Sea Station Umbra

by JOHN PAUL CATER

  The Admiral carefully surveyed the panels as I watched then began counting from the rightmost panel three boxes to the left and up three from the floor. His finger landed on a panel shoulder high that mimicked the others even to the finger-hole opening latch. He pushed his finger through and pulled it open.

  Rather than breaker switches inside, it had a single gray metal panel with a small speaker a numerical keypad and an optical sensor resembling a large bloodshot eyeball with a glowing red center. Suddenly I wanted to say, “Open the pod bay door, Hal” but resisted not knowing the Admiral’s familiarity with that movie.

  “Look into the red scanner with your right eye,” he commanded reaching for the key panel.

  I bent down and looked into the device expecting a bright flash or something more mysterious. Nothing happened until I felt his wrist graze my face punching numbers into the keypad.

  “There,” he said, “Now back off and let me get there.”

  He nudged me aside and stared into the sensor eye.

  “Ivy, this is Admiral Sam Greenfield, ID number SSUSJG22Z. Register previous scan as authorized entry for Umbra.”

  A sexy and slightly robotic female voice responded from the small speaker:

  “As you wish, Admiral Greenfield. Please log voice recognition entry for the previous scan.”

  During her response, I noticed the red eye began to dim and brighten with a slow rhythmic almost hypnotic motion. Then I noticed it was synchronized with my breathing. When I drew in air, it brightened then dimmed as I exhaled. Ivy was tracking my respiration activity.

  I continued to stare in curious almost frightened amazement as the intricate login process continued not knowing what was yet to come.

  “Stand here and say ‘Hello Ivy’ in your normal voice,” he said then moved me to the center of the panel and pressed a few more keys.

  “Hello Ivy,” I said.

  “Hello. Please state your full name with rank or civilian status,” she requested.

  I looked questioningly at the Admiral and he nodded for me to continue.

  “Matthew Marker Cross, civilian,” I said.

  “Admiral Greenfield, what clearance level of Umbra access should I grant for Matthew Cross?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment then responded, “Umbra Z.”

  “Understood. Matthew Marker Cross civilian rank will now have Z-access privileges to the building and Sea Station Umbra. His assigned ID is SSU-MMC-37Z. Please claim his badge at the building’s main desk.”

  “Thank you, Ivy,” he said then looked at me. “Got that Cross? Your project ID is SSUMMC37Z. Memorize it. Do not ever write it down. That ID or your voiceprint will allow you access to anything Umbra after I’m gone.”

  I nodded my understanding wanting to ask questions but they could wait; I now had access to something unknown to me, an enigma in my orderly world. I could get in but into what?

  Greenfield redirected his attention to the panel.

  “Now unlock the passageway for two personnel: me and Mr. Cross.”

  “The tunnel is now unlocked, Admiral Greenfield. Please watch your step. Ivy out.”

  With that, he closed the ID panel turned to the next wall of breaker panels and pulled a small handle at the top. To my amazement, the entire wall pivoted out toward us like a door revealing a steep concrete stairwell into a poorly lighted space below.

  “Down here,” he said. “Careful. There’s a handrail on your right.”

  Chapter 7. The ‘Building’

  Two minutes had passed when we exited the long dimly lit tunnel and stepped into a large busy room. Brightly lighted by rows of overhead fluorescents it was obviously below ground level because there had been no ‘up’ stairwell. The room was large about the size of the Quonset hut above us by my estimation. It resembled a fallout basement constructed of white-washed cinder block walls and at the far end was another stairwell apparently to the upper level of the ‘building.’

  My eyes had to adapt before I realized the walls were plastered with Fukushima Disaster posters: one showed a glowing trefoil radioactivity symbol centered over a map of Fukushima while another stated in large letters: JAPAN – IT’S OUR PROBLEM NOW then on yet another a green glowing cow spoke in a surrounding bubble text: “Got Radiation?” I had to stop reading before I laughed inappropriately.

  On the broad wall at the end of the room was a giant map of the Pacific Ocean between Japan and the U.S. showing winding flat-colored balloon-shaped regions approaching our western shores. The posters and the lack of windows gave me an uncomfortable feeling but I had never been claustrophobic before. It must have been the cold penetrating silence of the room. I estimated twenty uniformed and street-clothed workers sitting quietly under the posters scanning data screens at computer workstations not noticing our entry.

  As I followed him through the room passing desk after desk of what appeared to be data analysts, staring at rapidly scrolling data, several of them looked up, acknowledged the Admiral, and then returned to their data. Approaching the stairs, he motioned me upward so I followed the steps leading to the top floor.

  At the top of the stairwell, a closed door awaited me. A large sign: Z ACCESS ONLY PAST THIS POINT blocked my progress.

  “You know what to do now, Mr. Cross. There’s Ivy.”

  Like a deer caught in oncoming headlights, I froze and looked back at him. He pointed to the glowing lens on the right side of the door.

  “There. Look into her eye and make her swoon.”

  Attempting humor, I looked into the lens and said, “Hello Ivy. You make my heart go pitty-pat.”

  After her mechanical laughter (and mine) died down she said, “I highly doubt that Matt Cross your heart rate has not changed since you topped the stairs.”

  The eye began to pulse faster now about once per second. It took only three cycles for me to grasp its meaning and reach my hand to my carotid artery expecting the fourth to match. It did bringing a question to mind.

  “How does she do that, Admiral?” I asked.

  Still standing behind me on the stoop he answered, “Simple distal pulse oximetry just like the one for your fingertip but with a telescope,” he answered. “She’s monitoring all personnel in the building for stress or physical duress… and most importantly life signs.”

  Sighing impatiently, he motioned to the eye.

  “Go on ask her for entry, Matt, you’re cleared. Let’s go.”

  She was still PFM to me but I tried anyway.

  “Ivy, please open the door.”

  “As you wish, Matt Cross, but I can only unlock the door; you’ll need to open it yourself,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Greenfield chuckled.

  “There you go, Matt. The virtual assistant with an attitude.”

  “Is she always that sarcastic?” I asked.

  “No sometimes she’s worse,” he snickered. “Push the damn door.”

  The new world I had entered was becoming stranger by the minute as the door swung back revealing a copper-walled room with no windows, racks and racks of large computer mainframes and ten uniformed operators each manning three video screens. They all turned toward us as the door opened and draped their monitors with black cloth-looking covers. Behind them on the longer wall was a huge map of the Pacific Ocean like the one downstairs but this map had a myriad of colored thin lines crisscrossing the ocean between The U.S. and Asia. At its top, a legend blazed Transpacific Submarine Cable Network.

  “At ease, men,” Greenfield chopped. “This is Matt Cross our new DSV diver on the SSU team. Cleared for Z. Ex-Navy but as good as any we have on active duty. Tomorrow he will descend to the station and attempt to solve our problem.”

  Smiling and nodding, they lightly applauded.

  As he spoke, an ensign approached from a nearby console and handed me what appeared to be an ID badge.

  “Here, Mr. Cross, you’ll be needing this,” he said. “Fresh off the Ivy press.”

  “Thank you, Ensign... Bailer,
” I replied reading his nametag. I glanced at the badge and noticed it was a photo of me taken only minutes before in the electrical room; it showed me wearing the same shirt I was wearing at my introduction to Ivy.

  “Much better than a driver’s license photo,” I said. “I’m beginning to like this Ivy gal. She’s efficient and quite a good photographer too.”

  Smiling, the Admiral nodded to me.

  “She can be an effective agent as well. Even to the point of saving your life in dangerous situations.”

  I smiled back at him wondering what he meant.

  “How so,” I asked.

  “Oh you’ll find out for yourself. But before we start your briefing we need the other half of Operation Deep Force: your new partner Briscoe.”

  “Mica Briscoe?” I asked him. My heart raced at the thought of seeing him alive again. Last time I saw the Chief he had been diagnosed with a stomach tumor from eating a highly radioactive donut and I never heard the outcome.

  “He’s alive?”

  “Yes very much so, Mr. Cross. Headquarters recommended him to us with the highest credentials. He was once a SeaCrawler diver and instructor at this base. Close ties to the project. So we brought him in and indoctrinated him into Umbra a few days ago after waiting several weeks for his recovery from stomach surgery. They did successfully remove the tumor but we all had trouble believing his story about the radioactive donut.”

  “Well that really happened, but where is he?” I asked scanning the room for his face.

  “On his way up. He’s walking through the A room right now,” an ensign answered. “Ivy shows him at the bottom of the stairway starting up.”

  Greenfield smiling, looked at me and commented, “Biometric tracking. She does that too. You’ll get used to it.”

  Behind us, the door opened with a loud buzz followed by Ivy’s soft voice from overhead speakers.

  “Mica Briscoe entering. Access authorized.”

  As he entered the room I noticed the same video-screen-covering activity that followed our entry and wondered why all the secrecy for already cleared individuals. I later learned that the compartmented Umbra clearance had many facets and our clearances although Z did not cover them all.

  His voice rang out through the room as he approached.

  “Hey, Marker, it’s about time you showed up, you slacker.” Grinning he rushed up ignored my extended hand and hugged me; something I didn’t expect but didn’t mind either. He was my lifelong mentor my surrogate father and most importantly the only other person in my life besides my wife who I considered family.

  “Hey Chief,” I smiled to him, “Damn you look good. How do you feel?” I wasn’t lying either. He looked much healthier than the last time I saw him ailing from that tumor.

  “Well, Marker, I feel great even though my wife and I are supposed to be relaxing by Big Bear Lake with you and Lindy right now sipping on fancy cocktails.”

  I looked down wanting to die. I had promised him that I would treat them to a weeklong vacation in Big Bear. Sadly, I realized that I had just been too preoccupied to make the reservations before the Admiral snagged me into his intricate web of brewing mysteries.

  “Well, Chief, look on the bright side,” I said. “At least we’ll be able to work together on this operation and be an awesome team as usual. Right? What could be better?”

  Straight-faced he looked at me and answered, “A week in Big Bear sipping on fancy cocktails.” The sly smile that punctuated his comment told me that he was as eager as I was to join forces again.

  Looming behind us, the Admiral put a hand on our shoulders and interrupted.

  “Gentlemen, I hate to break up this reunion but if I could have a moment of your time I’d like you to join me at the reading table. I need to brief you on your mission and be off back to Florida. I’ve got a plane waiting.”

  He led us to a small four-seat table in a corner of the room by a large document vault. As the Chief and I sat, I looked around and noticed that several wall-mounted cameras surrounded us with signs below them warning DO NOT WRITE – MEMORIZE.

  “Give me a moment to pull some documents,” he said walking to the vault. Covering with his left hand, he twisted with his right a combination lock various ways then pulled a handle freeing a massive door. His finger traveled over stacks of files until he found for what he searched. Quickly he pulled a folder and sat with us at the table laying it out before us. Then reading from it, he began the briefing.

  Chapter 8. Briefing for Z

  “This briefing is classified Top Secret Umbra Z. You have both been granted special clearance after an extensive background investigation as we delved into your pasts assuring your allegiance to your country and its allies. We found no improprieties in either of your cases. Now you will not disclose or discuss what I am about to tell you with any person not authorized for Umbra Z access.

  “Extending beyond Umbra are two compartmented accesses: A and Z. You are among only thirty-seven individuals in existence today that have access to both. Seventy-five other individuals only have access to Umbra-A material and information but are unaware that a higher level exists. You may not divulge to them anything higher that their access level A.”

  He cleared his throat looked at us and continued without reference to the folder.

  “Now guys while that may seem rather abstract without further details let me put it in more concrete terms for you. There exists off the coast of California, halfway to Hawaii, a thousand meters down, a manned undersea laboratory named Sea Station Umbra. Twelve researchers and divers with eight support crew are stationed there on revolving six-month tours of duty. Seven of them have Umbra-A clearances, five have Umbra-Z, and the support crew has just basic Umbra. Its disclosed mission under codeword A is to monitor encroaching radiation in the Pacific Ocean from the Fukushima Daiichi Reactor disaster in 2011. The knowledge of that mission requires either the A or Z compartment access.

  “Now listen very closely,” he said leaning in toward us, “There is a second covert codeword Z mission of the Sea Station which requires the Z-compartmented access. That’s happening is this upper room surrounding us. We support the Z-arm of the station while the room below supports the A-arm. Simple but complicated. The Z compartment is all-inclusive while the A compartment is limited to radiation collection. You may walk freely through this room and the one below us but they are not allowed up here. The radiation-collection mission is a deceptive cover for the station so that we have a respectable reason for being there.

  From my left Briscoe interrupted, “Does this have anything to do with Poseidon’s Palace? That place existed when I was instructing my SeaCrawler classes. We were always told to avoid the area around it.”

  “Yes. Poseidon’s Palace was the originator: the creator of Sea Station Umbra. It was a huge deep-sea construction site where they assembled the station from modules dropped to the depths from giant ships, floating above, disguised as cable repair ships. Six years and six-hundred-thousand man hours later Discovery One was commissioned late last year.”

  “Wait,” I interrupted trying to keep all the information straight in my mind, “Is Discovery One really Sea Station Umbra?”

  “Yes, Matt, that’s its unclassified nickname so dubbed by its architect David Bowman a name you may remember from the past that once commanded another, fictional, Discovery One.”

  “Kubrick’s brainchild in 2001: A Space Odyssey?” Briscoe added.

  “Exactly. And it’s a pretty fair analogy too. The original ship was sent forward to Jupiter to explore the depths of space and discover its secrets. The new Discovery One was created to crawl the depths of the ocean reporting back secrets passing through the transcontinental cables between the U.S. and Asia specifically those from China and Japan.”

  “The station crawls?” I asked not expecting that word; it was too incredulous for me to believe.

  The Chief obviously also confused at this point added, “Is this the culmination of the SeaCrawler
program?”

  Greenfield paused and then continued.

  “Yes and no. It’s an offshoot of that program: the SeaCrawler divers with their DSVs are still searching for missing missiles their warheads and downed aircraft but they are not enough. We needed a permanent presence on the ocean floor that could collect more than a few hours’ worth of data at a time. Thus arose Sea Station Umbra.”

  “What’s it like? Briscoe asked, “I just can’t comprehend what I’m hearing: a crawling sea station.”

  He pulled a spec sheet from the folder titled Sea Station Umbra (TOP SECRET SCI UMBRA-Z (NOFORN)) and held it up for us to see. [You too can view it by touching the link.]

  “This sheet classified Umbra-Z describes the Discovery One in great detail. Visually it looks like a monstrous sea urchin without spines or a giant basalt boulder. But it’s really a spherical dome camouflaged to resemble the benthic region beneath and around it. A hundred feet in diameter at its widest circumference it rests on a massive tractor base one-hundred feet long by one-hundred feet across. Twenty large geared electric motors, each powering one of twenty wheels, provide propulsion up to a half-mile per hour. It rides on the ocean floor like a car. Independent suspension of each wheel ensures a smooth level ride. Drives like a dream too. The technology came from the lunar rovers and Saturn-rocket crawler transporters of past space programs. Its estimated total weight is one-hundred and ninety-two tons. For power a Westinghouse AP100 nuclear reactor tucked safely away in the tractor base provides a hundred megawatts for the crawler motors and the station’s needs.”

  He looked up from the sheet.

  “Shall I go on?”

  In unison, we answered, “Please.”

  “The dome has four decks. The larger first deck with five-thousand-plus square feet provides room for the main living and working areas, a galley and a mess hall, research workstations for fourteen scientists and air locks for the docking bays below on the tractor’s mechanical floor. A second smaller deck with thirty-five-hundred square feet sleeps fourteen in ship’s style quarters including two for visitors, has restrooms with showers and a rec hall with a sixty-inch DVD based entertainment center. Unfortunately there is no cable-TV down there it’s BYODVDs. The third deck bunks eight support crew with a small rec hall and two heads and the forth one nearing the top of the dome is smaller and is used mainly for storage.”