“Thank you, Chief. The blackout should be lifted about four tomorrow afternoon. Call her then. Or wait until you get home and surprise her with it. Maybe she’ll let you stay around more than a few days before you get in her hair.”
Briscoe finished dinner, then left for their quarters. He was exhausted from the day and knew tomorrow would be worse.
Cross smiled, watching him leave. Looking past the doomsday timeout had cheered him up, given him hope. His gift was something he wanted to do. He remembered, on separating from the service, shaking Briscoe’s hand. He had then asked the same question of him, “What can I ever do to repay you for your patience and the life-changing knowledge you’ve given me?” To his question Briscoe had answered, “You will, son, but only I will know when.”
Checking his watch, it was nine p.m. Taking Briscoe’s advice, he returned to the room, turned on the bunk’s reading light, and finished The Hunt for Red October. Briscoe was fast asleep, snoring.
PI DAY
The alarm buzzed loudly at 12:01 a.m. Cross reached up, grabbed the clock and held it up to his face. It was after midnight. He switched it off and pinched himself. “Yep, I’m still alive,” he mumbled. Briscoe, across from him, still snored loudly. He had learned the best way to sleep with nearby snores was to synchronize his breathing with theirs. For some reason it worked, fooling his mind into thinking it was him doing the snoring. Ten slow breaths and he was again fast asleep.
Five a.m. Reveille caught the deck busy with crewmen, unaware of the day’s importance. Floodlights gleamed from deck towers, illuminating the activity below them. The sea, calm, rolled the ship with gentle swells; the air was heavy, still, clearing with the lifting fog. Aromas of breakfast cooking drifted down the hallways and up stairwells reminding crew members that the Mess would soon open.
The POD, distributed last night, showed dive launches starting at 0700. Exosuit techs had started early, preparing for the test dive. In the lights, the deck cover clack-clacked open, the large elevator platform rose in its place carrying the Exosuit, fully assembled and pressurized, standing alone, empty, a gargantuan Stormtrooper, waiting to be rolled to the side rails for the winching crane to hoist it over. To its harness, a thousand-foot reel of cable was connected, ready to drop the personal submarine to the depths and bring it back. Techs ran around the suit testing joints, reading handheld instruments, recording measurements. Final checkout would take another hour before the drop. Then the crane operator would take over, but he needed daylight to assure its safe winching. The scheduled seven a.m. test dive was right on time.
“Hey Chief, up and at ‘em. We’ve got a busy day ahead.” Cross, dressed in a hazmat yellow jumpsuit, blue and white Cowboy’s baseball cap, kicked Briscoe’s bunk, jolting him awake.
“Hey, take easy, Marker. I was having a dream. I was sitting in a beach chair, under a shading palm tree, sipping on a rum punch. It had a tiny pink paper umbrella in it. Then a bomb exploded. That was when you kicked the bunk. Paradise to nightmare in zero seconds, thanks.”
“If we don’t get started, your dream may come true. Now rise and shine. I’ll be having coffee. See you at Mess.” He closed the door behind him. Briscoe groaned, moving slowly, rolled out of bed, then dressed and left for the Mess Hall, minutes behind Cross.
A mood of tentative elation filled the Mess. Captain Broward seated at the Captain’s table with the XO and another officer talked, softly discussing plans. Cross heard occasional words: ‘San Diego’, ‘dry dock’, ‘Alaska’, and ‘next mission’. The optimism comforted him. He had less than twelve hours, his watch reminded him, until it was over, but his mind and the tasks ahead pulled him back to the present. He had to wait for the suit’s return to deck before they could dive.
Cross picked at his food, not feeling hungry.
“Not going to eat, Marker?” Briscoe asked, biting into a warm glazed donut.
“Well look at you. You’re only eating donuts with coffee. Lots of coffee.”
“Good luck meal. I always have this when my days are going to be busy. Sugar keeps me going.” He scowled, continuing, “Unless they’re radioactive. That slows me down a bit.”
Returning their trays to the wash window, with little else to do, they returned to the deck, checking the progress, wanting to dive.
The Exosuit had been moved to the side rail, ready for winching. Techs, surrounding the suit, yelled predive details, recording them in notebooks.
“Suit pressure: 14.7 PSI.”
“External pressure: 14.7 PSI.”
“Ballast weight: 800 pounds.”
“Batteries: 100 %.”
“Depth meter: Zero.”
The list went on.
They continually checked their watches, looking east, awaiting sunrise. A tiny orange sliver on the horizon finally brought daybreak. Their dive was go.
The 1MC startled Briscoe. “There are divers over the side, do not rotate screws, cycle rudders, operate sonar, take suction from or discharge to the sea, blow, flood or vent any tanks, or operate any underwater equipment without first contacting the Chief Engineer and the diving supervisor.” Then, “An Exosuit test is in progress over the port side until eight bells. Do not disturb or distract the suit techs during this time.”
He looked at Cross, standing nearby, then up at the Exosuit rising over the deck, and muttered, “There goes my ride. Hope it holds up.”
Once winched over the side, the Exosuit, suspended from the crane, dropped slowly to the water’s surface. A tech, looking up at the crane operator, gave the drop signal; the huge reel began to spin on its axle, slowly at first, then like an accelerating locomotive, rumbled with increasing rotation, spitting out cable with lightning fast speed. Loudly whining, the steel rope raced over a notch in the side deck, beginning to throw smoke and sparks. Seeing it, a suit tech ran across the deck, grabbed a hose, then returned and sprayed the cooling water on the cable. Minutes passed before the reel slowed to a halt, still throwing out slack cable, as the suit hit bottom; a tech clicked a stopwatch and announced, “Testing started at 0710 hours.”
“Still on schedule for a noon release,” said Cross, hearing the tech’s echoing voice. “How fast can they button you up?”
“Last time took about twenty minutes. Could be faster this time. We should be able to dive by noon-thirty.”
“Yeah, that makes it sound bett--.”
Interrupting, the 1MC announced, “There are divers over the side, do not rotate screws, cycle rudders, operate sonar, take suction from or discharge to the sea, blow, flood or vent any tanks, or operate any underwater equipment without first contacting the Chief Engineer and the diving supervisor.”
“We know, we know,” said Briscoe, irritated with the repetition.
The 1MC booming again, announced, “An Exosuit test is in progress over the port side until eight bells. Do not disturb or distract the suit techs during this time.”
Cross continued the conversation, shaking his head at the interruptions, “So if we have Eve back on deck, ready for pickup by Harper and his Osprey by two-thirty, that gives us two hours to go down, pick her up and get her topside. Not much time.”