With no further talk, Lispenard turned away, and Gideon followed her through an open bulkhead door, down a circular metal staircase, and along a maze of cramped passageways, stairs, and hatches until—quite suddenly—they came out into a vast, gleaming space. Along the sides stood several bays, some covered with drop cloths, but four of which were open. Inside three of these were small, identical rounded vessels, painted bright yellow with turquoise trim. They sported a variety of thick portholes, along with various extruding bulges and projections and a kind of robotic arm set into the bows. The stern wall of the hangar contained a large door, which had been rolled open, exposing the ship’s fantail deck. A fourth vessel was visible there, under an A-frame crane.
Lispenard began humming “Yellow Submarine.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Gideon. “Very cute.”
“Twenty million dollars’ worth of cute. That one under the crane is George. The other three are Ringo, John, and Paul.”
“Oh, no.”
She walked through the hangar, stepped up to George, and placed her hand on it, giving it a little pat of affection. It was surprisingly small, no more than nine feet long and about seven feet high. She turned to Gideon. “Inside, there’s a titanium personnel sphere, almost a sub within a sub, with a hatch at the top and three viewports. There’s a panel of electronics, a seat, controls, videoscreens—and that’s about it. Oh, and there’s a receiving basket in front for the robot arm to place items in. If something should go wrong, there’s an emergency release that jettisons the sphere and sends it to the surface. The rest of the DSV is taken up with ballast tanks, a mercury trim tank, cameras, strobes and lights, sonar, a bank of batteries, a stern propulsion motor, propellers, and a rudder. Simple.” She shrugged. “Shakedown dive tomorrow.”
Gideon turned from George to her. “Great. Who’s going?”
She smiled. “You and me. Oh seven hundred.”
“Wait. You and me? You think I’m going to drive one of those? I’m no Captain Nemo.”
“They’re designed to be driven by anyone. They’re idiotproof.”
“Thank you very much.”
“What I mean is, they have self-driving software. Like a Google car, but controllable with a joystick. You just move the joystick indicating where you want to go, and the mini sub’s AI does the rest—making all the dozens of little adjustments necessary, avoiding obstacles, maneuvering through tight spaces, doing all the fine control without you even being aware of it. You can’t crash it even if you try.”
“Surely there are other people along for this joyride who have more experience with DSVs.”
“There are. Antonella Sax, for example, our exobiology chief. But she won’t be joining the ship for some time yet. Besides, Glinn said there was a reason you should get comfortable with operating a DSV. Something to do with your role in the overall mission.”
“He never mentioned I’d be driving a submarine. I don’t like being on the water, let alone in it—and two miles down, for Chrissakes.”
She peered at him with a half smile. “That’s strange. I didn’t take you for a wimp.”
“I am a wimp. I am most definitely, without doubt, a lily-livered, spineless, cowardly, gutless poltroon.”
“Poltroon? Nice word. But you’re going down with me tomorrow. End of discussion.”
Gideon gave her a stare. God, he was sick of bossy women. But there was no point in arguing with her for the moment; he would take it up with Glinn. “So what else is there to see around here?”
“There’s the various labs—they’re fantastic, you’ll see them soon enough—along with the mission-control room, a library, galley, dining room, lounge and game room, and crew quarters. Not to mention the engine room, machine shop, commissary, sick bay, and all the other shipboard necessities.” She checked her watch. “But now it’s time for dinner.”
“At five o’clock?”
“When breakfast is at oh five thirty, all the mealtimes are shifted.”
“Breakfast at five thirty?” This was another thing he’d take up with Glinn, this totally unnecessary nod to military discipline. “I hope to God this isn’t a dry ship.”
“Not now. It will be once we arrive on target. We’ve quite a long journey ahead of us.”
“How long?”
“Nine thousand nautical miles to the target site.”
It hadn’t occurred to Gideon there would be a long preliminary voyage before they even reached their goal. Of course, if he’d given it even a moment’s thought, he would have realized. What had Glinn said about the cruising speed of the ship? Twelve knots. Twelve nautical miles per hour, divided by nine thousand nautical miles—
“Thirty-two days,” said Alex.
Gideon groaned.
6
LET’S TAKE OUR drinks out on deck,” Gideon said to Alex Lispenard.
“Good idea.”
Gideon rose from the bar, trying to keep his second martini from slopping over the rim. The bar on the R/V Batavia, an alcove off the dining room, was small and spare but pleasing in a kind of nautical way. It sported a row of windows, presently looking over Great Harbor to the low-lying shores of Ram Island. After negotiating the low door, they emerged on deck. It was a faultless October evening, cool and deep, the golden light falling aslant the ship, the cries of seagulls in the distance.
Gideon took a good slug of the drink and leaned on the rail, Alex joining him. He was feeling good—very good, in fact: a total reversal from how he’d felt just two hours before. It was amazing what an excellent meal and a martini could do to one’s outlook on life.
“Think we’re going to get fed like that throughout the voyage?” Gideon asked.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been on a lot of research vessels and the food is always good. When you’re months at sea, bad food means bad morale. On a trip like this, food is the least of any expense, so you might as well stock the best. And in Vince Brancacci, we have one of the finest chefs afloat.”
“You mean that guy I saw in the white smock, with the laugh of a hyena and the build of a sumo wrestler?”
“That’s the one.”
Gideon took another slug and glanced at Alex, leaning on the rail, the breeze stirring her glossy brown hair, her upturned nose and agate eyes aimed at the blue sea horizon, her breasts just pressing into the rail.
He averted his eyes. As attractive as she was, there was no way—none—that he was going to get involved in a romance on a long voyage to the antipodes of the world.
She turned toward him. “So, what’s your history?”
“You haven’t been briefed?”
“The opposite of ‘briefed.’ Beyond asking me to familiarize you with the DSVs, Glinn was totally mysterious. I got the sense he wanted me to find everything out for myself.”
Gideon was relieved. This meant she knew nothing about his medical situation. “Where to begin? I started my professional career stealing art, then I got a job designing nuclear bombs.”
She laughed. “Naturally.”
“It’s true. I work at Los Alamos designing the high-explosive lenses used to implode the cores. I was part of the Stockpile Stewardship program, running computer simulations and tweaking those lenses to make sure the bombs would still go off after years of rotting in some nuclear vault somewhere. I’m, ah, on extended leave at present.”
“Wait…you’re not kidding?”
Gideon shook his head. His drink was disappointingly empty. He thought of going back for a third, but a little voice in his head told him that would not be a good idea.
“So you actually design nukes?”
“More or less. That’s why I’m on this voyage, in fact.”
“What do nuclear bombs have to do with this voyage?”
Gideon stared at her. She really hadn’t been briefed. He quickly backtracked. “It’s just that I’m an engineer with a knowledge of explosives—that’s all.”
“And you weren’t kidding about the art thief business, eithe
r?”
“No.”
“One question. Why?”
“I was poor, I needed money. And more important, I loved the pieces I stole, and I only stole from historical societies and museums that weren’t taking care of their collections, stuff that nobody saw anyway.”
“And I suppose that made it morally okay.”
This irritated Gideon. “No, it didn’t, and I’m not excusing myself. Just don’t expect me to grovel in guilt and self-reproach.”
A silence. He really might need that third drink now. Or maybe it was time to change the subject. “I also worked as a magician. Prestidigitator, to be precise.”
“You were a magician? So was I!”
Gideon stood up from the rail. He had heard this many times before: somebody who learned a few card tricks and then bestowed on themselves the hallowed title of magician. “So you can pull a coin from behind someone’s ear?”
Alex frowned and said nothing.
Gideon leaned back on the railing, realizing he’d offended her. “I was a professional,” he explained. “I went on stage, got paid well. I even developed some original tricks. Worked with live animals—rabbits and the like. I had a great trick with a six-foot python that would clear out half the audience.” He fiddled with his empty glass. “And I still keep my hand in—picking pockets for fun, that sort of thing. It’s like playing the violin: you have to keep practicing or your skills go to hell.”
“I see.”
“Turns out magical tricks and art thievery are, in fact, related fields.”
“I imagine they would be.”
Gideon had an idea. A really good idea. This would be amusing. He leaned toward her. “I’m going back in for another—can I bring you one?”
“Two’s my limit, but you go ahead. Bring me a glass of water, if you don’t mind.”
As he departed he brushed against her, casually, using the distracting touch to lift the wallet out of her open purse. Tucking it into his pocket with his own wallet, he went back inside and returned to the bar. “Another Hendrick’s on the rocks with a twist, and a glass of water, please.”
He watched as the bartender mixed the martini. Alex suddenly appeared next to him. “Getting a little chilly out there.” To his surprise, and more, she leaned against him. “Warm me up?”
He put his arm around her, feeling his heart accelerate. “How’s that?”
“Good. That’s fine, I’m warm now, thanks.” She shrugged off his light embrace.
Vaguely disappointed, he picked up his drink while she took her water, clumsily, spilling a little on herself.
“Drat.” She took a napkin and brushed the water off her blouse.
He sipped. “So what’s your history?”
“I grew up on the coast of Maine. My dad had an oyster farm and I helped him out. I basically grew up on the water. We grew ‘diver’ oysters, so I got my PADI open-water cert when I was ten, PADI wreck diving at fifteen, nitrox cert at sixteen, and then I got my certs in cavern, deep diver, ice diver, and the rest. I love the sea and everything under it. Majored in marine biology at USC, went on to get my PhD.”
“In what?”
“The benthic life of the Calypso Deep. That’s the deepest part of the Hellenic Trench, seventeen thousand feet.”
“Where is that, exactly?”
“The Mediterranean, west of the Peloponnesian Peninsula. I spent a lot of time on the R/V Atlantis over there, dove down on the Alvin—that was the first real DSV, actually.”
“Cruising off Greece—nice way to get a PhD.”
“I never feel more at home than when I’m on a ship.”
“Funny, because I never feel less at home. The sea makes me sick. Give me the high mountains of the West and a stream full of cutthroat trout any day.”
“You get seasick, I get altitude sickness.”
“Too bad,” said Gideon. “There goes my marriage proposal.”
The joke fell flat, and Alex sipped her water in the awkward silence that followed.
“And the magic thing? Do you still do that?” Gideon quickly asked.
She waved her hand. “I could never compete with you! It was just a little thing I did to amuse myself and my friends.”
“I’d be happy to teach you a few basics.”
She raised her eyes to him. “That would be wonderful.”
“Maybe we should go back to my quarters—if I can locate them, that is. I actually packed a few magic tricks. I’m sure with a little help you’d pick them up quickly.”
“Let’s go. I’ll show you the way to crew quarters.”
He finished his drink, pretended to slap his jeans. “Oops, forgot my wallet. Would you mind picking up the tab? I’ll get the next one.” He watched with a smile of anticipation as she delved into her purse for her wallet, knowing that she’d find it missing. To his vast surprise, she pulled it out and placed it on the bar.
“Wait…that’s your wallet?”
“Of course.” She took out a twenty and paid the tab.
Gideon reached for his pocket, and found her wallet was gone. His wallet was gone, as well.
“Oh, shit,” he said automatically, “I think I may have dropped something out on deck.” He rose from his stool and immediately fell flat on his face. Stupefied, he looked at his feet—only to find that his shoelaces had been tied together. He glanced up to see Alex laughing hilariously, holding his wallet in her hand—along with his wristwatch.
“So, Gideon,” she said between gusts of laughter. “About those basics?”
7
GIDEON FLUSHED FROM embarrassment. God, he felt like an idiot. He untied his shoes while Alex stood over him, not bothering to conceal her triumph. He stood up and dusted himself off. His embarrassment began to turn to something else as she handed him the wallet and wristwatch.
“You’re not angry?” she asked, recovering her composure.
He looked at her standing there, face aglow, agate eyes twinkling, long glossy hair in unruly coils over her tanned shoulders, breasts still heaving from the recent hilarity. Here she’d humiliated him—and what was his reaction? Overwhelming desire.
He averted his eyes and swallowed. “I guess I deserved it.” He glanced at the bartender but he was inscrutable, as if he’d seen nothing.
“You still want me to show you the crew quarters?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She turned and strode out of the bar and through the dining room while he followed. They navigated another maze of corridors and stairs—through a bulkhead hatch, and into a long narrow corridor with rooms on one side.
She stopped at a door and opened it. “The scientists have private rooms. This is mine.”
He followed her in. It was surprisingly spacious, with a queen-size bed, two portholes, built-in dresser, writing table with a laptop computer, mirror, walls painted cream-white.
“Here’s the bath.” She threw open another door to reveal a small bathroom with a third porthole.
“Very nice,” he said. “Quite the room for a…well, a scientist.”
She turned. “I’m not just a mini sub driver. I’m the mission’s head oceanographer, as I’m sure you know. I’ve been with EES for five years now.”
“Actually, I didn’t know. I haven’t really been briefed, either. How come I’ve never met you before?”
“You must know Glinn’s mania for compartmentalization.”
“And your position vis-à-vis Garza?”
“He’s an engineer; I’m a scientist. EES doesn’t have a normal corporate structure, as I’m sure you’ve realized. Things change from mission to mission.”
He nodded, watching her move around the room, smoothly and gracefully. She had a swimmer’s body, lithe and athletic. He had sworn, absolutely sworn, that he would not get into another romantic entanglement. Given the medical death sentence hanging over his head, it wasn’t fair, either to him or to the woman. But that was theoretical; she was real.
“What’s your room number?
” she asked.
“Two fourteen.”
“That’s at the end of the hall. Let’s check it out.” She headed out the door and he followed.
They went down the hall to the door marked 214. He took out the magnetic key card he’d been given when being processed earlier in the day, waved it at the lock, and the door clicked. He pushed it open and switched on the light—to be greeted by a luxurious, spacious cabin, with a row of portholes, a king-size bed, a sitting area with a sofa and two chairs, The floor was covered in thick cream-colored pile, the lighting soft and indirect. His luggage had already been placed in one corner, neatly arranged.
“Wow,” said Alex, stepping inside. “And what’s your position at EES to merit all this?”
“I don’t know. Slacker in chief?”
He followed her in and watched as she took a turn around the room, her hand stroking the quilted bedcovers, adjusting the lights. She opened the door to the bathroom. “A tub, no less!” Making herself quite at home, she next explored the sitting area, where there was a kitchen nook with a microwave oven, coffee machine, and small fridge. She opened the fridge. “And look—Veuve Clicquot!” She took out a split of champagne and waved it at him.
“Great, let’s open it and celebrate.”
She put it back, shut the fridge door firmly. “Two’s my limit, remember? And you’re already over yours. I need you clearheaded for tomorrow’s dive. And besides, I don’t drink champagne in strange men’s rooms.”
“Me? A strange man?”
“Art thief, nuke designer, magician—very strange.”
“We’ll enjoy it tomorrow evening, then. You and me.”
“We’ll be wiped out after our shakedown dive.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, I’d better be getting back to my quarters. I’ve got a lot of work to do before bedtime.”
He walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder as she turned to go. What was he doing? He knew that third drink was a mistake, but he wasn’t going to stop now. He felt his whole body aching with longing. She paused at his touch and he leaned toward her. But then she deftly ducked out from under his hand and stepped aside. “None of that, mister. Not on a ship. You know better.”
Beyond the Ice Limit Page 3