneer Zone was some three hundred miles north of San Francisco, and the Murray Zone petered out offshore directly west of Los Angeles.
Shaefer continued, “The pattern….”
“Three events lead you to a pattern, Doctor?”
“Perhaps. We shall see. In any case, I believe a pattern is developing, with the events moving to the northwest, approaching the Pioneer Fracture Zone.”
“All right. I see the picture you’re painting, Doctor. You want a closer look.”
“Exactly.”
“And, at those depths, only deep diving submersibles will do the job.”
“Which the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration has at its disposal,” Shaefer said.
“It’s not quite that easy,” Hampstead told him. “Every vessel in the inventory is currently on assignment, and most of them are in southern waters at this time of year. Perhaps in the spring….”
“The spring! Look, Mr. Und… look, Avery. This could be catastrophic. It can’t wait for spring!”
“You’re pretty certain of yourself,” Hampstead said.
“Certainty is relative in this profession. Let’s say I’m concerned enough that I think a closer surveillance is warranted.”
How in the hell do I sell that to my boss? Hampstead wondered.
“You mentioned catastrophic?”
“Should this pattern continue, in a curving line leading to the north, it would intersect some sensitive structures in the Pioneer Fracture Zone.”
“All right.”
“If a major event took place in the Zone, there might well be subsequent shifts in faults that we should not like to see.”
“Faults such as?”
“The San Andreas Fault,” Shaefer said.
“Right down the state of California.”
“Exactly.”
“The Big One,” Hampstead said.
“Not a precise title, but the connotations are well publicized.”
“What would cause these disturbances?” Hampstead asked. “Doesn’t Mother Nature kind of balance herself?”
His casual use of “Mother Nature,” didn’t impress the scientist.
“I thought I was clear on that, Avery. I don’t believe these are natural at all. Very certainly, they are manmade.”
Paul Deride was a “hands on” businessman. He was not content sitting at a desk, watching the numbers change. He frequently circled the globe, checking personally on the hundreds of operations taking place within the twenty four separate companies that comprised AquaGeo Limited.
Some of the sites were difficult to reach, especially since in the last decade, most of his projects had moved offshore. The AquaGeo navy that supported his operations had grown to immense proportions for a private owner. Discounting the smaller craft, there were fifty three major vessels under ownership or lease by several of his companies.
Deride travelled alone, as he usually did. Outside of his attorney or his chief geologist, who might accompany him from time to time, he had no desire for a coterie of attendants and assistants. If he had dictation for one of the seven secretaries that served him world wide, he had a telephone.
This morning, he flew aboard one of his own aircraft, a Canadair CL 215 normally utilized for transferring work crews. It was a reliable amphibian, powered by twin 2100 horsepower Pratt and Whitney radial engines. While the airplane could carry twenty six passengers, he was the sole occupant of the cabin. The two pilots and the flight engineer were partitioned off from him.
When he heard the throb of the engines decrease and felt the airplane bank to the right, Deride sat up in his seat and peered through the window next to him. As the plane circled, he saw only the sun reflecting off minor whitecaps on the blue sea. Then he saw the conning tower of a gray submarine. Two men standing atop it waved at his plane.
The pilot leveled out, flew east a few miles, and then turned back to the west. The seat belt sign flashed on, but there were no oral reminders over the public address system. The pilot knew that Deride detested receiving anything that sounded anything like an order.
His seat belt was already fastened, but he tightened it another inch. Through the window, he could see the ocean surface rising toward him. It was a calm day, the seas running perhaps two or three feet in elongated swells. There were no clouds in his sky.
The engines idled, and the hull of the amphibian touched a wave top, and then skidded into the sea. He saw the outboard pontoon dip downward, jetting white foam and water behind it. The hull sang with the vibrations of friction and the creaks of joints.
The Canadair slowed rapidly, rising and falling with the sea, and the engines picked up tempo again as the pilot closed on the submarine.
Deride released his belt and stood up. He was wearing rubber soled deck shoes, chinos, and a short sleeved tan safari shirt, his typical uniform. He found it preferable, and certainly more practical, to the suits he was compelled to wear when interacting with other businesses.
With a wide stance, he maintained his balance on the pitching deck of the cabin. Picking up his briefcase from the empty seat next to his, he walked forward to meet the flight engineer who emerged from the cockpit to open the port hatch.
The engine died on that side as the tang of salt air poured into the cabin. The starboard engine idled back, then also died. The Canadair would float about on the surface until he was ready to return.
A yellow rubber dinghy dispatched from the submarine appeared outside the hatch, and Deride stepped through the hatchway and down into it. The dingy rose and fell with the waves, and maintaining his balance was difficult. He sat down on thwart in the bow.
“Good morning, sir,” the helmsman said.
“Morning. Let’s go.”
The small outboard motor shrieked, and the dinghy backed away from the amphibian. Two minutes later, Deride was aboard the submarine. His bulk was a challenge for the deck hatch, but he descended the ladder with practiced familiarity. The captain, a man named Keller, met him.
“Good morning, Mr. Deride.”
“Captain. How’s the timing?”
“Very good, sir. The first barge is loaded, and the second is prepared for transfer.”
“Let’s get down there, then.”
Deride followed the captain forward to the control room. Like others in the fleet, the Troubadour was constructed along the lines of the US Navy’s Skipjack class submarines. At 3100 tons of surface displacement, it was 250 feet long with a beam of thirty four feet. There was no armament, of course, and the crew complement was minimal at seventeen. The nuclear reactor was modeled on the S5W2, powering two De Laval steam turbines. Two propeller shafts could raise her speed to thirty knots, but speed was not her purpose.
The Troubadour was a tow boat.
The spartan control room was manned by five people, all of whom had gained subsurface experience in one navy or another around the world. Whatever the nationality of his employees, Deride expected them to speak, or to learn, English. He did not have time, personally, to bother with other languages.
As soon as the crewmen aft reported that the dinghy was aboard and the hatch secured, Captain Keller said, “First Officer, take her down. All ahead one third. We want twelve hundred feet and a heading of two four five.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the first mate responded.