Clang! Screeeech! Thump!
It scraped the bottom with a jolt, vibrating violently as it slid to a stop.
“My God, Marker. Do you always land that hard?” Briscoe asked, his face showing white in the instrument’s glow.
Exhaling sharply, the chaos ended, smiling, he looked at Briscoe. “No. Not always, Chief. Sometimes I hit harder.”
“Well, I’d have to change my pants after that,” he snickered, adjusting himself in his seat.
Moving the controls, Cross said, “Let’s go find Adam.”
The Glider, its floods illuminating the ocean floor, rose slowly. Cross nudged forward, pushed left rudder; it spun slowly in a tight circle sweeping a panorama of the surrounding area. The scintillation probe remained dark. Then a distant flash, from the pi-ball’s beacon, caught Briscoe’s eye.
“There’s the pi-ball! About one-o’clock, fifteen meters out.” Briscoe said, pointing forward.
Cross straightened the Glider, maneuvering slowly toward it. The comforting purr of the propulsion motors put them over the pi-ball in minutes. Light flashed from the bottom viewport illuminating the cabin in pulses.
He locked the coordinates into the inertial navigation system, then lifted it under the Glider by the catch hook. He planned to release it near Adam, providing a return beacon for their retrieval trip. “Now I’m going to start an outward spiral shifting ten meters out with each circle. We’ll start slow, then increase our speed with each loop, up to our maximum four-knot speed, as we spin outward. Keeps us from getting dizzy. I’ll set the guidance at three minutes per loop. In an hour, we’ll have cleared a two-hundred-meter radius from the pi-ball. Not fast, but thorough. Just so you know,” said Cross.
“Good search technique,” replied Briscoe. How long do you think it’ll take to find the warhead.”
“Until the probe flashes, Chief. No idea really, but we’re way better off than a blind search. Now sit back, relax and keep your eyes peeled. No sleeping.”
He reached to the control panel, dialed in the trajectory and pushed Go. Hydraulic motors whined, moving the rudders as the propulsion blades began churning slowly through the water, filling the cabin with a soothing whop-whop-whop-whop sound.
In the fourth hour, seventy-five loops into the search, seven-hundred-and-fifty meters from the pi-ball, the probe flashed briefly, awakening neither Briscoe nor Cross. They had both struggled to stay awake, but were overtaken by lack of sleep and the peaceful motion of the sub.
Three minutes later, it flashed again, brighter, with greater frequency. Cross flinched at the flashes, shielding his eyes with a hand. He jerked bolt upright, realizing the probe was alarming. He grabbed Briscoe’s arm. “Chief! Chief! We’ve found Adam. Wake up!”
“Huh? What?” he said, rubbing his eyes. Too drowsy to notice the rapid pulses of light filtering through the viewport, he ignored the call. Then, “Holy shit! It’s Adam!” he shouted, finally realizing what was happening.
Seconds passed; the light was gone. “What happened?” asked Briscoe, craning his neck toward the viewport.
“We should orbit back over it in three minutes. Just wait.”
As predicted, the next loop brought even faster, brighter flashes. Cross jammed the Save Location button on the GINS as they peaked. Stopping the auto search, he u-turned to the saved location and continued outward, away from the pi-ball. They could barely see the small black cone lying near the mud as they approached with the probe flashing in their eyes.
“Stop! There it is,” Briscoe shouted. Pointing down, his hand shaking with adrenaline, he stared out on Adam, resting on a colorful coral growth.
Cross killed the motors, leaving them adrift. With neutral buoyancy, they hovered, motionless, over the warhead. Instinctively he pushed the Save Location button again, locking Adam’s coordinates into the GINS memory.
Remembering his plan, wanting redundancy, he moved the Glider closer, a few meters away from Adam, and released the hook latch, dropping the pi-ball next to the coral reef. Now the two cones lay together, only yards apart on the ocean floor, a thousand feet down. He could easily return.
Sighing, relieved, he looked at Briscoe, held up his hand for a high-five and said, “We did it Chief. Now the hard part. We’ll return to the ship, drop the probe and caucus with Broward. Then the relocation program. Now that’s gonna be fun.”
“Yeah, Marker, if you think this is fun, I can’t wait to see what you do for excitement.”
It took a little over an hour to return to the ship, going the direct way this time. The Glider popped to the surface near the rail deck area at three p.m. Clouds were gathering toward the west.
Cross pushed the microphone and asked, “Trident bridge, Canyon Glider portside. Lower the rails for docking. ”
“Welcome back, Glider. You’re early. Crying uncle already?”
“I don’t know. Are we gonna be piped aboard this fine afternoon?” said Cross, winking at Briscoe.
The gruff voice returned, “What in the hell for? We only do that for dignitaries and flag officers.”
“Well we beat your brainless robots. We found and tagged Adam. He’s ready for disarming or relocation. Whichever you prefer.”
Silence.
“Do you copy Trident bridge?”
Silence.
The 1MC announced a message, unheard by them.
Overhead, the crane swiveled the rail dock over the side and lowered it to the waterline.
Smoothly, Cross slid the Glider onto the rails. “Ready for winching, bridge,” he said. He twirled the lock and threw back the hatch, welcoming the fresh air. Waves crashed against the Glider’s hull spraying seawater in on them. “Ready for winching, bridge,” he repeated, more insistent.
Quietly, swiftly they rose to deck level. Through the open hatch, echoing from the 1MC, they heard, "Lay to the quarterdeck the sideboys." Out, topside, on the port side, were two lines of four sideboys, standing at attention, saluting, near the dock’s resting spot. With the jolt of landing, Cross stood through the hatch, looking out to see what was happening on the deck.
Immediately, the quartermaster trilled the bosun’s call through the air, welcoming them aboard. Cross pulled himself out onto the Glider’s hull, looked back in and said, “Chief, get your ass out here. You’re going to want to see this.”
Briscoe poked his head up and looked around, tears welling in his eyes. He had always been on the other side, standing, saluting, never expecting to be honored like this. He jumped through the hatch and sat beside Cross, taking it all in. It was the pinnacle of his life. Gone from his mind were patrol cruisers and gridlocked traffic.
Still atop the yellow hull, ignoring four ruffles and flourishes from the 1MC, they chatted briefly. “Hey Chief, we did good, huh?”
“Yeah, Marker, we did good. I’m really proud of you. Never in my wildest dreams, teaching you, did I think you’d be piped aboard a ship. And you’re not wearing stars either.”
“You are the man, Chief. It all started with you. According to the 1MC you have four. How does it feel, Admiral?”
“Good, Marker. Good. Now, let’s go see the Captain, then hit the Mess line. I’m starving.”
Jumping down to the deck, they saw at the far end of the sideboy columns, the Captain waiting, smiling. Something they rarely saw. He stepped up to them, hand extended, and said, “Congratulations, men. You bested my machines as I thought you would. You took my challenge and won. I just knew you weren’t average divers. Too bad you’re not still serving with us. You’d both be wearing stars.”