“Aren’t you having breakfast?” Cross asked.
“Just coffee. Too nervous for food. I’d hate to upchuck in the Exosuit.”
“I know where you’re coming from, Chief. I’ve done it in a rough DSV ride. No fun then, or later cleaning it up. Just cereal for me. Much easier to keep down.”
Briscoe sipped coffee, thinking back to their dive together in different vessels, him in a hard-shell, Cross in Dipsy. “So how are you going to handle me? Remember?”
“Like an egg: raw not hard-boiled. Yes, I remember your words exactly, like it was yesterday.”
“Precisely. And if I signal both arms up, touching over my head?”
“You’re okay.”
“One arm up, waving?”
“You’ve got a problem or are in trouble.”
“Good, Marker. And if I move my extended arm toward my chest?”
“Come toward you.”
“That’s how I’ll signal you when I have Adam ready to load.”
Cross held up his hand, stopping Briscoe’s lesson. “Chief, do you remember that the Exosuit has a baseband voice communicator built in? You can just talk to me, like a normal conversation. I’ll answer back using my external intercom. We shouldn’t need hand signals.”
“Remember that other cardinal rule I taught you? The most important one?”
“Redundancy?”
“Exactly. That’s why the hand signals. It’s impossible to be too careful a thousand feet down.”
“Chief, do not worry. I’ve got your back down there. Just remember you’re not as young as you were. Don’t overexert. Don’t twist or break anything. Take it easy. You have three days of air; I have the same. We’ll make it no matter what happens.”
Smiling, he commented, “I guess I better take my wheelchair down, too. Just in case.”
Cross spit his coffee at that, imagining Briscoe being carried down in an Exosuit wheelchair. “I didn’t mean that, Chief. It’s just that you’re no spring chicken any more. Too many donuts, too much time sitting in a cruiser.”
“Don’t judge me, Marker. I’ll whip your ass in a marathon, anytime.”
They chatted, still drinking coffee, until the room emptied. “Oh crap, it’s six-forty-five. I have to be on deck by seven for suit-up.” Briscoe chugged the last of his coffee, now lukewarm, stood and tugged Cross’s arm. “Let’s go, Marker. We’ve got a world to save.”
As they topped the stairs, the large deck cover was clanking, retracting into its roller. From the void below, the maintenance elevator appeared, lifting the futuristic diving suit, hanging from a large complicated rack, to deck level. Eighteen red swivel joints, gleaming polished metal, interrupted the smooth flow of the white metallic exterior. In the dawning light, it was an otherworldly scene. Four crewmen, adjusting fittings, connecting hoses and checking seals, surrounded it. “Hey Briscoe, want to come try this on?” yelled a crewman.
“Step very carefully into the legs, then slip the suspenders over your shoulders. That’ll hold them up while we secure the top. This is a three-step process, bottom, top, then helmet. After you’re in, we turn on your electronics, air scrubber and pressure control. From that time on, you’re self-contained, feeling and experiencing the same environment, whether you’re on this deck or a thousand feet down. Of course, underwater you’ll be lighter; the extra weight of the suit disappears. Got it?” He backed off, offering Briscoe a hand up a small ladder. Stepping into the bottom of the suit, one leg at a time, Briscoe was unhooked from the rack. “Now slide the suspenders over your shoulders. Ready for the top?”
Cross chuckled, watching from aside, thinking he looked like a rodeo clown wearing the big-waist, suspendered pants they always wear.
Realizing he was about to vanish into the suit, he walked over and held out a hand. “Good luck, Chief. I’ll be waiting in the Glider, prepping it for the dive.”
“Yeah, Marker. Good luck to you, too. When I’m done here I’ll waddle over and we can make a plan. Make sure the probe’s gone. Won’t be needing that anymore.”
He went back to the Glider, leaving Briscoe fighting the suit, wriggling into the arms, tucking himself in.
“Hey Mr. Cross, can you release the manipulators? You’ll need this probe off,” asked a crewman, appearing from nowhere, straining to loosen the cylinder.
“Sure, let me hop in. Tried to take it off yesterday. Too heavy. Just take a second.”
Clunking, whining, the claws opened, releasing their grip on the scintillation probe. It dropped, rolling loose over the upturned arms. “That’s got it. Thanks,” yelled the crewman. Three other crewmen ran up, grabbed the probe and carted it off.
“Hey, we added a suit rack on your bow. Bolted on tight. That way you can see out the viewport. When you get to depth, he can step off or just swim off using his swim fins.”
“Thanks, buddy. This is new to me: the Exosuit and all.”
“Just remember, it’s a swimmable suit; he can swim around the bottom in it. Surface at any time if he needs to; no decompression time needed. ”
“Wow. That’s a long way off from the old hard shells.”
“Don’t exceed one knot though, or he may blow off. Not very hydrodynamic, standing up in the rack.”
“Roger that. Thanks.”
With the scintillator heading off toward the cradles, he ran the manipulator arms through the range-of-motion tests, assuring himself they wouldn’t touch or affect the new suit fixture. They passed with no problem. He continued the predive check out, not thinking of the importance of the dive. To him every dive was as important as any other, since any simple slip-up could cost him his life.
Activating the external intercom, he heard deck sounds, voices yelling, cables straining, over the cabin’s speaker. He spoke “test” into the microphone; the speaker echoed back, confirming its operation.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. From the left side of the viewport, the white suit, ribbed in red swivel joints, appeared. Briscoe, a real life Buzz Lightyear, stepped awkwardly toward him. His head glistened with sweat behind the thick acrylic faceplate, miniaturizing his face. “I heard your ‘test’ loud and clear, Marker,” boomed the Exosuit’s transducer.
“I hear your voice and your pressure regulator hissing. I guess this thing works,” Cross spoke from the cabin. Both voices echoed over the deck, stopping the crew in their tracks, eavesdropping on the conversation.
“Step on the platform and attach yourself. There’s supposed to be a latch for your suit to the side of the viewport.”
“I see it. I just gained a few hundred pounds, so I’m moving a little slow. Bear with me.” He grunted, struggling onto the ramp; a loud click signaled his connection. “I’m on. Feels tight. Let’s go.”
Cross keyed the radio, “Ready for winching, bridge.”
Roaring and groaning, the crane swung over the Glider and grabbed the rail dock.
“Copy that, Glider. Winching. Good luck guys.”
The trip down to the warheads took a little over two hours. The squawker was weak, its battery nearly depleted, after the storm’s delay. Cross remembered the crewman telling him the battery would last about twenty-four hours, so he had switched from passive sonar to inertial navigation to complete the approach. Briscoe riding up front was enjoying the beauty of the ride.
“So you think I make a good hood ornament, Marker?”
Cross laughed. “Turn on your suit floods. Hold up one arm and you’ll be the Glider god, leading us onward.”
In the added floodlights, Briscoe shouted, “Adam sighted. Two o’clock, twenty meters ahead. Slow and steady, Marker.”