“Thanks…I think,” said Holland.
“I’m making notes for talking points right now,” Wriston said, pecking away at his slate. His words and scribbles started to appear on everybody’s slates at the same time. “And we don’t respond to questions or speculation about the intelligence or the intentions of this species with anything other than ‘more research is needed.’”
“What about the Navy?” Lefbridge asked. “Any word from Loomis on his meetings with the Navy?”
Wriston shook his head. “Nothing yet. No response to Navy questions either. Leave that one alone.”
Holland rolled the species’ new name around her tongue. “Tursiops digitalis…don’t you think that just invites questions? Maybe we should be asking the Navy for help. There are plenty of rumors about what they might know.”
Wriston shook his head. “Josey, this is for the Institute to decide. You know that, as well as I do. Now, to the next expedition—”
“Two submersibles for this one,” Lyons blurted out. “I’ve been doing some thinking about this—”
“Really, you don’t say—“Lefbridge teased him.
Lyons ignored her. “No, really, two submersibles. Proteus is just coming out of drydock…she should be ready in about a week. New gadgets on her too, the latest stuff. That new spectrum analyzer’s the whiz. It’ll run circles around our older gear.”
“You said two submersibles.”
“Yeah, the other one should be Poseidon.”
“A manned ship? Is that safe?”
Lyons shrugged, called up some diagrams on his slate and ported them to everybody. “Hey, you don’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. Somebody’s got to go down and put eyes on those buggers.”
Holland took a breath. “I’ll go. I’d like to—”
But Wriston held up a hand. “Hold on, hold on a minute. We still have to run this by the Institute. Probably NSF too, if any grant money is used.”
Plath pointed in the air with a stylus. “I say we at least advise the Navy on what we’re doing. Don’t ask for their help or support but at least let ‘em know. We know they’ve got a lot of ships and probably subs in the area anyway. Alert the Feds but tell them we don’t want anyone to interfere with our next ‘interaction’ with what seems like both an intelligent and a fairly aggressive species.”
“Amen to that,” Lefbridge said.
Wriston finished his scribbled talking points and asked for comments. A few changes were made and everybody was satisfied. “Josey, you’re a vid star now. Would you do the honors? And keep it short…less than twenty minutes.”
Holland sucked in her breath. “Sure, Dr. Wriston. Beats talking to my daughter Hannah’s special ed class.”
Lyons couldn’t resist a final dig. “And comb that hair, would you? That lock over your right eyes will have the male reporters humping their chairs in two minutes.”
Maybe we should have sent you down there instead of Beagle, Holland thought.
The meeting adjourned.
The press conference went about as well as could be expected and, to no one’s surprise, Dr. Josey Holland handled the endless questions and the asinine speculations with aplomb and professional detachment.
She met Wriston in the Lab parking lot afterward. Holland was headed into town…Barnstable County school.
Wriston saw the look. “Meeting with the teachers again?”
“Yes, sir. Hannah’s been acting up. I may have to pull her out, arrange for full special ed curriculum now.” A cloud came over her face. “She really misses her father.”
Wriston was sympathetic. He knew Josey and her husband Stephen were in the midst of a pretty acrimonious divorce. “Whatever…you know we’re praying for you.”
“Sure…thanks, Dr. Wriston. Hey—” the department chief had started to pull away, but Holland grabbed his sleeve, then let go immediately, a bit embarrassed. “—about the new expedition. Poseidon and Proteus. I know you want me to oversee the data analysis on Beagle but I’d really like to be assigned to the crew. I’ve done Poseidon expeditions before…my quals are up to speed on submerged missions. Steve’s right…we really need to get knowledgeable eyes on these creatures, see what they’re all about.”
Wriston took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “Actually, that same thought had occurred to me, Josey, but I didn’t want to presume on your…you know, situation, with Hannah…and Stephen.”
“Thank you, sir. I think I can manage it. I mean, this is the professional chance of a lifetime, isn’t it? Jesus…intelligent marine creatures, with fingers no less, building cities on the seabed. It’s an important time, for all of us. For the Institute, too. Would you at least consider making me part of the crew?”
Wriston smiled. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll put in the recommendation to Ops and to Riley tomorrow morning, first thing. But you and I need to sit down and have a hard talk about what your role really will be. We can’t screw this up or Washington will have our heads.”
“Yes sir, of course. I completely agree.”
Wriston headed to his car, yanked open the door. “Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow…how about 11:30…Crab Shack, over by Oyster Pond.”
“It’s a deal, sir.”
Wriston got in, started up his auto-yota and the car pulled out of the Lab parking lot on its own.
Josey Holland rubbed her hands with anticipation. She could handle Stephen and his damnable lawyers just fine. She could handle Hannah’s outbursts and her frazzled teachers just fine too.
She was less sure about diving to two thousand feet aboard the coffin-size personnel sphere of Poseidon, even though she had just finished re-qualifying two months ago. It wasn’t so much claustrophobia…the medics had disabused her of that notion right from the start. It was more…well, what actually was it? Tons and tons of seawater pressing on every square inch of her little enclosure? Instant death seconds away? Nightmarish creatures with gaping jaws and razor teeth that reminded her of Sunday School depictions of Satan in the Garden of Eden?
Maybe it was just unease about the unknown…about what they would find on the floor of the mid-Atlantic Ocean a hundred miles northeast of the Bermuda Platform. She shook her head and headed back into the Lab, willing herself to stop seeing that last frozen frame of Beagle’s imagery, the one right before the creatures had attacked. The one where she could see the anger on their dolphin-like faces quite clearly…that and the spear-type weapons they were clutching.
Maybe the press and all their hyper-ventilation about a new civilization and Atlantis finally discovered were right. Stranger things had happened.
The Poseidon/Proteus expedition departed Woods Hole’s Challenger Docks at Little Harbor two weeks later, a bright, breezy early spring day in New England. Josey Holland was at the side railing just aft of Neptune’s bridgehouse when they cleared the channel markers at Nobska Point and headed out to sea through light surface chop.
Other crewmembers and scientists were stationed all around her on the deck, taking in their last view of land and the mega mansions dotting the Vineyard and the white shaft of the lighthouse, just nosing over the horizon. But the crew left Holland alone for it was clear to all that the marine biologist was deeply troubled by something and the long lines on her face showed it. Only a few of them knew that Dr. Josey Holland was right in the middle of a really messy divorce and had become increasingly worried about who would get custody of Hannah and Timmy.
Nobody dared voice what Holland herself was voicing in her own mind: I’m really am just running away from everything out here and there’s no denying it anymore.
Dr. Josey Holland Lifelogger Post:
I suppose I really can’t hide it from myself anymore…God knows I’ve tried. I hate to admit it but every time I look at the last images from that incident with Beagle—the one Plath and Lefbridge and everybody thinks was an attack—when I look at those faces, I see Stephen. The smirk, the sneer, the raised eyebrows that tell me he thinks he’s going to
win this contest…it just makes me scream.
Yesterday, just before we all met with Dr. Wriston, I got a ping on my slate…Stephen’s lawyers have filed a motion with the court. They’re petitioning to have custody of Timmy and Hannah taken away and awarded to Stephen…can you believe that? I mean, the nerve. Stephen’s got his job. He’s got all his clients. He’s got perks, an expense account, big office, fancy dinners with politicos all over the place. When you’re a lobbyist and a consultant, the world is yours. Arm twisting and schmoozing—that’s what he does best. He’s even doing it with the court now.
Me…I’m a scientist. I mean, look at me. I work in a lab, with marine animals. I wear a smock. I’m dirty all the time. The petition says I love my animals more than my children. Come on…really? I love Gracie and Mason and Penny and Ralph and Alice more than my kids…who would say that? Who would believe that?
I guess I have to think Stephen’s capable of getting anyone to believe anything…that is his job, after all.
Somewhere in all that legalese in the petition, I can hear Stephen’s snorky laugh: “She can’t love her own kids like they need because she spends all her time with whales and dolphins.” Beaks and flippers versus lips and bruised kneecaps.
The worst part is this expedition with Poseidon and Proteus, out to the site. The petition doesn’t say it in so many words, but I know Stephen…he’ll be in his lawyers’ ears whispering the trip is just more evidence…right in the midst of a custody battle, she goes to sea and cavorts with the fish. What does that say…huh?
What I fear most is this: there may actually be a little truth in what Stephen says. Hey, I’m not finished yet, but they’re calling me up on deck…abandon ship drill. Everybody has to muster topside. Got to go…but you know you haven’t heard the end of this.
The Pentagon
Office of the Chief of Naval Operations
Washington, D.C.
May 29, 2115
10:30 hours
Admiral Ray Davies shook hands with SecDef Jim Bergland outside the front doors of the CNO suite, while salutes snapped left and right. Davies grabbed Bergland by the arm and steered him past the oil portraits of Halsey and Nimitz and Dewey and Zumwalt and MacKenzie into office 4E2101, the CNO’s fourth-floor E-ring compound, gliding across the plush blue and gold carpet to an inner office that Davies liked to use for quiet meetings.
“I’ve got the vid footage up from Mackinac Island again, just to look for anything we might have missed before. POTUS will be here in half an hour, so I hear.”
Bergland allowed himself to be steered until Davies shut the door, then pulled free. The Secretary of Defense was a big, ruddy outdoorsy guy, with a booming voice and a crushing handshake. He was used to being in charge in this building.
“Has the President seen this before?” he asked. Flickering on screens all about the office, vid of the first meeting between Seomish immigrants and humans aboard the destroyer Mackinac Island was playing out inside that ship’s wardroom. The meeting had taken place in the middle of the Atlantic, only two weeks before, not far from Bermuda. The vid footage shot aboard Mackinac Island had been a closely kept secret ever since…that and later meetings at Fleet Forces Command Headquarters in Norfolk. Every second of it had been classified SCI Purple.
“Only snatches of it,” Davies admitted. He poured some tea for Bergland and some coffee for himself. “I want to show her the whole thing, before we get down to business. It’ll help focus her mind on what’s important.”
Bergland sipped at the steaming hot tea, wincing a bit. “And you think this is all some Russian plot? Or Chinese, maybe?”
Davies shrugged, sank back in his leather chair, which squeaked with the added weight too many years ashore had put on him. “I don’t know what to think, Jim, but I don’t see how it could be anything else. I met the characters in Norfolk and they seem legit, but…really…talking fish from outer space? Come on…I’m an old sailor and I’ve seen lots of strange things in my forty years at sea, but this tops all of it.”
Bergland strolled about the office, idly picking out books from the shelves…Halsey…The Influence of Sea Power…Full Steam Ahead…books and tablets stuck every which way in Davies’ bookcases. “You know the President will want recommendations.”
“And options…she always wants options. Here—” he handed the SecDef a slate with scribbles all over the screen. “Here’s my thinking right now…I’d like to know yours…before you know what hits the fan.”
Bergland sat himself down in a wing chair opposite the desk and scanned, mumbling to himself as he did so. “Hmmm…media coverage…the people at Woods Hole…national security site…surveillance options…more contacts…you been sleeping with this, Ray?” Bergland looked up and squinted at his CNO. He’d known Davies for decades, from the time he had been a pink-faced Lieutenant in the gunnery division of an old rattletrap tin can named Mobile. Davies didn’t scare easily. He was calm, resolute and didn’t flap around when the bullets started flying or the boilers started blowing up. But now…Bergland just shook his head. Watching Davies watch himself in the Norfolk footage was like watching your best friend look on at his own funeral. The man was whiter than snow.
“I haven’t slept much period the last few weeks,” Davies admitted. “It isn’t so much the career impact for me…I can live with what happens to me. It’s just that I don’t want to make a mistake. None of us do. This whole thing is either one of the greatest disinformation campaigns ever perpetrated or an intelligence windfall the likes of which we’ll never see again in our lifetimes.”
“Suppose you’re right…it is the Russians. Or the Chinese. Or both. Why go to all this trouble? What do they gain by this?”
“Disinformatsiya, Jim. Like I said. They’re trying to distract us from something else. Or cover up something else. Maybe they’ve made a discovery below the sea somewhere else…could be anything…and they want to steer us away from it. Hell, I don’t know. But that’s what we have to find out. That’s the tack I’d like to take with the President.”
Bergland looked right into Davies’ hard blue eyes. “What if we’re wrong? What if this isn’t a Russian plot? What if these—characters—” he indicated the footage of the Seomish on the screen, clad in their armored mobilitors, wheezing and shifting under the weight of all their gear inside the destroyer’s wardroom—“are just what they say they are? Creatures from some other place…I mean, that is possible, Ray. It’s not an impossibility.”
Davies folded his arms over a fruit salad of medals and ribbons covering the chest of his dark blue uniform. “Then…we’re in a whole new ball game, Jim. And nothing you and I know to be true, none of our lifetime of experience, means squat. A whole new book, full of blank pages…that’s what we’re facing.”
At that very moment, a short knock on the door came and a tall, lean lieutenant commander with a blond buzzcut peeked in. “The President is here, sir…just coming on board.”
Davies got up abruptly, as did Bergland, and brushed imaginary lint off his uniform. “Okay, thanks, Chad. We’ll be right out.”
The SecDef and the CNO went right out to greet POTUS.
Dr. LaTonya Kendrick had only been president for about six months and Davies never failed to be impressed by the physical stature and bearing of the woman, when she came into the office striding like a sleek cruiser knifing through calm waters into some exotic foreign port.
Kendrick was a tall and regal ebony-black woman of striking beauty and Cameroonian descent, with fierce warrior eyes and bristly conical hair, adorned by an ivory and bone hairpiece that rattled when she turned her head. She shook hands with Davies and Bergland and the three of them soon disappeared into Davies’ inner office.
The screens were still looping footage from Mackinac Island.
“Good morning, Madame President. Welcome to the crow’s nest.”
Kendrick blinked. “I’m sorry, Admiral…the crow’s nest?”
Davies smiled. “Yes, ma’am.
That’s what we call the CNO’s suite. It’s a nautical term…it means the lookout post, tallest point on the ship’s mast.”
“Lookout post…no doubt looking out for me, I would think.” She smiled faintly at her little joke.
Davies and Bergland forced a laugh in sympathy.
“Madame President, we have coffee, tea, cakes, anything you’d like.”
The President availed herself of a small cup of tea, which she poured herself. She noticed the vid screens. “Ah, yes, the first meeting with our space friends. May I—?” she picked out the wing chair Bergland had left his own slate on, which the SecDef hurriedly removed to make room. Kendrick studied the footage for several moments, saying little.
“I came here for answers, gentlemen,” she said, at last. “Recommendations on how we should approach this matter. My own national security team informed me this morning that the Woods Hole people have already sent another expedition to the…uh, site. M-1, is that what we’re calling it today?”
Davies nodded, “Yes, Madame President. Site M-1. One of our recommendations is for you…as Commander in Chief…to designate Site M-1 as a top-level national security site. Doing that gives us some options…pardon my language, ma’am, but also some additional legal cover to undertake certain surveillance and, if necessary, other missions.”
“Agreed,” the President decided. “Make the necessary arrangements and send the details to the White House. I’ll sign it today.”
“Yes, ma’am. At once—” Davies pecked out a quick order on his slate…the CNO’s commandpad and squirted off to his staff.
Kendrick studied the vid screens with a steely concentration, occasionally pursing her lips into a tight line, emphasizing her mango-colored lipstick choice that morning.
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