Sea Station Umbra Page 9

  “Whoa whoa whoa! Stop, Dave. You’re about to pull the tractor wheel off its axle. It’s tangled in the SeaPod’s cables. Looks like it’s gonna take a cutting torch to break it loose.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Bowman sighed, “My SeaPod’s starting to act up so I’m breaking off and heading back to the bay. You divers take one last look, make some mental notes of what you see and the follow me in. I’ll inform you when I dock and the turbulence settles.”

  “Roger that, Dave. Give us five,” Williams replied.

  Even though I had no visuals of the action outside I could see them in my mind through their intercom conversation. I knew Bowman was motoring back to the bay and Briscoe and Williams were inspecting the crash site in Exosuits looking like storm troopers probing an X-wing Starfighter crash site but I needed more information to follow their discoveries. It soon came just as I wished.

  “What’s that on the SeaPod’s hull, Briscoe? See it? Right below the big crack.”

  “Yeah. Looks like some form of writing maybe with a red grease marker. Symbols look Egyptian like stylistic hieroglyphics.”

  “We’ll take a look at them when we get the pod back in the bay later today. Now, for some reason my suit is prematurely losing power. I need to go in and check it. Ready to head back?” she asked.

  “You bet. My suit’s getting cold. I’m gonna need a whole pot of hot coffee to take this chill from my bones. After you.”

  “I’m buying,” she said.

  Their return to the pod bay mirrored their departure quick and silent. I guess I must have nodded off sitting there by the floor hatch waiting for them. Only when a voice over the intercom shouted, “Hey open up in there,” did I jolt awake with a green Flood Pod Bay button blinding my eyes.

  “Sorry guys. Coming.”

  After securing the SeaPod and Exosuits in their racks then clearing the pod bay, we followed Bowman to a large table in the Quad 3 Mess Hall. Across the back wall recessed behind a cafeteria style serving line appeared to be a kitchen of sorts but it was closed and dark. On left end of the tray-slide railings, a steaming urn of perking coffee invited us to partake and nobody refused.

  Bowman sat centered on one of many long dining tables visually searching the room for something. Occasionally he would sip from his coffee then look back at his tablet and type into its keyboard. Briscoe and Williams sat at the table’s end with me relating details of their dive. Nothing stood out as unusual other than the strange markings on the hull but after some discussion Lt. Williams remembered that they were the same as the hieroglyphs she saw on Lt. Dan Li’s empty Exosuit.

  The SeaPod had broken into three pieces: the central bubble and the port and starboard hulls held together by wiring and cables as if something had split it down the middle. Briscoe assured me that from the looks of the damage to the tractor base it was the impact that did it but Williams wasn’t so sure: Edwards was an expert SeaPod pilot and wouldn’t have made such a fatal error.

  She referred to the nearby Ivy console.

  “Ivy, how much time has Edwards logged in SeaPods?”

  “As a passenger or driver?” Ivy asked.

  “Driver.”

  “One moment, Susan Williams.”

  A soft purring sound, which I now related to her computation mode, filled the silence.

  “Over his five month tour of duty on station Captain Edwards has logged 304 hours in SeaPod 1, 396 hours in SeaPod 2, 105 hours in SeaPod 3 and 95 hours in SeaPod 4 for a total of 900 hours at the joystick. That averages to 5.96 hours per day over his tour. The highest of any driver on the second team. Does that answer your question Susan Williams?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Ivy.”

  “Why so many more hours logged in SeaPod 1 and 2?” I asked.

  “Oh, those are located in the front-facing bays on our bow. They’re simply closer to the work area when we stop at a new location. The rear-facing aft bays are used mainly when obstructions or malfunctions block the main ones.”

  She wrote something on a small notepad and then looked at us.

  “So see? I highly doubt that with his experience he would nosedive a SeaPod into the crawler base.”

  “You mean like you almost did, Lieutenant?” Briscoe asked grinning.

  Blushing, she took a swig of coffee and glared back at him.

  “Yes, Mr. Briscoe, like I almost did, but I didn’t say his crash wasn’t caused by a defective AutoDocker. He may not have known how to fix the problem like Marker did. I should have explained the fix to him before he took the pod out.” She dropped her head, sniffled and wiped her eyes.

  Trying to break her mood I whispered, “Hey, Lieutenant, what’s Bowman working on so intently?”

  She glanced his way then back at me and softly replied, “Probably today’s POD, our plan of the day. He posts it early every morning before the vault meeting at 1100 hours. It’ll be out in a few hours. Tells everyone their tasks for the day.”

  “Yep,” the Chief said, “Seen lots of ‘em. Never good news.”

  “Well I’m sure this one will focus on Edwards’s accident and its cause. And since we’re rather hard to reach by the NTSB and they don’t even know of our existence, Bowman will name a Go Team as they do and send them out. In this case, I expect your names will be on his short list. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

  “According to Admiral Greenfield, yes,” I answered, “But I should first learn the Exosuit before I go out don’t you think?”

  “No better time than the present,” Briscoe said rising from the table, his chair screeching over the floor. “Drink up your coffee and follow me back to Pod Bay 1.”

  As I stood to follow him Bowman looked up from his tablet and over at us.

  “Where are you gents headed? Up to your racks?”

  “No, but I wish,” Briscoe said, “I’m taking Marker down to the Exosuits and give him a ten-minute crash course on their use.”

  He chuckled.

  “Well, Mr. Briscoe, you could have chosen a better word to describe your intensive course but it’s good that you’re training him. You’ll both be going out at 1200 hours to survey, assess and recover the wreckage. Bring it back to Pod Bay 2. I’ll want to inspect it there.”

  Pausing he added, “Oh, you’ll need a cutting torch; I’ll have that ready and waiting in the docking bay for your departure. Now Lt. Williams will track you in a SeaPod for your recovery needs like towing, lifting, or moving big things around. It’s all in this POD.”

  I looked at my watch for the first time since they found the wreck and saw it was six-fifteen a.m. civilian time. A half-mile over our heads the sun would soon be rising above the eastern horizon, a sight I knew I couldn’t enjoy for another month.

  I hadn’t slept more than an hour in almost a day but this was what I expected: either balls-to-the-wall busy or twiddling-your-thumbs idle with no in-between. I knew I could sleep later and enjoy it better.

  “Let’s go, Chief,” I said.

  His ‘ten-minute crash course’ lasted most of three hours but in that time I had been locked in the suit twice almost gagging on the neoprene-permeated airflow, walked through the unflooded bay once and then spent thirty minutes floating and propelling around the flooded bay testing all the joints and seals. He never trusted me enough to open the bay door to the ocean fearing another accident but dousing the bay lights perfectly simulated the outside midnight zone. And as I expected in that simulation I found the suit’s forward floods crucial to seeing and finding anything; but just like driving a car at night with its headlights on I had to point myself toward where I wanted to see or go. I passed the course with ‘driving colors’ as he put it.

  We entered the Mess at 0930 hours to a half-empty room but the kitchen was still lighted and open. Aromas of eggs frying and bacon broiling lingered in the air. On the way to the serving line we passed a group of four crew members sitting together at one of a long table finishing their meals and another lone crew member sitting by hers
elf at a smaller four-top table. Her nametag read DEASON, JILL and her ID tag had a notch telling me she was part of the nuclear assessment team. Her flowing red hair, a cute freckled face, and a tight-fitting blue jumpsuit must have attracted Briscoe. He stopped at her table, pointed toward the tray line and asked:

  “Is that where we order?”

  I tried to suppress a snicker but couldn’t. I just hoped that she didn’t see through his ruse as I did. Shortly I learned that he was just being social, hating to see anybody eating alone and it worked.

  “Yes it is,” she answered smiling. She dropped her fork and swept her hand over the empty chairs.

  “Please join me with your trays. It’s always good to see new faces around here. We see so few.”

  “Interesting lady,” said Briscoe grabbing a tray entering the line. “Everyone seems so alone down here. Must be the tight security. Always watching over your shoulder. Two eggs over easy, two donuts, and four sausages, please.”

  “Or maybe a fear of the strange occurrences lately.” I said placing my tray behind his. “If someone’s creating them they’re still down here mingling with the staff. Who knows who will be next? A short stack of pancakes, lots of butter and two slices bacon. No eggs.”

  ”Welcome to my mess hall, gentlemen,” said the culinary specialist, a tall heavyset older man dressed in a blue chef’s coat and toque.

  He glanced at our ID badges then continued, “My name’s Chef Bill Saunders and I’ll be your chef while you’re at the station.” Pulling our orders from steam trays, he plated them and slid them to us under the sneeze guard.

  “It’s your day today. It’s bagless day.”

  “What’s that mean, Chef,” Briscoe asked grabbing utensils for his plate.

  “One day a week I cook all your meals in the kitchen. The other six… see those microwaves over there… I give you MREs in bags and you heat them up yourselves. Pretty good food and just as nutritious, but much easier on the pantry… and me.”

  “Oh? How big is your kitchen staff Chef,” I asked.

  “You’re looking at ‘em, Mr. Cross. It’s a pretty simple job except for bagless days when we run out of MREs and some damn Pacific storm hovers over us preventing a timely food drop. Then I have to make do with powdered foods and you don’t want to wish those on anyone… but they’re still nutritious.”

  “Thanks, Chef,” I said filling my cup from the coffee urn. “Hope I don’t have to stay that long.”

  I turned back, saw Briscoe seating himself at Deason’s table, and joined them.

  “So are you guys the troubleshooters that HQ sent down to calm our fears?” she asked as I sat.

  “That’s what they told us,” Briscoe answered forking a piece of yolky egg white into his mouth, “but we may have trouble keeping up with the boogie man; he’s already struck twice since we arrived last night.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard and I hate it when things go bump in the night.”

  She took a small bite of toast and continued, “That really shook me up. Sometimes I wish I’d taken a desk job pushing a pencil in some nuclear lab on shore.”

  “What’s your specialty, Ensign Deason? I see from your ID badge that you’re Navy.”

  “I’ve got one doctorate in nuclear physics and another in chemical oceanography. Seems to fit well with our mission. Basically I keep the nuclear sensors calibrated and honest ensuring that the data they report is really encroachment radiation from Fukushima and not spurious radiation from other sources.”

  “Like what?” Briscoe asked taking another bite.

  “Well, for example, when nuclear subs pass nearby or nuclear warheads are tested at sea; we occasionally find false positives in our data and must differentiate between them and our targeted data.”

  With my curiosity tweaked I asked, “How do you distinguish between the types of radiations?”

  “Isotopes. From the reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant. That meltdown released iodine-131, cesium-134 and cesium-137 into the Pacific. Cesium-134 is unique to the Daiichi incident while cesium-137 is produced by nuclear power plant effluents and underwater nuclear weapons testing.”

  Briscoe winked at me and asked, “Did you notice any unusual radiation activity during the end of March of this year?”

  She thought back twirling her hair in her finger.

  “Oh, hell yes. I remember now. We had the strangest event. The news said it was an underwater volcanic eruption several hundred miles south of us but it spewed out cesium-137 like crazy. Also shook the lab like a bell and disrupted our operations for days. How would you know of that?”

  “Oh, a little bird told us,” Briscoe answered, “but we’re not talking.”

  “More like a big bird: an osprey,” I winked back at him.

  Deason looked confused then smiled.

  “Well that’s obviously a private joke so I won’t pursue it further.”

  “So do we call you Dr. Deason or Ensign Deason? Which do you prefer?” I asked.

  “I prefer Jill. Now if you will excuse me,” she said referencing her POD, “I have to recalibrate the strontium-90 sensor, another of the Daiichi isotope probes. Took on a mound of whale dung last night from a cetacean passing overhead. Probably another damn sperm whale. Never a dull moment around here.”

  She stood and smiled at us.

  “Welcome aboard Discovery One, gentlemen. I hope you discover what’s happening down here before I have to ask for a transfer.” With that, she took her tray to the wash rack and left the room.

  “Hey she forgot her POD,” said the Chief.

  He picked it up and glanced at it then looked at his watch.

  “Holy crap, Marker, we’re supposed to be diving in two hours. It’s on the POD.”

  I took it from him wanting to see for myself; my memory’s better with visuals than words.

  “And we’re supposed to be in a Vault meeting in an hour in Quad 4. Better chow down on those donuts, Chief. Clock’s ticking.”

  Abruptly he stood and grabbed his mug.

  “Want another cup?”

  “Sure might as well decrease my buoyancy a little.”

  Returning he handed me mine, sat and then sipped from his.

  “Love this coffee,” he said, “At least I’m not condemned to hell with bad coffee.”

  “Spoken like a true CHP patrolman,” I retorted laughing at his comment.

  After a slug, he looked around the room then hunched over the table toward me and in a hushed tone asked, “So what do you think so far, Marker? See anything we can fix?”

  “Not yet but if I did I’m not sure how we could fix it. Make some voodoo dolls and stick pins in them?”

  “Have you dug to the bottom of your kitbag since we got here? I mean to the bottom bottom?”

  “Not yet, Chief. Haven’t had time. Found a toothbrush and toothpaste but there was still something heavy further down. Know what it is?”

  “Yeah. I assume you got one too. It’s a tiny Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter Shield pistol. Really nice sidearm. Weighs about a pound in my hand, fits in my pocket, and holds eight rounds which are already in the clip ready to fire.”

  “Wow! Think we’re going to need them? What if we miss and hit the dome? That could end us all.”

  “They supplied them with laser sights, Marker, so you’d have to be blind to hit the dome. Beats anything I ever carried on the force. They’re easily concealable and small; we should probably start carrying them with us.”

  “But why? Nobody’s after us.”

  “Yet,” he said, “But what about the AutoDock failure? That could have killed us if you hadn’t reset the controller.”

  “Possibly. We’ll have to examine the control unit and see if it’s been sabotaged. Someone down here should know how to tell.”

  “Unless it was Edwards. Then we’ll have to learn how, ourselves. Think you can do it, Marker?”

  “Uh yeah, probably with Ivy’s help.”

  As we
sat finishing our coffee, we felt a sharp bump. Not strong enough to spill our cups, but more like driving over a hump in the road; yet we were not moving.

  “What in the hell was that?” I asked reflecting Briscoe’s widened eyes.

  “Oh, probably ran over an armadillo or something,” he said with a snicker.

  Not laughing I called out.

  “Chef Saunders, did you feel that? What was it?”

  From the kitchen came his answer.

  “Don’t worry; we get those bumps quite often down here. Whales diving this deep love to rub against things larger than them. Knocks off the whale lice and barnacles. That was probably one of them. Smaller one at that. Maybe a calf. The big ones often knock over the tray stack and rearrange the chairs.”

  “Thanks Chef, that’s comforting information,” said the Chief.

  I glanced at my watch and saw we had twenty minutes to find the vault room before the meeting started.

  “We better get on the road, Chief.”

  He upended his mug and exhaled deeply.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. I’m following you.”

  Chapter 11. The Vault

  I had found navigating through Discovery One to be very intuitive thanks to Bowman’s design. First, we headed out of the mess toward the narrow part of the quad, stepped through the hatch door into the core chamber, then circled until we found the Quad 4 entry door. Each quad had a unique entrance and Quad 4 was no different. Its entry hall was a severely truncated wedge of a room with two large blank video screens on opposing walls, a heavy gleaming vault door in the far wall about ten feet across, and an Ivy console beside the door. Six small chairs were distributed around the walls. To the right of Ivy was a rack of fourteen lockers with cipher locks and names on the doors. Wondering why they were there, I noticed a sign above the lockers: PLACE ALL PERSONALS IN YOUR LOCKER BEFORE ENTERING.

  Briscoe was already standing in front of one labeled BRISCOE when I heard the keys beeping.

  “What are you entering?” I asked.

  “It says to enter your ID#. Mine’s SSUMJB36Z. I’m entering it.”