“It is a missile warhead, as you heard, a Trident Missile W-88, but it’s armed, timed to explode on March 14th. We suspect it’s booby trapped, too. That’s why we’re not attempting to disarm it. It was created by a deranged terrorist of American nationality to avenge his downfall at society’s hands. He’s a nuclear scientist, so we’re pretty sure the warhead’s real. He worked with them before; probably took one home for a souvenir.”
Absorbing the information, Harper dropped his head, shook it, then stared back into his eyes. “All right, Captain. If someone has to do it, it might as well be me. I have no problem. If I’m thirty yards or thirty miles away, I’m still toast. I can get it out in a couple hours and be back by chowtime. Who’s going with me to man the drop line? When does this happen? It’s pretty dangerous flying weather out there right now.”
“The sub’s returning to the warhead for retrieval tomorrow morning, if the weather’s clear. They should have it on the deck, ready for your pickup by noon. You’ll see a commotion when it’s lifted aboard. Have the Osprey ready to fly by then. Pick your flight crew, whomever you wish. Tell them it’s an exercise. Anything but what it really is.”
“Gotcha, sir. Just another day in paradise, so they say.”
“I’ll recommend a Presidential Medal of Honor for you, Harper. It’ll make it worth your effort.”
“Yes sir! May I go, sir? I’ve got things to prepare: drop lines and stuff.” He stood, backed off, and saluted.
“Yes. Go with God, Lieutenant. Our lives depend on you. I’ll be on deck to see you off tomorrow. Remember, not a word.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” he said, rushing through the door, down the hallway.
Pulling a notepad from his drawer, he began to make notes. All the activities he planned were not for publication in the POD. He was having trouble keeping his fabrications straight: who knew and who didn’t. At the top were Cross and Briscoe. They knew more than he knew about the case and search. Below them was Poole, holding the most knowledge of the case but little of the search.
Interrupting his thoughts came a knock at his door.
“Enter,” he said.
Briscoe entered, Cross trailing behind.
“Ah, my A-Team. What can I do for you chaps today?”
“Well, thank you Captain. Didn’t know you considered us the A-Team,” said Cross.
“I can’t very well call you my Adam-Team, it would raise eyebrows. A-Team works better.” He paused, then smiled and continued, “but you are my A-team, in more ways than that. Best divers I’ve ever had on my ship.”
“We’ll thank you sir.” Briscoe grabbed Cross’s shoulder and said. “And this is the very best student I’ve ever had. He’s now teaching me.”
“Now enough of that. What do you two need for your recovery dive tomorrow? I’ve cleared the Osprey to pick up Adam shortly after noon, if that sounds reasonable.”
Nodding together, they agreed.
Briscoe cleared his throat. “We’d like to use a hard-shell ADS. I have plenty of experience with them. We’ll need a close interface with Adam to see what secrets he holds. Can’t do that with the Glider’s viewport.”
Broward put his hand to his forehead. “Hmm. We haven’t used the hard-shell in a while. May have to dust off the cobwebs, but I’ll send two men with you to clean it up and test it. Now if you’d rather use our new Exosuit, it’s a self-contained, one-atmosphere jointed suit. We just acquired it last year for a quarter mil. It’s rated down to 1400 feet for over three days, weighs a couple-hundred pounds on land and has adjustable buoyancy at depth. Also has baseband communication for underwater speech. How about that?”
“Well I’ve died and gone to heaven, Captain. Mind if I use it?”
“Of course not, but I’m curious now. How do you plan to bring Adam up?” asked Broward.
Cross answered, “Same way I did nine years ago, with a lost black box; our last dive together. The Chief rides down in the Glider’s arms, jumps off, helps me get Adam secured, then rides it back up, cowboy style.”
“Cowboy style?” Broward asked, cocking his head.”
“Yeah, just like Major Kong in Dr. Strangelove. Except he won’t have a cowboy hat to wave. It would wash away.”
Grinning, Broward probed further. “What about the radiation? Is that a danger?”
Briscoe answered, “No not really, not underwater. It’s mainly the radioactive isotope dust that gets you; the ionization is fairly harmless through water. Besides I’ve got plenty of pills to care of that; I’m not worried.”
The Captain looked down at his list, penciled a checkmark beside their name, and stood. “Well guys, I have some preparations before the morning so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you on deck for launch, 0800 hours sharp. That will give you enough light to launch and four hours to return by noon.
Cross popped a salute. “Fine, sir. Permiss--.”
“Oh stop that. Just go save the world. That will be quite enough.” Grinning, Broward left for the bridge.
They wandered the ship for over an hour, searching for the dive suit lockers. Finally, a crewman directed them to a suite of lockers at the rear corner of the Maintenance Bay. Opening a large brown locker, Briscoe stood in awe, staring at the most advanced diving suit he had seen. He rubbed his hand over it, admiring its white aluminum-covered exoskeleton. The polished metallic joints swiveled at his touch. It reminded him of an astronaut’s space suit, yet he knew it was much stronger. A space suit, designed to keep atmospheric pressure, 14.7 PSI, in, paled in comparison to the Exosuit, keeping out over 600 PSI. A threatening, hostile environment, even more unforgiving than outer space.
He tried to lift the suit from its hanger; it didn’t budge. “It’s going to take a small crew to suit me up,” Briscoe said, “but from what I see, not nearly the crew for a hard shell. Maybe two or three men.”
“Exactly four men,” said a seaman, approaching from his office. “We’ll load it on the elevator; have it on deck by 0700 hours. Suit you up, pressurize it, and you’ll be ready to dive by 0800 hours. Orders from the Captain.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll see you out on deck at seven sharp. Anything special I should do or wear?”
“You’ll be in an 80–20 atmosphere just like air, standard pressure, too. It will be a little chilly in the deep Pacific. The metal joints get cold. Consider a jacket or sweater. That’s all. No special precautions.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” He turned to Cross and said, “Going down to the gym. Work up a sweat. See you later.”
“I’m going out to pull the probe off Gilda. Can’t have that on there with you riding.”
“Yeah, take care. Don’t get blown off deck.”
Later, in their bunks, they played tomorrow’s dive repeatedly in their minds; Briscoe walking through the challenges of deep-sea, ocean-floor diving, Cross rehearsing the robotic arm control levers. It had been a while since he last used them.
MOVING DAY
They spent a restless, sleepless night, anticipating the morning’s dive. Reveille echoed down the hallway, irritating Briscoe. Out of his bunk in seconds, he was dressed, headed to Mess. The bunk, slamming the wall, alerted Cross to the time.
“I’m right behind you, Chief,” he said, crawling into on his jumpsuit.
Hands clapped, greeting his entry into the room. Officers rushing through breakfast recognized him, then applauded faster, louder with Cross’s entry. Word of their discovery had passed over the ship faster than the storm. Their final dive would allow the Captain to pull anchor and head the ship back to San Diego. They were the ticket home.