He laughed. “Hope that never happens. How long will it last before it needs recharging?”
“She’ll last longer than your sub. We’ll recharge both every night when you return. No worries.”
“I think I can work it, although it may be too simple for me,” he chuckled. “Every control in the sub serves at least three functions. I have to remember them all.”
“Well, Mr. Cross, we’re heading back down. On our last Bluefin mod. They’ll be out, ready to winch down by morning. Have you heard what time we start?”
“No I haven’t. Guess I’ll have to read the POD at Mess like everyone else.”
“Yep. That’s the way it rolls around here. See you then.” They walked to the large platform under the crane, pushed a button on a waist-high post, and slowly dropped out of sight. Over the void, a large thick clanking surface slid into place. He shook his head, marveling at the new Navy technology. Behind him, far to aft, the Osprey returned to its roost. He didn’t notice it.
Heading back, thinking his quarters were already closing in on him, he passed the officer’s mess. The aroma of coffee called him. Entering, he drew a mug of coffee and sat at an empty table. It satisfied his need for caffeine and gave him time to plan. He pulled a small hand-drawn map from his pocket and studied the grids. Running his finger toward Dana Point, then back to the ship and five miles further, he planned to create a fan of paths requiring five hours per leg. He could make two per day, leaving at sunrise and returning at dusk. Daylight made no difference a few hundred meters down, so he was not tied to it, he just had to have light to launch and dock.
A familiar voice came from above, interrupting his thoughts, “Excuse me. Permission to join you, sir?”
“Sure, sit.” he said, still staring at the map.
“Busy, Seaman Cross?”
“Sorry, I’m not--” He looked up. At the table, across from him was Mica Briscoe, navy blue jumpsuit, CHP baseball cap, looking healthy, lean and trim. A smile covered his face.
“Welcome aboard, Chief. How are you feeling? Radiant?” Shaking hands, he returned a huge grin.
“Ha ha. Very funny, Marker. I’m riding the waves again. In heaven. The radiation? Behind me now. I pissed it all out. Been working out, too.”
Cross smiled at the nickname, Marker, absent from his life for the past nine years. It felt good. Few people knew his middle name, from a maternal grandfather, but Briscoe had found it on his enlistment papers and used it throughout his tour: Matthew sounded too sissy.
“Where’s your duffel? Did you find our stateroom?” asked Cross.
“Sure did. I noticed you picked the bigger bunk, too.”
“Well, it’s yours if you want it, Chief. You’re bigger anyway.”
“I already took it. Hope you don’t mind. Did you dive today?”
“Nope, too rough. We did reconfigure the Glider for the scintillation probe, though. It’s ready to go.”
“Hey, did you hear about Fogner?”
“No, nothing. We’re in a communications blackout shipboard. What happened?”
“Get this. He set fire to his house in Dana Point then drove up to Sylmar and jumped into the L.A. Reservoir. Shot a deputy, in the process, then took a bullet himself.”
“My God, this just keeps getting better. What a wacko. Did either of them die?”
“No. Deputy’s okay, recovering; Fogner’s at Orange County General, dying. They don’t expect him to make it through the night.”
“That crazy son-of-a-bitch. He deserves to die. I just wish we could waterboard him first; get some facts.”
Briscoe sipped from his mug. “From what Poole tells me about his condition, he wouldn’t feel it or even care. He’s a dead man.” He looked back at the empty serving line and asked, “Hey, they serve donuts in here?”
Chuckling, Cross answered, “You are a cop now, aren’t you? You used to hate donuts. Said they were too fattening. What happened?”
“You know, Marker, it’s contagious. Hang out with me long enough, you’ll be craving them, too.”
“Too late. I already like them. Especially the fresh ones they serve at breakfast. They do serve them, but only at first Mess. They’re really good.”
Chatting over old times, they saw a seaman walk through, drop a stack of POD sheets by the entrance, then announce, “The POD is out!”
“Some things never change,” Briscoe said, rising to get a POD. He brought back two, handed one to Cross.
At the top of the page was:
PLAN OF THE DAY
0600: SEANET OPS BEGIN
0600 — UAV- Bluefin launches (5) Main Deck, Port — All hands, CraneOps, SeaNetOps
0700 — Canyon Glider launch Main Deck, Port — All hands, CraneOps, Cross
“Huh. Upstaged by robots. At least they’ll be out of the way when I launch.” Pausing, he added, “Hey Chief, now that you’re here, want to pal along? It has two seats. I can use another pair of eyes and a log man.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Marker. That’s why I came out. You’re gonna need help on this search mission. Lots of it.”
“Agreed, partner. No backseat driving though.”
Briscoe smiled, “I once told you that. Remember?”
“Yeah, I wonder whatever happened to that old DSV. We called her Dipsy, if my memory serves me. The Latino divers called her “Deepsea.” Funny name. She was like one of the first Alvin subs commissioned. Had leaks everywhere. It’s a wonder we didn’t drown. If it weren’t for that Emergency Exit Procedure you developed, we’d be at the bottom of the Pacific right now.”
“That got me my Master Diver rating, if you remember. Those pressure pods saved us every time. Have any on the Glider?”
“No, but it has a break-away titanium sphere. Same idea, but classier. Two-man capsule. Never have had to use it though. It deep-sixes the hull and propulsion units. Expensive lever pull.”
Officers began filing into the room, passing their table, as the 1MC announced, “Mess Call, Mess Call.” The CS, culinary specialist, pulled the lids from the steam trays, releasing tantalizing aromas throughout the room. Officers with trays stood in line, talking, waiting their turn.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Always,” answered Briscoe.
“After you, Chief.”
The food was better than they both remembered. “The New Navy,” Briscoe called it.
With hours before lights out, Cross offered him a tour of the Operations Room: the search command center that would control the Bluefins.
The darkened Ops Room seated specialists at their consoles, poring over large color screens and digital displays. Oblivious to their visit, the SeaNetOps crew worked their stations through pre-search tests. The glow from the screens showed frozen silhouettes. Curious, Cross joined them and began asking questions.
The day’s activities on shore and at sea had exhausted Briscoe. He returned to the stateroom, fell into his bunk, and slept. Cross stayed behind talking with the SeaNet crew, learning their procedures. Eventually, satisfied and tired, he returned to the stateroom, found the open Adam file on his bunk, closed it and tossed it onto a shelf. Briscoe was already snoring. He knew enough. Enough to be scared. He patted down his bunk, crashed onto it, and closed his eyes.
SEANET — DAY 1
A westerly morning breeze pushed gently through the cables, swinging their load ever so slightly. The main deck buzzed with activity, crewmen running about, tending to chores, while high above, crane operators lifted Bluefins from the deck, swiveled and dropped them gently into the calm waters below. Skies, still waiting for sunrise an hour away, glowed blue to the east. Echoing over the ship, the 1MC announced, “There are divers over the side, do not rotate screws, cycle rudders, operate sonar, take suction from or discharge to the sea, blow, flood or vent any tanks, or operate any underwater equipment without first contacting the Chief Engineer and the diving supervisor.” Operation SeaNet had begun.