“Hey,” Briscoe said, “don’t be so morose. We’re here, living our dream, getting ready to do it again. What could be better?”
Cross chuckled, slapped him on the shoulder, and said. “Yeah. But let’s do it right this time.”
“Well, we didn’t die did we?”
“No, but we’re going to do it righter. That was just too close,”
“Righter?” asked Briscoe, squinting.
“Yep. That’s how we’re going to do it. Now let’s hit the sack. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Ten minutes later, they were in their bunks, lights out. Cross lay there thinking, praying about tomorrow’s search. He had a feeling. It was good.
FINDING ADAM
Reveille crackled over the 1MC at five a.m. signaling day’s start. Seamen raced across the deck, shouting, hoisting, launching Bluefins into calm seas. In the chaos, the Maintenance Bay elevator whined, carrying the W-88 clone upward.
Another message from the 1MC, “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.” It played twice, reminding the ship’s crew of its importance.
Below deck, Cross and Briscoe rose from their bunks, dressed and rushed to Early Mess, hoping to get nourishment and, more importantly, coffee before their dive. The Mess was almost vacant. Several officers sat in a corner quietly discussing the POD.
“Anything we’ve missed?” asked Briscoe, sipping from his cup. He crunched a slice of bacon noisily.
“Not that I can think of,” Cross replied. Chortling, he added, “We’ll probably remember it halfway down.”
“Would you rather me take the hard shell down? We may need the extra hands.”
“No, not yet, Chief. We’ll do a recon today and if we find Adam, return later to bring him up. Maybe then.” Looking at the wall clock, he ate faster, trying to keep up with Briscoe.
“You’re the boss now. Remember I’m just a traffic cop.”
Cross snorted his coffee, laughing loudly and said, “More like a hero on land and sea. You’re just amphibious now, Chief.”
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I guess I am. You brought it all back, Marker, and I thank you for that. Never realized how much I really love the sea.”
“Speaking of that, ready to see the activity on deck?” asked Cross.
“Yep, let’s go.”
Up the steps, out into the morning air, they dodged crewmen working the deck. The dusk-like illumination yielded shapes and motion but little details. Overhead a crane was swiveling a cone-shaped object toward the rail dock. Seamen stood by the Glider ready to guide it into place. Like clockwork, the activity progressed, impressive in its efficiency.
Pointing toward the cone, Cross said, “That’s our pi-ball. Looks great.” He could hear its periodic squawks; see the beacon activating. The brilliance from its flashes forced him to look away.
As it neared the rails, a seaman broke off and ran up to Cross. “Want us to put the clone at the Glider’s bow? Then you can just bump it off the dock when you’re afloat. Right in front of you. It should sink like a rock.”
“Sure,” he answered. “Good idea.” He looked at Briscoe and said, “This is going to be easier than shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Famous last words, Marker, famous last words.”
Waiting for the final Bluefin to launch and their turn on the crane, they completed the predive checklist, Briscoe alarmed the probe, and they entered the Canyon Glider, preparing to dive. The clone’s beacon flashed through the front viewport while Cross adjusted the passive sonar frequency to match the squawker. Nervously, they awaited the crane, knowing it wasn’t going to be a normal dive. Everything was ready. All they needed were the crane hooks on the rails.
He jumped at the head poking through the open hatch. “Need a lift guys?” the voice asked.
“Ready to launch,” Cross replied. During his time off, waiting for the search coordinates, Cross had modified the onboard scrambled radio set to match the bridge’s frequency. With the expected activity on the floating rail dock, he preferred not to read or send semaphores. He tried it, “Trident bridge, this is Canyon Glider. Copy?”
“Sure, loud and clear, Glider. Prepare for winching,” came the reply. He didn’t recognize the deep scrambled voice, but its chopped rhythm reminded him of Broward’s.
Cross closed the hatch, locked it, waiting for the four jolting clanks: massive hooks grasping the rails. The sideways shift signaled the umbilical pull.
They were up, swinging over the side, then down to the water in minutes. Cross warned Briscoe, “When I push the pi-ball over the edge of the dock, it’ll drop straight down. We’ll give it a ten-second head start then fall in behind it in a nose-down dive. Your stomach will come up in your throat and you’ll feel like you’re gonna die, but don’t worry, that’s normal.”
“Gee, thanks for the heads up, Marker. But you left out ‘and kiss your ass goodbye.’”
“Any time, now Glider,” the radio growled.
The rails hit the water, splashing the viewport. A few feet deeper and the Glider floated, hovering slightly behind the clone, still resting on the dock.
“Ready?” Cross asked, looking at Briscoe.
Briscoe coarsely voiced a klaxon dive signal, then said, “Dive! Dive!”
Shaking his head, smiling, Cross edged the Glider forward, scraping the pi-ball on the rails until the resistance disappeared. He counted, “ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four,” pushed the fill-ballasts and transfer-mercury-ballast-forward switches together, then continued, “one. Dive!”
Down they went, water roaring by the sub, in an underwater free fall. Briscoe gasped. The depth gauge spun, measuring a two-meter-per-second descent. In the distance, out the front viewport, the pi-ball led them downward. As the gauge clicked deeper, the light dwindled, bringing the flashing beacon into focus. Veering off to starboard, it caught a current. He eased the right horizontal rudder, keeping the beacon centered in the viewport. With a two-meter fall rate, he calculated he had roughly a hundred and fifty seconds to reach the floor. The pi-ball would reach it only seconds before him. Then he would crash behind it.
He stared at the depth sounder, watching the floor approach. Coming up at him quickly, he knew he had to slow and level out before he crashed nose-down.
Thirty meters over the floor, the sounder flashing danger, its voice warning, “Pull up. Pull up,” he switched to reverse thrusters, jammed the throttles, stomped the vertical rudder, and blew the ballast to add floatation and reduce speed. Briscoe, saucer-eyed, mouth agape, watched the pi-ball hit the bottom and rush toward them. Its flashes grew brighter with each second.
“Stop!” he yelled, pushing on the dashboard, arms taut against it.
A rushing, gurgling sound indicated the mercury ballast was flooding the aft tank. Within seconds, the Glider had leveled off and was drifting slowly downward.