“So, you want to build a full scale model, a clone, drop it overboard, and track it to the floor. Is that right?” he asked, sarcastically.
“Yes, Captain. I’ve done it before. It works. The ocean currents don’t change much, this far out. If we put a sonar beacon in the clone, I can follow it down. Should land near the warhead. Hopefully not on it.”
“Fat chance of that, Mr. Cross.” Rubbing his chin, staring down, thinking, Broward spoke, “Hmm. Tell you what. Maybe it’s worth a try. Our Maintenance Bay crew is idle, except for an occasional Bluefin repair. I’ll give you a day with them. Go down, draw up your model, have them build it. Then we’ll drop it over and you can do your thing. Still not gonna beat our robots, though.”
Recharged from the idle days spent waiting, doing little, he smiled, remembering he had a drawing of the W-88 that Gruber had downloaded from the web, included in his Adam folder.
“Permission to leave sir?”
“Of course, Cross. Go have fun with your model.”
On the way back from his quarters, the W-88 drawing in hand, he poked his head into the Mess Hall. Briscoe was drinking coffee and nibbling on a donut. Miraculously, a few were left over from breakfast; he assumed the ship’s busy schedule of moving and starting SeaNet II kept the crew away. The Mess was always secured, closed, during maneuvers.
“C’mon Chief. We’ve got a mission. Captain’s cleared us on a dive to find Adam. Gotta build a warhead and drop it.”
“Wait… What? Another one? Why?” he asked, squinting in confusion.
“Not a real warhead. A duplicate, a clone.”
“But why?”
“Have you ever been hot-air ballooning?”
“Can’t say that I have, Marker.”
“Well, the pilot sends up a helium-filled balloon, called a pi-ball, a pilot’s balloon, before liftoff to see which way the winds will carry him. He watches it disappear from view, noting crosswinds and their directions at different elevations, then plots a course through the elevations, taking him where he wants to go.”
“Okay, but what does that have…? Oh, I get it. You plan to drop an inverted pi-ball, and watch it sink to the bottom.”
“Close. I drop a pi-ball then chase it to the bottom, since it will disappear a few meters down.”
“That may work,” Briscoe said. “And you’re building a replica so it will have the same hydrodynamics, and hopefully take the same course as the real warhead. Right?”
“Yeah, hopefully.”
Swallowing the last bite, gulping a slug of coffee, he stood. “Genius, Marker! Mind if I tag along?”
The Maintenance Bay was still, a radio loudly announced a basketball game at the far end. Six crewmen sat at a makeshift table, a bright work light overhead, playing cards.
Seeing their entrance, a seaman jumped up and met them. “What can I do for you guys today? Gilda rusted out yet? She sure seems lonely out on that big deck all by herself.” He snickered, looking back at the table.
“No Seaman…” A glance at his name patch yielded, “Oliver.” He continued, “The Captain’s okayed the construction of a model. A model of this.” He held up the drawing, turning it into the light to better show it.
Oliver frowned, impatiently inspecting the image, then said, “You want us to build a full-scale model of a warhead used on Trident missiles? Really?”
Ready for more sarcasm, he responded quietly, “Yes, if that would be okay with you guys.”
Suddenly, Oliver yelled to the back of the room, “Up and at ‘em boys. We got a job to do.” He winked at Cross and, aside, said, “Just pranking you, Mr. Cross. Captain called us a few minutes ago. We got his orders. Is tomorrow morning all right? We’ll have it on deck at Reveille, ready to be winched down with Gilda. Oh, do you want a beacon or a squawker aboard?”
“Yes, both.”
“Well that’s gonna cost you. Several hours at the most. How about daybreak? 0700 hours? Is that all right?”
“Better, actually. I like to give Gilda a visual checkout before I dive. And Briscoe’s diving with me, too. Make sure the scintillation probe’s working. We expect to find our target tomorrow. We’ll need it in tip-top shape.”
“Oh, well then you can just ask Briscoe to walk by it. If it blinks it’s working.”
Briscoe and Cross laughed at his joke, then realized he was right. They could test it themselves.
“What about weight?” Oliver asked. “Same as the real one?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Great, we’ve got tons of scrap metal down here. Wouldn’t hurt to lose a few hundred pounds.” Oliver saluted, turned, walked back, and took the drawing to his crew.
Briscoe cocked his head, “Do you think his last statement was directed at me? I feel fine with my weight.”
Cross thought on it for a moment, then cracked up laughing, finally catching Briscoe’s joke. “Come on Chief, let’s go prime the Glider. I have a feeling we’re going to get lucky tomorrow.”
“Hope so, Marker. It’s not impossible; my brains and your brawn, we can do it.”
Laughing their way down the hall, Briscoe wavered, looking ill.
“What’s up Chief? You don’t look well.”
“Nauseated, sick at my stomach. Probable too much coffee.” He stopped, leaned against a wall, then slowly slid to the floor, eyes closed but still breathing.
“Medic! Medic!” Cross screamed, placing his fingers over the Chief’s carotid; his plea echoed down the hall. Briscoe still had a pulse, weak but stable.
Minutes later, two white-clad medics rushed toward him, took a few vitals, then loaded Briscoe onto a stretcher. “Catch him in the infirmary,” a medic said, “Just being cautious.”
Stunned, Cross followed them to sickbay, sat in a one-chair waiting room, bowed his head and prayed. He felt Briscoe looked a little off since their reunion aboard the Osprey, but it had been nine years since they had last seen each other. Only recently, first in the Osprey, then from the Adam folder, did he learn details of his encounter with radiation during the Sea Ray incident. That gave him reason to be concerned.
“His X-rays show he has a small stomach tumor. According to him, it may be from a radioactive donut.” The doctor, standing over Cross, shaking his head, eyes questioning, asked, “Could that be possible? Or is he having delusions, too.”
“No, doc. It’s true. It’s a very long story but it is true. Is he already talking?”
“Yes, he’s up and doing better. I’ll release him in a few hours after an observation period. He said he’s got a morning dive.”
“Can he do it? Is he able?”
“The tumor should be biopsied, probably removed, but not while he’s aboard this ship. He’s good to go for normal activities, including diving.”
“Thanks, doc. I’ll treat him with kid gloves; he’s like a father to me.”
“Good for him. Now you take care with that dive. Don’t want a nitrogen narcosis case coming in. Can’t handle it. No hyperbaric chamber aboard.”
“My word, doc. Promise.”
Back on the Main Deck, without Briscoe, he circled the Glider. Wondering how he would grasp Adam if he found him, he tugged at the probe, checking for movement. It was locked, immovable. He would have to leave a buoy marker on him, surface, drop the scintillator probe, then return. He needed another set of hands. Then he remembered. The clone would have a beacon and squawker. He could move it near Adam, then easily return to both using passive sonar. It had to have a pickup loop, though, to mesh with the small catch hook on the Glider’s undercarriage.
He ran back down to Maintenance, and amid yelling, welding, hammering, and other distractions, told them to install a strong eye bolt, a pickup loop, something to grab onto, on the clone.