“Horn, make a list. I need the scintillator reattached to the Glider, a new warhead clone, just like the last one you built, and the Exosuit recharged for another dive.”
“Wow, Captain. I’m down here by myself. I can start on everything, but there is a problem.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“A foot joint on the Exosuit was damaged on the last dive. Briscoe says he caught it in a coral reef. Can’t dive with it the way it is. It’s gonna take at least a day to repair it, when the dive techs return. Only one of them knows heliarc welding. I can get started on everything else. Still going to take a day to get all that done by myself.”
“Can we dive tomorrow?”
“I thought we were done, Captain. Why more dives?”
“We just learned there’s another lost nose cone. While we’re here, we’ll pick it up, too. Save us a trip back. So, think we can drop a dive tomorrow?”
“Don’t count on it Captain. There’s a lot of work to do. I don’t even see the crane operators back yet. They probably didn’t get the recall message. We’re at least forty-eight hours out from a dive.”
Broward cursed under his breath, wanting to explain the urgency to Horn, but he deferred, not intending to start a panic at this late date. “Fine, Horn. We’ll go when we’re set.”
Nervous, wanting faster results, he went topside and waited, roster clipboard in hand, by the tender landing platform. He could see the next one, still on the eastern horizon, crawling toward him. It was due to arrive in the next hour. He looked down the roster, circling the key people he needed to be aboard the incoming tender. There were Exosuit techs, crane operators and launch techs circled: fourteen in all. He paced the deck, waiting.
Forty-five minutes later the tender pulled alongside the platform, thirteen crewmen exited, frowning and grumbling over the canceled leave. Pulling one aside, just topping the ladder, the Captain asked, “Seaman, where is everyone? You must have received the message, why didn’t they? I’m still missing almost ninety men.”
“Captain, it’s this way. Most of us turn our cells off when we hit the shore. We’re either having too much fun or too drunk to answer it anyway. If I hadn’t promised a friend I’d call when I was in town, I’d never have seen the SMS message. It simply read, ‘Return to Ship.’ I was close to the harbor so here I am. I didn’t see the other crewmen in town or I’d have grabbed them.”
“Thank you, son. It’s nobody’s fault. We’ve just had an emergency mission pop up. I hated to do it, but now we have to find another missile tip.”
“Sir, if it’s all right, I’d like to unpack and get back on station now.”
“Thanks and carry on, seaman.”
Interrupting the offloading, the 1MC announced, “Captain Broward, you have a shore call in your office. ComSec is holding for you.”
“Broward here.”
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Poole. Our E.F. Lab found another Skyhook loop, as I suspected. It’s four miles straight out from Dana Point, about six miles south of Adam’s drop point. Got something to write with?”
“Yep, go ahead Lieutenant.”
“The loop centers on the point described by 33° 25’ 13.59” North, 117° 45’ 14.47 West. I’m reading that verbatim. Copy it?”
He read back the numbers for confirmation.
“Correct. Can you dive tomorrow?” Broward recognized the worry in her voice.
“That’s not looking very promising right now, Lieutenant. The data you just gave me makes it even more improbable. That’s a long trip for the Glider. We may have to pull anchor and move over it.”
“Do whatever you need to do, Captain, but please, please get it out of there. That’s closer than Adam was. It will certainly takeout Los Angeles and San Diego.” Pausing, she signed off, “I’ve done all I can do. Wish I could be of more help. I’ll be praying for your successful mission.”
“Thank you for the coordinates, Lieutenant Poole. We’ll do our best.”
“Oh, Captain, one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I questioned Gruber about a predicted explosion time. We know it’s on the fourteenth, but we don’t know what time.”
“I’ve been worried about that, too.”
“He reasoned, and I agree with him, that Fogner’s obsession with details probably led him to a literal translation of pi into time. I did a few calculations myself and concluded its most likely timeout is at three fifty-five and thirty-five seconds p.m. Hope we don’t need those extra seconds.” Laughing nervously, she disconnected.
He closed the ComSec line, pulled out his map, and studied the new coordinates. The distance was beyond the normal mini-sub range, making it a riskier trip for Cross and Briscoe, especially with the Exosuit, towing Eve. If anything happened to them, all was lost. He had no other options. They still had three days to find Eve, retrieve and dump her; he rapidly charted a course to the new coordinates and took them to the bridge,
“Captain, we don’t have the manpower to move the ship. They’re still on leave. How do you plan to do that?” asked the XO.
Energized, yet disappointed, he dropped the chart to his side and watched a new storm forming to the west. “We’ve got to move closer. The sub won’t make that distance, not with that load. Plus, there’s a new storm coming. Just can’t catch a break. I’ll be in my quarters. Notify me when we have enough crew to set sail.”
“Aye, Captain.” The XO returned to the helm, watching the next tender approach. It was still on the horizon, moving their way.
CLOSER
Reveille played to a half-full ship, still not enough crew to pull anchor, but an adequate number to begin preparations. Early Mess done, the maintenance crew went to work on the new clone, pounding metal, grinders throwing sparks; a new cone was taking shape. At the other end of the room, three Exosuit techs worked, refurbishing the suit, checking for damage, the foot joint remained twisted, locked in place. The welder had not yet returned.
On deck, activities were returning to normal; overhead, a crane was moving, lifting large cable reels and UUVs from their cradles into the hold, preparing for another storm. Crewmen rushed over the deck, securing loose items, looking to the west, trying to beat the weather. A morning tender pulled alongside, dropped a few dozen crewmen onto the platform, then moved off, returning for more.
In the ship’s bridge, the radar screen glowed with bright green and yellow patches, tracking approaching storm cells. Broward paced the room, looking at the calendar, then the radar, with each pass. It showed another delay, an unavoidable wait. He and the XO were the only ones that knew the real reason for the urgency of the move; their hands were tied, they couldn’t budge until the weather cleared. The crew was building back to normal; they would be full force tomorrow.
Below deck, in the Mess Hall, Cross and Briscoe waited, planning their dive. Ship’s officers moved around them, trays in hand, sitting at empty tables. Breakfast aromas drifted by them from each tray. Holding coffee in one hand, the new map, passed to them by the Captain at breakfast, in the other, Cross pointed, almost tipping his coffee, and said, “This one is closer to shore. If the contours are right, it may be deeper, too. Still above the Exosuit’s test depth, but close. We’re have to make a quick grab-and-go, bring it back to the ship, then hand it off to the Osprey.” He sighed. “You realize we may be working with only hours to spare, don’t you Chief.”