“The final position of the ship on the ocean floor isn’t going to make it easy, because now we know it settled hull up,” Rear Admiral Merkel said.
“That and getting in there from a distance without being detected by a satellite, and working in those depths in pressurized hulls and suits, with pre-positioned recharges…” another officer said.
Bill couldn’t remember the officer’s name, but saw the stars on his shoulder boards. “Please explain, Admiral?”
“From the cover of a freighter specially rigged up for the deep submersible team, the first seven runs to the wreck will be to deposit supply capsules and tools. The eighth trip will bring men and sensors to the site and with the pre-positioned supplies they will have enough oxygen, food and fresh water to work for the two weeks. We anticipate it will take that long to locate, reach, and retrieve the crucibles,” Admiral Pensey said.
“How much do you estimate it will cost?” Bill asked.
Merkel nodded to the civilian contractor, who opened a briefing book and quoted, “If the thirty-four-day schedule holds, three hundred eighty-five million, which includes two weeks simulated recovery in Vieques to test and true up the tools and sensors.”
“The Navy must have sunk a hundred ships off that Puerto Rican island in gunnery practice, so that will give your men lots of hulls to practice cracking,” Joey said.
“Exactly,” Merkel said. “Also, it will help acclimate the bodies to pressure and pure O2.”
Bill reached into his case and retrieved two sets of documents. “Admiral, I am authorized by the President of the United States, whose seal and signature is duly affixed, to order you to claim under international maritime law, in the name of the United States of America, the ship wreck Vera Cruz, originally registered under the Maltese flag and now classified as adventurae maris or wreckage still at sea. To retrieve from her hold those items hereunder classified by executive order as articles of national security in the highest priority including…” Bill looked up to denote how important this part was. He read on, “but not limited to, nuclear containment crucibles, their crating, documentation, and any other pertinent evidence as to be used at such time in a world court, or court of world opinion, to protect the interests of the United States. The president, as Commander in Chief, and acting under the National Command Authority, on this day declaring these items a clear and present danger to the United States being hereby acknowledged.” He grabbed a pen and signed both copies. “I now co-sign these operational orders as your executive officer with the simulated rank of an SES-14.”
He slid the orders to the Admiral, who signed them and closed the leather folder. Neither man dwelled on the fact that the paper was essentially a purchase order for three hundred eighty-five million dollars-worth of Navy attention.
“Good luck and Godspeed to you and your men,” Bill said as he shook the hands of the two Navy men and the contractor.
“Thank you, Bob.” The Admiral dismissed the contractor and waited until he was out of the room before continuing. “Mr. Hiccock, what happened in the South Pacific was very disconcerting to us.”
“I can appreciate that, Admiral, but we were also caught off guard,” Bill said.
Joey jumped in, “And thank you for the fast and successful recovery of our operative, Agent Burrell.”
“That’s what we wanted to chat about…” Merkel said.
“Forgive me sir, but I don’t think I know what ‘chat’ means in the context of an Executive Branch, Department of the Navy meeting.”
“Of course, Mr. Hiccock. What I mean is, something strange happened out there. One of our finest skippers is now involved in what, for him, could be a devastating career blow; a career killer, in fact, as dicey as if an ace fighter pilot reported a flying saucer.”
“The whale!” Joey said.
“If that is what we are in fact dealing with,” Bill added.
“What does that mean, Mr. Hiccock?”
“We have the top marine life and cretaceous experts trying to find any research on sea life that could be trained to operate the way Ms. Brooke filed in her report. So far, they all agree it’s not likely.”
“So if you rule out living creatures, you think it’s some machine?”
“Or something machine-like.”
“But our subs can hear if a Soviet sub has a bad valve in the officer’s head at five miles out. No machine could get that close to one of our missile boats.”
“Well, we are looking into some leads now, and as soon as we have anything concrete we’ll notify you.”
The admiral looked at Hiccock and deliberately paused before speaking his next words. “I have two major areas of concern, sir. One is that I have thirty-seven thousand men at any one time in that ocean. If there is a killer whale or machine or whatever out there, I need to sound the alarm and ramp up my skippers on force protection against such a threat. And second, if there is any information that would be exculpable for Morton, sooner rather than later, it could save a brilliant career.”
“Admiral, as to the threat, as soon as we learn of anything that is actionable, you have my word, we’ll share it on the double. As for Mush, he saved my agent’s life. We owe him a debt that will be hard to repay. Again, if any of our wild-assed assumptions bear fruit, we’ll do our best to support our friend.”
“And of course, Dr. Hiccock, we never had this ‘chat.’”
“What chat is that, sir?”
Outside the Pentagon, Bill turned to Joey, “Tell Brooke to dust off her passport. Let’s get her to France and see if we can help out our boomer skipper.”
The last time Brooke had been in Paris, she had been with Peter Remo, a sweet older guy who was a friend of Bill Hiccock, and with whom she’d had a brief Parisian encounter a year or so earlier. She had met Peter while on a case, and he had filled a hollow place she hadn’t even realized was empty. They had spent a wonderful week in this City of Lights, both ready for the romance of France to saturate their pores. The twenty-year difference in their ages was hardly worth a second glance in this continental cosmopolitan setting where men in their sixties are frequently seen in the company of young women whose age didn’t exceed that of the Chivas Regal they sipped.
The brief May-December interlude had dissipated into an impressionist’s pastel memory as the pace of their lives ramped back up to American rat-race speed. Still, as she took a deep breath on that early Monday on her little hotel balcony, the memory made Brooke momentarily ache to have someone step behind her, wrap his arms around her and melt away the morning chill. Instead, she did some stretches and deep knee bends and ate a room service breakfast. She was showered, dressed, and in the lobby at eight thirty, when a U.S. Embassy driver picked her up for the drive out to Euro-Disney.
The drive through the French countryside was picturesque, with little farmhouses and big rolls of browning hay on emerald-green fields. Maybe I should call Peter when I get back. She immediately discarded the idea; Mush had her sole and total attention now. She wondered if it was because she knew she could have Peter with just a phone call, but Mush was like forbidden fruit. He belonged to the Navy and wasn’t kidding when he told her that his main love was the USS Nebraska. She wondered if she threatened that relationship in some way. Another woman you could fight, but the other ‘she’ was the biggest, most expensive, cutting edge, top-secret weapons platform that existed on the planet. Somehow she had to find a way to be the more desirable boy’s toy.
Like the Disney facility on Long Island, the Euro Disney Imagineering complex wasn’t near the park and its attractions, but in an industrial area. Luckily, both the head of security and the designer she needed to interview spoke English, saving Brooke from brushing off the rusted French of her father.