Briscoe nodded.
“Does that worry you?”
“If what the Captain says is true, that we have until three-fifty-five p.m. on the fourteenth, I don’t see a problem. Harper can pick it up, fly out, drop it, and return in two hours. That gives until about one-fifty-five to return it to the ship. We better start our dive early, like 0700, to give us a little slack time. There won’t be any penalties for being late, just a quick, painless death.”
“That’s a comforting thought, Chief,” he said, chuckling.
“Seriously, Marker, I want you to remember everything I’ve ever taught you. Keep one eye on Eve, one on me, and the other on your gauges; can’t go wrong that way.” He said, a wry smile covering his face.
“Got you, Chief.”
Briscoe’s coffee sloshed out, raced over the table, then splashed onto Cross’s shoes. The first swell brought the storm’s arrival. Overhead lights flickered, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled in its wake. A loud crash accompanied a tray sliding off a table; utensils and dishes flew over the floor. Men jumped at its suddenness. Crewmen waiting in the Mess line sat in nearby chairs, avoiding falling, sliding across the room. It was one of those storms.
Topside an arriving tender was turned away; conditions were too dangerous to dock. Harper was on the pad, tying down the Osprey while a crane operator winched up the cables; crewmen ran for shelter, scrambling into the stairwells.
It was time to wait out another storm.
The ship had been locked down tight until sunset. Activities had ceased, some crewmen were discussing their cancelled leave, wondering why, and others watched the television, cheering their teams on to the final 68. The tournament would start in three days; the day after pi-day, but no one suspected that day might never come.
A brilliant red sun, throwing orange daggers into the sky, dropped below the horizon, clouds raced inland, as the storm cleared. Soon the ship leveled, everything was calm; the smooth, rolling seas brought peace to the ship’s rhythm.
The maintenance crew, behind in their work, returned to the bay, continuing with their tasks. The welder, finally back from leave, sprayed fire over the floor as he began to repair the Exosuit’s failed joint. Another Exosuit tech polished the acrylic faceplate, breathing onto it, mouth open, then wiping the fogged areas with a white linen cloth. The cone builders welded the final plate over the exterior and began installing the lighted beacon.
It was all falling back into place. All they had to do was move six miles, re-anchor, then drop a dive to save the world, as Briscoe put it.
Taps sounded through the ship reminding everyone of the time, but restlessness consumed the crew. Rumors were beginning to circulate concerning the new missing missile tip story. Most crewmen had never been called back from leave; the few that had, had returned to wartime emergencies. Everyone slept with an open eye.
ANCHOR’S AWEIGH
Dawn brought a new sun; signs of the storm dwelled to the east, it had passed during the night. Anchor rising, one clunking forty-pound chain link at a time, the Trident Tine lumbered southward to the new coordinates, centered over Eve. Captain Broward, intensely studying the GPS, called orders over the 1MC, steered the wheel and directed movement topside. He knew the six-mile trip was too brief to build up full steam; fearing a target overrun, he kept the ship’s speed to a crawl.
He worried that he left without the full crew: the remainder were scheduled back from leave today. His only resort was to notify the tenders with their new position: tendering was paused during their movement. They would board later. Conveniently, the sixteen crew members still ashore were not critical to the ship’s movement; their duties would rest for the day. The heads could remain dirty.
“Full astern,” Broward yelled. It had been three hours since their departure, and they were approaching Eve. The ship vibrated violently, reacting to the reversed screw motion. He turned to the right, watching out the starboard window until he saw the screws’ backwash reach amidships. “All stop!” he shouted. A quick glance at the GPS told him he was nearly on target, only a hundred meters off. That will do. “Drop anchor. Resume the Mess.” He announced, his voice echoing over the 1MC. “Drop the tender platform. Drop the crew ladder.” he announced next, then radioed the tenders to resume service to the new location. He ran down his landing list, and satisfied that he had not missed anything, turned the helm over to the XO and left the bridge. He was running the ship with a distracted mind. Afraid he would forget some crucial procedure; he needed to be alone, clearing his head of the repeating visions of Eve exploding under them.
In time, the ship’s operations returned to normal, the officer of the deck had approached the Captain, requesting permission to ring the midday eight-bell announcement, starting the afternoon watch. A rather curious tradition, asking for the Captain’s permission to ring eight bells, it stemmed back to days of twelve-hour hourglasses. It was once the captain’s daily prerogative to reset the hourglass based on the sun’s position. At the proper time, determined by the celestial navigator, the captain would say, “Turn the glass; make it twelve and strike eight bells.” Now, even using digital, radio-controlled clocks, the tradition persists, often used for sailing through time zones, the captain decides which zone they’re observing.
The bell struck noon: ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding. Mid-day Mess was open; the Captain sat at his table eyeing Cross and Briscoe, starting a meal. He motioned them over and offered them a seat.
“Permission to join you sir,” Briscoe asked.
“Sit,” he commanded.
They brought their trays and sat with him at the Captain’s table.
“I just checked with the fellows down in maintenance. The clone is ready for your use but the Exosuit’s still in repair. The sun sets at 1735 hours today, a little over five hours from now. Do you have time to make a dive? Possibly find Eve?”
“We have to go today. Not enough time tomorrow, Captain. We won’t need the suit today though, so that’s okay.”
“Briscoe going with you?”
“Yes, I like the extra eyes. He found Adam last time. Maybe a good luck charm. Besides, I like to give the old man an exciting ride once in a while, although he’d probably feel more comfortable if I mounted red and blue flashing lights over the viewport. Maybe added a siren or two.”
Briscoe punched Cross’s shoulder. “Hey, kiddo, I was diving deep waters when you were still in diapers. I just like to breathe air more than water. That’s why I took the dry route.”
Holding out his arms, Broward separated them. “Break it up, guys,” he said, laughing. Then, fading to serious, he asked, “If I can drop your sub by 1330 hours can you get back in time, before dark? We don’t really have the lighting for night dives.”
Cross nodded. “That will give us a little over four hours. We found Adam in less time. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well chow down. I expect you to be ready for winching in an hour and a half.”
“Yes sir,” said Cross.
“Well, that was a relaxing lunch,” said Briscoe, snickering, climbing the stairs to the deck.
“Yeah, I’ve already forgotten what we ate.” He topped the stairs behind Briscoe, pointing. “Hey, we’ve got the scintillator probe back. They attached it to one manipulator, the pi-ball the other. Cool. Saves up a trip. Looks like we’re set to go.”