Arriving at the warhead, Briscoe switched on the suit’s floods, bent over, and slid the harness smoothly over her, locking the bottom strap. “Looks like that’s got it Marker. Ease on up and grab the handle with both claws. Then I’ll climb back on and we’re off to home base.”
He edged the Glider closer, moving cautiously, avoiding Briscoe, then stopped; the claws drifting inches from Eve’s harness. Twisting and pushing the joysticks, he slid one claw through the handle then the other. He locked them closed with a final twist.
“Got It, Chief. Look all right to you?”
Briscoe moved slowly over the warhead inspecting it and the harness. “Yep. Looks just like Adam. Same eight-latch lid, same size, same quiet beeping. It’s another modified W-88. That Goddamned fruitcake was serious. Let’s get her the hell out of here and on her way out to sea.”
“Ready, Chief. Hop on. Watch out for the reef; don’t catch your foot again.”
He pulled himself back on the platform, locked his suit into the rack, and said. “Take us home, Marker. She’s got a date with destiny and she’s running late.”
Cross pulled up the rudder, pushed forward the throttles, blew the ballasts, and started upward. The Glider moved sluggishly, Eve’s extra weight slowing it down. He mumbled, “Gotta get more lift. We’re not going to make it back in time at this rate.” The Glider had been struggling upward for twenty minutes and was still far from the ship.
“I can help, Marker. Let me blow my suit’s ballast, I can see the instructions now; that will lessen my weight, pull us up faster.”
“Can you do that?”
“Yep, according to my head’s up display, I just toggle my Surface button. Air will fill my ballast tank, giving me positive buoyancy. The suit should lift us up after that.”
“Sure you want to try it?”
“Marker, I have to. We’re moving too slowly. She’ll blow before we get back. All I have to do is--. Oops.”
The Glider jolted with his action. A loud whoosh followed by a jarring clank alerted Cross. The ‘oops’ punctuated the danger.
“Chief? Are you all right? Hold out your left arm so I can see you.”
His voice returned, weaker, further away, “I am holding it out, Marker. The ballast blast popped me off the hull. I’m floating upward. Can’t tell where I am. Can’t see the Glider. Rising, drifting up.”
Cross’s face flushed, his heart raced; he began to panic. He had lost Briscoe. With tears forming in his eyes, he screamed, “My God, Chief. How can I help you? I’m coming to find you. Hang on.” He switched out of autopilot and dropped the outboard ballast weights, speeding his ascent. Spiraling the Glider upward after Briscoe, with blurred vision, he scanned the dark empty void. Minutes had passed. Nothing. Eve, in the grasp of the manipulators, began to vibrate, shudder with the increasing speed.
A whisper now, from a distance, the voice pleaded, “Don’t do it Marker. I’m okay. Just take Eve back. Do what I say.”
In a moment of prudence, reason overcoming his emotions, obeying Briscoe’s command, he reluctantly readjusted the controls, stabilizing the Glider. Sweat pouring from his brow, he pushed the Auto switch then said, “I’ll find you, Chief. I’ll come back to save you. Save your strength.”
True to course, the Glider popped to the surface, the Trident Tine gleaming in the afternoon sun, out the front viewport. Never had he seen such a welcoming sight. He sighed with relief. “Thank you God,” he murmured, slowing the motors. His part was done.
“Trident bridge, Glider and Eve off your port side. Drop the rail dock deep. Ready the winch and Osprey for handoff.”
“Copy that, Glider. Signal when you’re ready for winching.”
The crane seemed to take longer than usual to winch him up but it was probably his nerves. The mechanical delays were out of his control; he wanted to slow down time and live in fast-forward motion.
Finally, it came; the bump of the rail dock hitting the deck eased his anxiety. He sighed, twirled the hatch lock and threw it back, started to exit, then decided to wait inside until the chaos settled.
From the beehive of activity on his bow, he heard a shout. “Release the claws.” He clicked the joysticks, settling Eve onto a waiting dolly. The Osprey rumbled, spinning the rotors into motion. Crewmen quickly rolled Eve away to an open area of the deck. Rotors, now up to speed, turbines whining, the Osprey lifted from its pad.
Flying low over the deck, Harper carefully hovered above the warhead, motioning his lineman to drop the hook. It lowered slowly to within inches of the harness blowing wildly in the Osprey’s downdraft.
“Grab the damn hook,” screamed a crewman; a torrential wind swirled around him.
“Got it! Hook it in!”
“Signal the Osprey. She’s locked and loaded.”
A hand signal went up to Harper; the Osprey roared, rotors noisily chopping the air; Eve lifted slowly from the deck. As the rotors tilted forward, it sped out over the water, racing toward the horizon.
Nervous, Cross checked his watch. It was three o’clock. He knew the bomb would timeout in fifty-five minutes, taking the Osprey and Harper with it. He said a prayer, climbing slowly through the hatch, then off the hull. The deck under his feet splashed as he landed. Crewmen ran about, cleaning the Glider of seaweed, replacing the ballast weights, fitting a new cable loop into the cable rack; repairing damages from his emergency surface.
A suit tech approached, searching the hull. “Where’s Briscoe? The rack? The Exosuit?”
Eyes cast down, he answered, “His rack failed. He washed off the hull. Lost him. He told me to go on, return to the ship.”
“Oh my, God. Was he hurt?”
“Don’t know, but don’t think so. He sounded alone, confused, lost, but he did not sound injured.”
“That’s good. He can float, survive thirty hours in that suit. It’s got a surface GPS; he can even swim back if he figures out how to use it. And remembers the ship’s coordinates.”
“That’s a big if, but I’m hoping his old codger’s memory is still sharp. I’m praying it is. I’ll go back out in the sub in a few hours and search for him, after Harper returns.”
“Well, if he’s not injured, he should be fine for a while, just shook up; that suit’s pretty claustrophobic.”
“Give me a minute, seaman. I’ve had a really bad experience.” Cross said, sitting down on the deck.
“Yes, sir.” He moved to the bracket mounts where the Exosuit rack had been bolted. “Looks like the bolts just unscrewed themselves with the motion of the ocean. Someone didn’t tighten them correctly during the predive checklist. No signs of lock washers either.”
“It’s not on the checklist. Never made it there after you installed the rack. Simple human error. Hope it didn’t kill Briscoe.” He put his hands over his face, regretting the mistake.
“There he goes,” said the crewman, trying to ease his pain. They turned their attention west as the Osprey, rotor sounds fading, slipped out of sight over the horizon.
“Where’s he taking that?”
“No idea,” Cross answered. “I’m not privy to that.” He bit his tongue, wanting to tell him the truth, but would leave that for the Captain. The story onboard was still a missing dummy warhead retrieval mission. He had abided by that story his entire time on board, but he knew that was about to change. He wondered how the Captain would handle the explosions when they came; surely they would be visible from the deck.