The ship was encountering long swells. It rose and fell almost imperceptibly. It was a lulling movement, encouraging a nap, rather than administrative tasks.
The stack of paper was horrendous, even though some of it was organized into binders. Thomas would have preferred working on one of the computer terminals in the laboratory, but she needed data stored on the minicomputer in San Diego, and Kim was using the dedicated satellite channel for communications with the mini.
She had gone through all of the binders, which contained primarily the contracts entered into between MVU and private companies, the federal government and universities. She had filled the better part of a legal-sized yellow pad with her notes. Except for some details, she thought she was ready for action.
Brande came through the door, went on into the galley, and when he came back with a roast beef sandwich obscenely leaking ketchup, and a mug of coffee, she said, “Dane.”
He grinned at her. “My grandma…”
“I know. Sit down a minute, will you? You’ve been on the go all day.”
He plopped in the chair on her right. “Did you sleep all right? Your eyes look a little droopy.”
Whenever had he noticed her eyes before?
“Ingrid snores,” she said. “Did you know that?”
“No”
“I kept waking up.”
“You want a different roommate?”
“I’ll survive. Look, I’ve got some things we need to talk about.” She pulled her notepad close and leafed through the yellow pages, looking for the items she had starred as priorities.
“Shoot.” He took a bite out of his sandwich.
“First…”
“What did you decide about George Dawson’s project?” he interrupted.
Thomas sighed. “I sent Jim Word a telex, telling him to put another ten days into it.”
Brande smiled. “Wonderful. You’re going to work out better than I thought.”
“What did you think?”
“I was teasing you. I’ve had faith from Day One.”
“This is only Day Two,” she said.
“And you’re doing well.”
“Dawson gets no more than ten days.”
“All right.”
“Some people you and I both know have put ten years into looking for one wreck.”
“I know.”
“Ten days.”
“I agree.”
“Okay.” She tapped her forefinger under the first star on her notepad. “Did you know we’ve got people working for us without a contract? In fact, I find only seventeen personnel contracts.”
“Well, yeah. That’s just kind of how it worked out over time.”
“Oral contracts.”
“Yes. Some people just happened to be available when previous projects were completed or petered out, and I encouraged them to stay on.”
“That has to change. The company needs something more solid, and our employees are entitled to know what the conditions of employment are. Medical and life insurance and retirement benefits, all of it.”
“The payroll service takes care of those details,” he told her. “Do you know how much we’re paying that service?”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you know what medical and dental plans we offer?”
“Not exactly.”
“We need a personnel officer.”
“Personnel officers cost money, Rae. You don’t like to spend money”
“It might be cheaper than the service. Do you realize we don’t have any secretaries?”
“Well, everyone does their own typing and telephoning. That’s a savings, isn’t it?”
Thomas shook her head. “You’ve got all of this stuck away in your mind somewhere, don’t you?”
“More or less.”
“We put a lot of dollars into professional expertise. How much of their expensive time is being devoted to routine clerical duties?”
“That’s a point,” Brande admitted. “I’ve already been thinking about the things I can do, now that you’ve lifted this load off me.”
“And that’s another thing. I’m going to have to give up Harbor One.”
“Do you want to?” he asked.
That was one of the tough questions. When she thought about how much of herself she had put into the development, how much she loved seeing it come to life, she waffled.
“I don’t know.”
“I almost promoted Andy Colgate to Harbor One director. Then I remembered that it’s your decision.”
He was grinning again.
“You’re enjoying the hell out of this,” she accused.
“I am.ˮ
She set her mouth in what she hoped was a grim line and went to the next starred item. “The workboats.”
“I’m glad you reminded me. We need to up the budget a little there. Those guys don’t have enough to eat.”
She ignored that statement and said, “Now that the heavy transport requirements are over for Harbor One and Ocean Deep, we don’t need all three boats. The Mighty Moose is the oldest, and I think we should sell it.”
“Bull Kontas is over seventy years old, Rae. Where’s he going to find another job?”
“Oh, shit!”
Cmdr. Alfred Taylor stood on the bridge, within the sail of the Los Angeles, as she cruised on the surface at twenty knots. He drank in the cool briny air, which tasted tainted and fresh at the same time, a refreshing change from the manufactured atmosphere of the submarine.
The sea washed over the bow of the sub, miniature rainbows reflected in the white spume.
On his right, steaming on a parallel course a hundred yards away was the Philadelphia. Every once in a while, her captain and her executive officer would look over at Taylor and Garrison and grin. The grins were a little strained.
They were moving on the surface at reduced speed in order to give the Kane a chance to catch up with them. Their sister submarine, the Houston, had checked in by radio, but she was forty miles to the north and would rendezvous with the research ship later.
“We’re going to have some heavy weather in a couple days,” Garrison said.
“Intuition, Neil?”
“Met report. It won’t bother us, but it might play havoc with any surface ships.”
“Especially with research vessels deploying submersibles, you mean?”
“Especially those,” Garrison said.
Six minutes later, Garrison swung his binoculars astern, then steadied them with his elbows on the coaming of the sail. “We’ve got a ship bow-up on the horizon, Skipper.”
“Kane’s doing pretty well for an old lady,” Taylor said.
“I’ll have the dinghy put over,” Garrison said.
Forty minutes after that, Taylor left his boat and was transferred to the Kane by a sailor manning the fifty-horsepower outboard Johnson.
He and Cmdr. H.E. Elliot of the Philadelphia met with the research vessel’s captain in the wardroom, accepting mugs of hot coffee.
Capt. John Cartwright was almost sixty years old. His hair was struggling to hang onto an umber tint, but the gray was creeping in from his temples. With his aristocratic nose, straight-set lips and high forehead, he had a classical appearance.
Cartwright tossed his uniform cap at a sideboard. “Sit, gentlemen.”
They both found cushioned chairs around the green felt-covered table.
“If I were adamant about military protocol and courtesy,” Cartwright said, Iʼd have been a commodore some time ago. Iʼm not. Iʼm more interested in what I can find in the ocean depths, and so are the people I work with. So, if you find us less than formal, and care about it, you’re out of luck.”