The twenty-eight foot Sea Ray jumped free of the dock as he shifted the transmission into reverse. Panicking at the sudden motion, he studied the controls and their labels, trying to recall the boat’s operation. He backed out of the slip and, once he had cleared the moorings, shifted to forward, gunned the throttle and adjusted the trim to fight the incoming tide. It was all coming back. Minutes later, the Sea Ray pitched and rolled as it sped through rough Pacific waters, heading toward Adam’s target.
A ten-knot average speed brought the boat to the drop spot with plenty of time to return before sunset. As the GPS unit beeped target arrival, he activated the GPS’s Skyhook function, an autopilot designed to keep the boat hovering around the GPS waypoint through automatic steering and throttling. It was by all standards a new “electronic” anchor hailed as one of the most important developments in boating technology in decades.
The boat rocked in the waves, maneuvering autonomously, while he squinted into the depth gauge: the ocean floor was three-hundred-fifty meters below. In his mind he reckoned, Over a thousand feet down. Impossible to find by scuba and the half-megaton yield will create quite a bubble. Goodbye, my foes.
Satisfied that the drop parameters were perfect, he stood, swaying with the waves, inspecting his destructive friend. Quickly, he turned and removed the arming key, setting the internal timer into irrevocable action, closed the watertight cover after carefully seating the large o-ring into place, and secured it with eight locking levers surrounding the perimeter. A quiet beeping from the timer confirmed its activation. “You’re locked and loaded, Adam,” he murmured, smiling at his achievement.
Backing off several feet, he paused for a moment to admire his creation then grabbed the winch rope and pulled it one hand after the other, grunting in pain, until the unit slowly lifted from the deck and inched upward. Adam’s base rose above the side just as his arms gave out.
He fell back into his seat to rest for a moment as the unit began to swing from port to starboard and back with the waves, then struggled to his feet, reached up as it swung through center and locked the swivel arm. With Adam stabilized for the moment, he surveyed the ocean to the horizon in all directions and saw nothing but a flat blue line separating ocean from sky. The isolation pleased him as never before. Nothing could stop his plan now.
Waiting for the Sea Ray to turn into the waves and reduce the dangerous side-to-side rocking, he released and swiveled the unit toward port, then dropped it a few inches to rest on the side hull. Because of his actions, the Sea Ray listed severely to portside allowing waves to wash over the sidewall. Each wave brought more water onboard, increasing the boat’s list at an alarming rate. This is not going to work. I will surely capsize if I swivel it further out. He searched his mind, wondering how he could have overlooked such a crucial detail. Shit! I forgot the counterweight. Suddenly he realized he had foreseen the unbalance problem, but had forgotten that step in his delivery procedure.
Stepping awkwardly, resolutely, in the rocking, listing boat he climbed uphill to the starboard side, released the makeshift outrigger from its seating and swung the ten-foot aluminum I-beam out over the water. At its tip hung an empty fifty-five gallon plastic drum with a large hose running the length of the beam back into the boat and ultimately, to the bilge pump. Concerned, he looked down at the water pooling in the boat. It was eight inches at its deepest point and quickly rising.
As he scrambled back to the bow of the boat, the fog in his mind lifted once again revealing to him his forgotten genius plan. He must allow the water to rise ten inches before activating the bilge pump. That amount, roughly fifty gallons, pumped through the hose should fill the counterweight barrel with over four-hundred pounds of water, and empty and right the boat at the same time. The four-hundred pound counterweight with the extra length of the outrigger arm, according to his calculations, should offset the greater weight of the warhead on the shorter crane arm. He had solved far more complex lever problems daily in his previous life at the National Nuclear Research Consortium.
Two more inches of water and he tested his plan with the flip of the bilge switch, engaging the clutch to the powerful belt-driven pump. Motor straining, water flowing, his brainchild awakened, performed as expected and began to level the boat in the water. It was only a ten-minute wait until the Sea Ray leveled and then listed slightly to starboard.
He smiled at the correction, switched off the pump, and grabbed the opportunity to launch his sweet revenge. Releasing the lock on the crane’s swivel arm, he raised the unit a few inches and pushed it away from the boat out over the water. His brief eulogy, “Do me proud Adam, farewell dear friend,” preceded his tug on the claw-release line, sending the apparatus into a four-foot free-fall toward the waves. Adam hit with a giant belly flop splashing salt spray everywhere as the starboard counterweight dipped into the water, then rose back to the surface: the sea water in the barrel exhibited neutral buoyancy in the ocean’s waves, balancing the two arms.
He looked around the boat somewhat surprised that everything had worked so well, exhaled a deep breath, then set about preparing for the return trip. First, he swiveled the crane boom back to center, locked it, scrambled back to starboard, and released the thick pin holding the counterweight arm in its swivel. Groaning in pain, he hefted the disconnected I-beam away from the boat. Almost hypnotized, grinning, he watched as it sank slowly out of sight, dragging the hose and plastic barrel behind it.
In the distance, an approaching Coast Guard Cutter jerked him back to reality with its short trilling siren chirps. A megaphone blared as the sixty-five foot vessel neared and began to circle the Sea Ray, dwarfing it. “Ahoy! Are you all right Sea Ray? Do you need a tow?”
He took his megaphone from the helm’s floorboard, and answered, “Everything is ten-four here. Just taking a sunset cruise. Heading back now.”
“Beautiful evening for it. Don’t forget your running lights; it’s nearing sunset. Have a safe trip back in.”
Sighing relief, he disabled the Skyhook, illuminated the boat, and headed toward land, not looking back.
As the sun dropped below the flat horizon, with clouds flaring red and orange rays across the sky, the Sea Ray crept into the boathouse slip. Weary from his day, he killed the engine, moored the boat, and struggled to climb out. He moved cautiously, his forty-pound coat impeding his efforts, pulling him down. It was hard enough for him to step up to the dock, but his weakened state and the added weight caused his knees to buckle on his first two attempts, almost sending him into a watery grave.
Finally, after a determined battle, he stepped beside the boat and back to the workbench. There he stood, resting, admiring Eve. “Sorry, Eve. Your mate is gone. But, not to worry. Soon you will be reunited,” he spoke, gently stroking the cold metallic warhead.
Without warning, the dosimeter clipped to his coat shrieked with ear-splitting volume signaling a lethal accumulation of radiation. Startled by the alarm he flinched and felt the nausea rip from his gut, forcing an uncontrollable ejection of yellow mucous to spew from his lips. He jerked his hand to his mouth and aimed the bile through a large gap in the rickety wooden flooring into the churning water below. Gagging from the putrid reflux, he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his thick coat and moaned in pain.
He stood erect, faltering and stumbled to the opposite side of the boathouse, then removed the double-leaded coat and dosimeter he wore in vain, knowing that they had failed him, and heaved them over the side of the Sea Ray. Exhausted and gasping for breath, he inhaled the salty sea air in huge gulps; it satisfied his need for oxygen but burned his lungs with its intrusion into his failing body.