“Mendenhall makes sense,” agreed Lou who continued, pointing to the rear of the room. “Confine your concerns to the dive and your teammates. Your life and the success of this mission depend upon it.”
David glanced over his shoulder to where Kelly Irvin sat at the back of the room. From her expression, she had known who he was all along. He heard Swigart’s continuing rant again in his ear. “That Geographic episode made quite a splash. Just be damned sure we have no g’damn accidents here, and that the wreck you and your friends worked in the Sea of Japan is in the past and out of your system—got that Ingles? Are you hearing me?”
“Yes sir! Heard and taken to heart, sir.” David gave a thought to his best friend whose body had never been recovered, at eternal rest inside the hull of a World War II Japanese submarine; quite the expensive coffin. How many eulogies had he given to Terry Wilcox? “Lou, I swear to you it’s behind me,” he wanted to believe it as firmly as he’d said it.
“Good… good. Can’t have you down there with any damn ghosts, emotional baggage—all that shit. And that goes for all of you in this room.”
“Understood, sir… yes, sir…” came a chorus of affirmations.
“Have to be focused like a laser, stay on camera and audio. No place for idle thoughts or daydreaming.”
Swigart was right of course, and right to call him on it a final time today. “I won’t let you down, Lou. Promise.”
Others muttered and nodded to indicate the same sentiment. Ingles took in the faces of the seven other divers—Team Aft Section Titanic: Lena Gambio, former Navy diver, Lt. William Bowman, former Navy Seal, Steve Jens, a career man retired from the Navy. Lt. Kyle Fiske, another navy man. He’d be acting as second only to Swigart as, in theory, he’d be Swigart’s right-hand man overseeing the safety of the aft section away team, working out of the control room with Forbes and the ship’s physician, a man named Entebbe.
Meanwhile, Team Bow Section Titanic was comprised of David Ingles, Kelly Irvin, and Jacob Mendenhall, oceanographer and experienced diver, while Lou Swigart would be at the submersible controls below with this team.
“All I ask, all I ask,” repeated Swigart, “and thanks for dropping by!” he tried and failed at sounding a bit friendlier. “Now get your gear stowed and ready yourself for the voyage out to the Sea of Sacrifice.”
“Haven’t heard it called that in a long time,” muttered Kelly Irvin as they all recognized the phrase—a title on one of Alandale’s books that went into some detail about all those he could find records on who went down with the Titanic on the night of April 14th 1912.
“Aye, Commander of Divers!” shouted Steve Jens, a stalwart looking, handsome fellow with the requisite seaman’s tan. The others followed suit, saluting Swigart as most were ex-Navy.
Swigart was pleased to see this; he obviously wished to run his operations by US Navy standards despite—or rather due to its highly experimental nature—and despite the fact that none of them were any longer connected to the Navy.
At least Swigart had set the tone for ‘open and aboveboard’ about everything that goes on—and on a ship, that was important, and David Ingles consoled himself on this point even as he felt that Swigart had been unnecessarily rough on him. Still, what with too many people packed in too small a space, everyone really did need to be honest and up front. Besides, it was the unspoken stuff that seeped into Ingles’ mind that might make him paranoid about how others viewed him and his recent failures. A disciplined work ethic aboard following naval protocol felt right and proper.
These thoughts followed David out of the debriefing, and while others were introducing one another, he rushed past them and was soon in search of his cramped semi-private quarters belowdecks. He soon felt the familiar sense of being home, even if it was in a metal box with poor lighting. The narrow passageways, the shoulder-to-shoulder sized archways led him to his cabin, marked No. 4 where he opened the hatch on a small area as cramped as any rolling RV. Two bunk spaces and a single locker with small mirror to each man. Any shaving or other toiletry needs meant additional shared facilities down the hall.
It all looked like that damned sub in the waters near Japan. It made him wonder about where precisely Terry Wilcox’s skeletal remains had become a permanent resident, but he quickly rushed from that path of thought, knowing he could not go down that road again if he wished to remain sane.
As a balm, his thoughts moved to the thoroughfares inside the Titanic a mile and a half below the Atlantic surface, to where he would be diving in the near future. From all he had ever read of the ship, it was spacious—outlandishly so, at least before it sank. Now to be sure, ceilings in particular would be crushing and walls and bulkheads tight indeed, but he imagined it would be more spacious than a WWII vintage Japanese sub.
Ingles and the other divers had been working with the Navy for a year after their initial recruitment, but oddly enough, they had been trained at different locations and had not worked as a team. It was part of the overall strategy put forth, ironically, by a team of psychiatrists on Kane’s payroll. According to Swigart; from his understanding the ‘bosses’ wanted it that way, believing that too much familiarity among team members in such a high-risk, high-stress situations as they faced guaranteed slip ups, that a dive team too closely aligned by fidelity, friendship, and loyalty were less likely to follow protocol in a negative event—the latest euphemism for foul up. In essence, that was what had happened to Ingles’ buddy in Japan. Perhaps it would not have happened had absolute protocol been followed, but then again who knew for sure? Certainly not the commission put together to study the mishap, whose thousand-page report made for sleep-inducing prose suited only for the toilet. They hadn’t overlooked admonishing Ingles for failing to follow protocol when things went south, yet the commission praised him for saving the others, all but Terry Wilcox.
David stared into the small mirror on his compartment locker and told himself, “You can do this.” He had worked hard on getting this right, diligently and long, to the exclusion of everything else in his life. Lou Swigart had made himself clear. “A good dive team is a tool, Ingles—another arm for the scientists to utilize. No one under my command is going to be some hot dog. First sign of such shit, and you’re on a chopper outta here.”
Reacting to a loud kick at his door, David snatched it open to find his roommate, hands filled with his duffel and a couple of huge biscuits piled with jam and butter balanced on a paper plate. “Need a hand—Bowman, isn’t it?”
“Got it… got it… OK maybe if you took the plate… thanks.”
“So you guys drew straws and ‘the black guy’got to share a room with me, eh?” David joked.
“You know how it goes; black dude always gets the shaft,” Bowman immediately shot back, laughing good-naturedly as he worked himself and his bag into the cramped quarters. “I see you’ve staked out your claim.”
David placed Bowman’s biscuits onto his small desk. “First come, all that.”
“Help yourself to a biscuit,” offered Bowman who then extended a hand to shake, adding, “Name’s Will… Will Bowman.”
“Yeah, I’ve studied your bio. Wanted to know who I’m working with.”
“Need to know who’s got your back—agreed.” He lifted the paper plate with biscuits precariously balanced toward David, again offering him a bite.
“No thanks—not hungry. Too nervous to eat in fact.”
“I know… exciting times.” Bowman looked pleased that David hadn’t taken half his food, and he quickly began to devour what was on the flimsy plate, and was soon licking his fingers of butter and unpacking when he heard a strange noise, followed by a woman’s voice cursing outside their door, sending David investigating. He swung open the inward hinged hatchway to find Dr. Kelly Irvin stooped over and picking up a spilled fanny pack she’d dropped; she’d spilled all manner of feminine items, and among the debris two pill bottles.