“You bring anything up from down there?”
“We found a rock,” Brande half lied.
“How far down?”
“Looks like it’ll go to seven thousand.”
The bearded man’s significant other, her head and skinny naked torso exposed in the hatchway to the cabin, said, “Fuck it, Slick. Let’s get outta here.”
The beard watched them go by, saying, “Yeah.”
Under her breath, Brandie Anderson said, “If I had a body like that, I’d cover it up.”
“Or wash it,” Brande said, to substitute for some other repartees that had immediately jumped to mind.
“I’ve got Word on UHF,” Dokey called up.
Jim Word, aboard the Gemini, directed Dokey by radio into position astern of the mother ship. The sub slowed, then
turned and coasted in between the twin hulls of the research vessel. Each of the hulls extended ten feet aft of the main deck.
The whine of the electric motors died away as Dokey backed off on the motor controls, maintaining just enough forward momentum to hold her in place.
Above Brande was the massive steel yoke that lifted DepthFinder from the sea. The bases of its two legs rotated in mounts attached to each of the catamaran hulls. Cables stretched to winches on the main deck controlled the forward and aft movement of the yoke as well as the main lift cable suspended from the center of the yoke. Brande watched as the weighted cable descended toward him, its length creeping through the multiple block-and-tackle mechanisms that increased its lifting capability.
When it was within reach, he raised his hands to guide it aft, then leaned way over the sail and snapped it into the lifting eye. Raising his arm, he signaled reverse by circling his hand, and the winch operator braked the cable, then started it in the opposite direction.
The DepthFinder would be making several more trips today, with three crews rotating duty, but she had to come out of the water in order to have new weights installed and the battery trays replaced. Two weights, which fitted into recesses on the bottom of the hull, had been dropped on the bottom prior to their ascent. The batteries were submerged in protective oil in their trays, to resist the encroachment of salt water which could short them out.
With minimal use of the electric propulsion motors and energy-consuming electrical systems, the three sets of batteries could provide 150 hours of life support. Eighty hours of time was available at normal consumption rates, and thirty-five hours was the safety limit at maximum current draw. Additionally, there was a backup system within the pressure hull, good for another five hours. Brandeʼs safety consciousness, however, had dictated an MVU policy that battery packs be exchanged — one set recycling and recharging on board the research vessel — any time a submersible surfaced after more than three hours down.
Dokey shut down the rest of the sub’s systems as she broke free of the water, then clambered his way up into the sail.
“Hey!”
“’Scuse me, Brandie,” Dokey said.
“There’s only room for two,” she said.
“Yeah. Ain’t it great?”
The submersible was raised to the limits of the lift cable on the yoke, greenish water sluicing from the hull, then the yoke tilted forward, bringing the sub above the stern deck. Mostly above it. The aft third of the sub still hung out over the space between the hulls.
The winch operator lowered her as deckhands shoved and pulled, guiding the sub onto the rails set in the deck. Flanged wheels were inset into the lower hull, and once they engaged the track, a cable was attached to the hull, and the sub was winched forward along the track. Finally, three lines from deck cleats were attached to the hull on either side, and she was secured in place. Maintenance people — including PhD scientists — swarmed around her, popping open access hatches to the batteries and to the subsystems that needed recharging or checking. Within MVU, everybody performed all kinds of tasks.
Brande grasped Anderson around the waist and lifted her over the sail. She scampered away. He eased himself over, then slid down the surface of the hull to a scaffold that had been wheeled into place next to the sub. He worked his way down the aluminum-runged ladder.
Word came to meet him.
“Any idea about what Hampstead wanted, Jim?”
“No. He was uncharacteristically secretive, Dane.”
They both turned to watch as Dokey slipped under the bow of the sub and crawled toward the sheath that held Atlas in place. Minutes later, he came stumbling out from under the bow with the gold ingot cradled in his arms.
“This one’s mine,” he said.
“Bullshit!” yelled George Dawson from the Grade, which was tied alongside. “Get a saw and cut me off three- fourths of that!”
“Put it in the main lab, Okey,” Brande said. “Well want to examine it for any markings.”
Brande and Word followed Dokey forward and through the centered hatchway into the main lab. It took up most of the superstructure space on the main deck. Workbenches and test equipment were snugged against most of the bulkheads. Five computer terminals were tucked into the starboard, aft corner. The odor of chemicals was prominent. One of the battery rechargers made a humming sound.
Brande found his deck shoes where he had left them in a computer cubicle and bent over to pull them on.
Half a dozen people — marine biologists and scientists — gathered around Dokey as he gently settled his prize onto a workbench.
Brande and the research vessel’s captain continued through the lab, passed through an area of storage lockers and cabins — there were more cabins a deck down, in each of the catamaran hulls — and into the large, open lounge and wardroom area. Word got them both mugs of coffee while Brande settled into the last of four booths on the starboard side — opposite the galley — and picked up a phone mounted on the bulkhead. He directed the radio operator to call the Washington number on MVU’s secure satellite channel.
“Office of the undersecretary.”
There were so many undersecretaries in Washington, Brande had always wondered how a caller was to know if he had gotten the right one.
“This is Dane Brande, Angie.”
“Oh, Dane! I’ve got a message right here. Somewhere. Here we go. Mr. Hampstead is on his way to New Orleans.”
“Must not have been important then.”
“And he’s sent a Navy airplane to pick you up. You’ll be meeting at the U.S. Naval Air Station.”
“I take it back,” Brande said.
“What?”
“Nothing, Angie. Thanks for the information.”
Brande hung up the phone.
Word sat down opposite him in the booth. “What’s up?”
“I still don’t know. But I’ll be leaving soon” Brande gave him the gist of the message.
“We’re staying on-site?”
“Yes. You’ll need to select a couple people to replace Okey and me on the crew rotation.”
“That’s probably better anyway, Dane. Most CEOs don’t get involved in the muck.”
“Hell, Jim, I started this company so I could get down in the muck. Wouldn’t be any fun, otherwise.”
Word grinned at him. “Life isn’t supposed to be fun, Chief.”
Brande smiled back. “That’s what my grandma told me. I’m going to grab a shower. You want to tell Dokey to let go of his gold and get ready to fly?”
“He won’t like it, but I’ll tell him.”
Brande took his coffee mug with him, left the wardroom, and climbed the companionway to the bridge deck. Aft of the bridge were the sonar and radio cabins, then the captain’s, exec officer’s, and four small guest cabins. He refused to call them owner’s cabins, and since he owned the Gemini and her sister ship, the Orion, he figured he could call them what he wanted to call them.