“But they don’t think, Matt. You do. Your human perception and real-time decisions can leave them stuck on the reefs like the drones they are.”
In the distance, the twin wingtip rotors on the Osprey began to rotate, the whine of the turbines changed, signaling departure time. Their leisurely pace across the deck changed to a run. Hopping over ropes, hatch covers and deck latches, Cross raced up the ramp to the helipad. The Captain saluted him from the deck; he looked smaller now, surrounded by large gooseneck pipes, flared vents, and tethered reels of cabling. Cross returned the salute and climbed the stairs. The Osprey was huge, over fifty feet in length with a thirty-eight wingspan. The prop wash from the idling rotors fought him up the stairs. He leaned forward struggling to stand as he neared the door.
“Bag sir?” The crewmember reached out, hefted the duffel bag into the cabin, and grabbed his hand pulling him in.
“Thank you, officer, I’m still stiff from the ride in,” Cross said.
He sat in a narrow jump seat, one of twenty-four lining the sides of the cavernous interior, buckled his harness and sat back.
“How’d you come in? Live around here?” the crewman asked, pulling the stairs, slamming and locking the door.
“Drove a DSV. Docked on the ship’s floating rail dock. Came from a few miles east in Marina. I live there.”
“You live in a marina? Now that’s true dedication.”
“No, in Marina, a small city just north of Monterey. I live in a house, like everyone else,” said Cross smiling.
“Oh. Well I live on this ship. I guess that leaves me out.” The crewman chuckled.
“Where’s your home port?” asked Cross.
“We dock in San Diego, Naval Base San Diego. We’re one of fifty-three ships that call it home. Big place. Thirty-thousand employees on base. It’s the home port of the entire U.S. Pacific Fleet.”
“So you travel with the ship.”
“Always.”
Rotors roaring upward, the Osprey shook violently lifting from the pad. Cross darted his attention to the crewman, watching for signs of distress; instead he leaned over and pointed down to the Trident Tine, shrinking below them. That’s our home port. Unless we’re flying a mission, then the pad stands empty, until we get visitors.”
“Oh, what kind of visitors?” asked Cross, still staring out. The ship below began to drift off to the north as the rotors rotated to horizontal, driving them forward.
“Well, I’m not usually there since they use our pad, but I hear mostly pompous black-suited men from the D.C. area. They seem to lose a lot of crap under the ocean from up there; we’re always looking for their screw-ups. It’s all on the Q.T.”
Laughing, Cross asked, “Think this is another one of those incidents?”
“Nah. This one is different. We’ve never had a visiting DSV pilot before. You must be something really special. I mean we’ve got thirty-odd UUVs, AUVs, and ROV’s aboard, and they’re all pretty good.”
“No it’s not me, it’s Gilda. She’s got moves like nothing else.”
“Ooh, she sounds exciting. Do I get to meet her?”
“Only if you dive with me. Gilda’s my nickname for the mini-sub. She’s on the deck of your ship right now. I piloted her in early this morning, about sunrise. Her real name is the Canyon Glider, but Gilda evolved from an accidental misspelling long ago.”
“Anyway, do you know what we’ll be searching for this time?” asked the crewman.
“No idea, other that it’s very sensitive and hush-hush. I guess I’ll find out when I get wherever I’m going.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cross saw the pilot motion through the open cockpit door. Pointing forward, he said, “I think the pilot needs you. I see him looking your way.”
“Oh yeah, he probably wants coffee or something. Would you like a cup?”
“No. Thanks anyway. I just had a fine breakfast in your mess hall. What a cook.”
“Good, wasn’t it? We love Cookie. He keeps us healthy and full.” The pilot was still motioning. “Good talking to you. We’ll soon be landing, better fasten your seatbelt.” He turned and walked through the cockpit door, closing it behind him.
Out the small window by his jump seat, he watched the majestic cliffs and lighthouse of Point Concepcion pass below, then the Channel Islands, smears of green on a deep blue background. He was nearing the Point Mugu NAS, once his home as a young Naval DSV pilot. He had learned the ins and outs of diving and mini-subs there, exploring the ocean floor almost every day. He was coming back; he wondered how it had changed. Then he was out over the ocean again and suddenly back over land. The claw shape of the Long Beach harbor told him he was nearing Seal Beach.
Startling him, the intercom blasted, “This is your pilot, Lieutenant Bill Harper speaking. Please tighten your harness, Mr. Cross; we land in three minutes.” He had never heard a personal seat belt announcement before; it sounded strange.
The rotors began to pivot to vertical. He felt a braking force, shifting him sideways in his seat. The ground was coming up at an alarming speed even though he estimated his height at a thousand feet. Then the turbines roared, the rotors flared, dropping his descent rate to an comfortable speed. He eased back in his seat awaiting the bump. He had ridden in many helicopters to and from his DSV, but the Osprey was a different animal. He had no idea what to expect.
Dust flying around him, he could see rows of large metal buildings without doors. The landing was smooth; there was no bump. He scanned his surroundings, a barren open field. Outside, on the tarmac, a Navy fleet car awaited him. As the rotors slowed, the crewman left the cockpit and opened the door, dropping the stairs to the ground.
“Here’s your stop, sir.” The crewman handed him his bag as he started out the door. “Enjoy Seal Beach. See you later.”
Cross nodded, descended the steps, and tossed his kit bag into the open trunk. The driver slammed it; they entered the black sedan together. Sitting there, across from him, three gold stripes on his uniform sleeve, scrambled eggs on his wheel cap, a distinguished gentleman, reminding him of an older Top-Gun’s Tom Cruise, waited.
The Osprey’s turbines whined loudly, lifting it slowly from the tarmac.
“You must be Commander Norton. Pleased to meet you. I’m Matt Cross.” He held out his hand, shouting over the roaring rotors.
Returning the gesture, the commander raised his voice and replied, “That I am, Mr. Cross. Thank you for coming on such short notice. We’re on our way to the Adam taskforce meeting in Santa Ana. You’ll learn more there.” He covered his ears briefly, then pointed upward toward the receding aircraft.
Understanding that details were still being withheld, he eagerly awaited the meeting, learning of his mysterious mission.
On the trip to Santa Ana, Norton sat quietly writing in a notebook. Occasionally looking up and then back to the paper, he wrote more.
“Is your Naval Weapons Station involved in this operation?” he asked casually.
“No. I’m just one of the Naval liaisons, as are you, now. My home base is Seal Beach.” Norton looked back at his writing and continued.
Shortly, the black sedan pulled onto North Flower Street and into a loading space in front of the Crime Lab.
“Here we are,” Norton said.
“The Orange County Crime Lab?” he asked reading the big metallic letters on the wall.
“Yes, it’s been my home office for quite a few days now. Home of the Adam taskforce, too. Follow me. Leave your duffel bag in the trunk.”
After passing the front desk, he trailed steps behind Norton through the lobby, up the stairs, onto the third floor landing, and down the long hallway into the S.I.D. Lab. Breathing heavily, he looked around, catching his breath. “Do you always go that fast, Commander?”