Returning to her office, she collected her thoughts. Rummaging through her files, she pulled the Adam folder and extracted the decoded poem, reading it again. There it was: THERMONUCLEAR DESTRUCTIONS. Plural! They had originally passed it off as a grammatical error, but now she knew. There was another bomb, sitting in the ocean near where Adam had been. He reunited them.
Her mind flashed an image of the two weapons simultaneously exploding, creating two mushroom clouds in the distance. The cloud tops would eventually join, creating two fiery columns, a long flat mushroom cap connecting them: a gigantic iconic pi symbol in the sky, looming over Los Angeles. It would be Fogner’s signature move.
She bit at a split fingernail, brushed the hair from her face, wadded his note, and threw it away. There was another bomb! How could we have missed that? Where to start?
Broward had told her his crew would be on shore leave returning to the ship on the thirteenth. That was not enough time. He would have to call them back early to search for Eve. It was starting all over, but with no time for completion. She sat running the tasks over in her mind considering the short lead times.
“E. F. Lab, Jones speaking.” His voice was calm, relaxed.
Hers was desperate, pleading, trembling. “Warren, this is Poole in SID. We’ve got an emergency down here. Remember those coordinates you found from that radioactive Sea Ray’s Skyhook GPS?”
“Not likely to forget that for a while, Lieutenant. What’s up?”
“There’s another set of coordinates in that data: another Skyhook loop. Can you find it?”
“We’ll look, but it’ll probably take us a couple days. Can you work with that?”
“Yeah, if you can work with being vaporized the next day. There’s another bomb.”
“Holy shit! We’ll drop everything and get on it.” His voice had gone from calm to frantic in seconds.
“I suggest that, Warren. I’m calling the ship now to prepare them for the new search.”
“Good luck, Lieutenant. Gotta go now.”
She looked at her short list and ticked off the top item: Search coordinates. Next came the second item: Alert Broward.
“Broward here,” his scrambled voice boomed. Wincing, she held the phone out.
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Poole, Orange County SID. Got a second?”
“Why, yes Lieutenant I have lots of them right now, the crew’s on leave, enjoying your fine city. Any of them in trouble yet? Is that why you’re calling?”
“Er… no Captain, that’s not why I’m calling. There’s an Eve.”
She was used to the scrambler carrier quietly buzzing while he thought, but this time it was longer.
“I’m not understanding that. There’s an Eve? To go with Adam?” His voice was incredulous, even through the growling scrambler.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. I assume it’s also set to explode on pi day. Fits Fogner’s demonic, iconic scenario. I’m getting the coordinates now.”
“Holy crap! Well, I’m going to have to call in the crew early from their leave. We do have an emergency recall on the books but I’ve never used it. Hope we can get enough crew members back to launch another search. I guess our lives depend on it, so I better get cranking. Three days, huh?”
“Yes sir. I’ll call back later today with the new coordinates: the E.F. Lab assured me of that.”
“I’m alerting the tenders right now. Then calling the crew’s cell phones with our automated messenger. Hope it works. Not all of them have cells. I’ll expect your call with our coordinates later. Goodbye, Lieutenant. Broward out.”
Now idle, her mind still racing, she stepped through the remaining calendar days. It would soon be down to hours. She called Gruber, the resident Nuclear Forensics Lab scientist.
“Charles Gruber. Go.”
“Dr. Gruber, this is Lieutenant Poole. We have a second bomb. This one’s named Eve.”
“Oh dear God. Where is it? From Fogner obviously: a mate for Adam.”
“Yes. We’re still recovering new coordinates from the Sea Ray’s GPS, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“We’re counting down days now but it will soon be hours. What do you think of Fogner’s pi-day edict? Did he mean midnight of the thirteenth, when the calendar clicks over to the fourteenth or something else.”
“I can see several scenarios, Lieutenant, none of them good. Midnight is a possibility, but that would be only 3.14. Taking it a few digits further, 15926 could be hours and fractions of hours. So fifteen hours would be three p.m. Accordingly 15.92 hours would be around three-fifty in the afternoon. Any more digits tweak it forward in seconds, then milliseconds. If we’re that close, it’s just too late. That’s my best guess, seeing his OCD fascination with numbers. Now, whether it’s in Pacific time or Greenwich time, I can’t tell. I would assume he would want them to go off when everyone is at work, concentrated in a small area, not in the outlying bedroom communities.”
“Thank you, Dr. Gruber. I have to put a stake in the ground somewhere and three-fifty p.m. is as good a point as any to place it. If it’s earlier, we’ll never know.”
“Well good luck, Lieutenant. You’re going to need it”
Cross and Briscoe stood in the Captain’s office listening, disbelieving.
“Do you mean there’s another bomb, Captain? Like Adam?” Briscoe asked.
“That’s what she said.”
“Well… what… where is it?” asked Cross.
“She’s pulling the data right now. Should have it in a while.”
“What can we do for now? The crew’s gone; we’re dead in the water.”
“Well, what will you need?”
Cross rubbed his chin. “For one thing, another pi-ball.”
“Excuse me? What’s a pi-ball?”
“That’s what we call the warhead clone the guys down in maintenance made for us. A ballooning throwback. We’ll need another one.”
“I see.” He looked at the returning roster. “Well, a few of them are already back on board. I’ll call down and get another one started. Anything else?”
“The scintillator. Has to be reattached to the Glider.”
“I’ll see to that, too. Remember, we’re short handed. May take a little bit longer. I’m shooting for you to dive tomorrow afternoon.”
“We’ll have to plan the dive. Things are different, but the same,” said Cross.
“I’ll need the Exosuit again. Can it be readied in time?” asked Briscoe.
“As long as our four launch technicians make it back. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He reread the roster. “Looks like one of them is already back. I’ll get him started on the recharge. Takes about twelve hours.”
“Thanks, Captain. Anything else?” asked Cross.
“No, just prepare your Glider. Dismissed.”
Broward, starting his duties, clicked the intercom, connecting with the Maintenance Bay. A voice answered, “Seaman Horn. What can I do for you, Captain?”