Jennifer and Susan ran out the door. Slowly against the storm, they made their way to the module at the stern of the ship. They looked back. Hodges followed. He was a big man. Yet he ran with grace and ease, like a gazelle skipping o’er water-wave mountains. Jennifer knew men. She knew this one had been around the block a few times, a good man to have in their situation. It seemed Susan had looked at him in, no, surely she was imagining it.
In spite of it all, Jennifer smiled. Susan could not see it. She was going underwater with her design after all. Susan tripped. She fell against the bulwark amidships. Jennifer started back for her. In an instant Hodges knelt at her side.
He helped her up. She leaned against him. Jennifer suddenly knew her insight had been correct. Well, she had waited a long time for her mentor-colleague to …
“Slippery even for an old salt,” Hodges said.
“Right,” Jennifer said.
“I’m all right,” Susan said.
Right, Jennifer thought, knowing what the problem truly was. The group made its way to the steps leading to the module. Only Hodges had seen Delores engage the ship’s intercom mike and heard her command before he had dashed out after the two scientists.
“Engine Room. Reduce all one-half.”
“All one-half aye.” The voice came back loud and clear. “Steady as she goes.”
“Steady as she goes, aye.”
“Wells.”
“Aye Commander. Course coordinates plotted.”
“Very good, Wells. Those should be, wait, I think a bit of an adjustment here; try that. Good. There we are. That should be right.”
In the Ex-Gee, the three occupants engaged a small switchgear and a buss. Reading orally, repeating, and following the numbered directives in their operations manual, they quickly pressed a series of buttons in their appropriate sequences. The generator snapped into a low, comfortable hum. The ship shivered for a moment, accompanied by a high pitch complaint. Then she calmed to a velvet purr.
“She’s anxious to go,” Jennifer said. She knew Susan disliked her awarding inanimate objects anthropomorphic identities and characteristics. Still, Jennifer had a mystical edge to her. She had a favorite writer who always had one of his characters state that everything, God-made or human-made, once it has shape and form and is complete has sentience.
“Where should I—” Hodges began.
“There,” Susan said. “In the lower chair. We need someone to work the aft view.”
“Checklist three: Ship Release checklist,” Jennifer said.
“Proceed,” Susan said.
“Fuse Buss 1-2 connected to 2-3. Switch to on. Push-button indicator will show green.”
“Fuse Buss 1-2 connected.”
Seamless, she sailed like silk in the depths of the sea beneath the waves. In the depths of the sea, as though, long lost, she had come home, she glided. Later, Jennifer would compare her maiden voyage to a lost petal of a flower washing ever so slowly down a clear sparkling creek bed. She glided this way and that, almost like a manta ray. Indeed, in a dreamy moment, it appeared those strange bat wings undulated like a ray’s, gently displacing the water all around them. Jennifer had the sense once that they were comfortable free and floating in a new amniotic sac, gaping in wonder down a yet darkened channel. Only in reverse, she realized, for the light dimmed as deeper they fell away.
For a short time, the storm so violent it churned the waters several meters below the surface, the doughty little vessel shuddered, as an aircraft entering turbulence. Then they were well below it and entered the great silence of the deep sea. Deeptide embraced them – as if, it seemed, lovingly.
Getting off was not as bad as they had predicted. All instruments had sprung to light as they proceeded through their launching and operations checklists. They had to wait a few moments for the angle of the Starr to be right, then Hodges set the sequence in. They waited a tense twenty-eight seconds for batteries activated sequence charge and the command signal to the devices to be generated.
Jennifer remembered those windmills at old miniature golf courses; one had to plan ahead some seconds to ensure the sufficient opening for her ball to roll through and not be blocked. Jennifer liked miniature golf. She had not played in a long time. The new courses did not seem to have the windmills any more …
Then, the flashes of red and yellow sparks illuminated their window panes against the lightening strikes now close but still beyond.
They felt the ship shudder. Suddenly, they found themselves roiling beneath the high waves of the ocean. In haste, to prevent her being buffeted about, they adjusted their ballast as any crew would adjust that of any submarine. Considerably smaller they, they sank beneath the waves much sooner.
Soon enough, they entered the deep calm joy of drifting silence.
“We’ll go slow,” Susan said. “We need to make sure everything operates OK. This storm may be a blessing in disguise. We can use this as a dry run check. Pardon the pun.”
Trapped fathoms beneath the sea, Jennifer had to tolerate not only the old cliché, but that damn girlish, nerd-scientist giggle. She glanced at Hodges. Incredibly, he seemed almost besotted. Music to his ears. In silent retaliation, she made up her own bad pun, keeping it to herself. Water on the brain.
“Monitor all warning lights and gauges,” Susan said.
They gazed at the various panels and consoles. The indicator lights lit in their appropriate sequences as they had trained to regard them, as Barnstone’s engineers (or the Navy’s engineers) had designed them, following the concept of Susan’s and Jennifer’s overall design schematics.
“Operations array.”
“Navigational array.”
“Guidance system aligned.”
“All systems normal,” Hodges said. The women noticed he had paused prior to acknowledging the weapons systems control panel. “We’re a go.”
“All normal here,” Jennifer said. There was a pause. Susan continued. Before she completed her sentence, Jennifer interrupted her mentor.
“Well, as the Commander said, ‘Steady as she goes.’ We’ll follow the high S curve, to check our pressure at each level on the sine co-efficie—.”
“Oh my God.”
“Jennifer, what is it?”
“Ms. Littleton?”
“We’re, we’re not far, 20 kilometers and 26,000 fathoms from the site.”
It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. Susan double checked the navigation data base that had been entered from the satellite data and the data from the scientists’ initial discovery.
“She’s right. You’re right. We can—”
“Wait,” Hodges said. “You’re talking five miles deep. What kind of valley rift is that? No one has ever … (here he sighed; then he continued) besides, we need to propel this vessel in the opposite direction. I have to link up with the commander at Standhope. And we need to conserve energy.”
“Just a minute,” Susan said. She calculated distances and reactor output ratios. Jennifer knew she already verified what she had figured in her head.
“At this distance, and with the storm not abated we can run a fly-by, and have plenty of energy to reach Standhope, perhaps even a few minutes before the Starr.”
The two women looked at the military man. He peered through his aft window now, turned away from them. They turned to look at him. Four female eyes gazing at him. What chance did he have? The whales sounded about 500 yards away. Still they headed down. They were already at 5,000 fathoms, a mile or so below the surface. Soon the humans would have to close off visual for pressure. He checked his instruments. There was a slight pressure variation in one of the gauges. Nothing major. Besides, they could always turn about.
“It’s for security, Hodges,” Jennifer said.
“What’s that?”
“We won’t be surprised next time out. Down.
We’ll know what to expect.”
“Are you certain your numbers?”
“Yes. Positive. That’s aff-affirmative. Plus or minus two per cent. Parameters negligible and acceptable.”
“All right. But just a quick look-see from a safe distance. Long distance eyeball and out. Set new coordinates. I have a feeling we simply need to follow our whale buddies.”
“Wow,” Jennifer said, seeing the pod still sounding, still heading down. Then they closed the pressure windows to rely on instrumentation, for now they approached well over a mile in depth.
“Steady as she goes.” Jennifer smiled. Susan was finding she liked the military and nautical expressions.
They entered the deep depths of the sea, where, only decades ago, no one knew what to expect.
“Switching on outside lights and cams,” Jennifer said.
They gazed, captivated at the screens. At once bizarre eel-like and bloated spine fish creatures passed before their view. Down they spiraled, following the line of descent as a signal along an optic fiber. The lights of the ship sent out in the deep green-black water, thick like an oil cube about them now; an eerie long glow, as a headlamp in thickest fog.
“It’s so silent,” Jennifer said. “So all encompassing. It’s like I’ve been here before, somehow.”
“It’s the contrast with the storm,” Hodges said.
“Yes, and something more,” Susan said.
The Ex-Gee defined its arc with its descent, as a creature in a realm yet undiscovered. Deeptide beckoned.
“Commander.”
“Go, Mr. Wells.”
“All clear and steady as she goes.”
One of the other crewmen took issue. She noticed something odd. She asked Delores to gaze at the screens herself. Then, suddenly, it was gone. Delores thought the anomaly might be a ghost reflection. It happened in storms sometimes, even when there were calm seas and heavy cloud cover.
“The storm?” Delores asked.
“I thought so. But it seemed to be closing. One thousand meters off the port bow. Wait. Look. There it is again.” “Wells?”
“I don’t, aye, affirmative. Nine hundred meters to port.”
“Damn. Attention all hands. Battle stations. I say again, battle stations.” Delores then muttered under her breath, covering the speaker-mike with her hand, hoping few or none of the crew heard her. “Battle stations, with a skeleton crew, and a fourth of them untrained scientists, and my best man under the ocean somewhere. Well, probably a trawler blown off course in the storm. Strange to be coming at us though. Too close for comfort in calm seas.”
“Commander?”
Though she spoke to a woman, Delores, as did most in the navy, continued to use the standard military honorific. What was the seaman’s first name, Naomi? The girl had a sharp eye. “Proceed with your report, Mr. Jerrolds.”
“It’s the profile, Commander. I’ve seen it in radar school. I’m sure of it. A Russian cruiser, Pushkin class. Seven hundred fifty meters and closing.”
“What the hell. All hands. Battle Stations. Prepare for ramming. Get out weapons. Man the 5 inch. Come on, people. Move! Move!”
Another of the newer crew assigned, Joel Harris, was the first to see it. He had made it to the 5 inch. He locked, loaded, sighted to port. “Visual contact, twenty degrees port bow, 600 meters. Closing. Incoming. She’s opening fire. Permission to return. I say again. Incoming.”
Like the wraith Mephistopheles materializes from the blackness of hell, the Russian-made cruiser’s lightening bolt whistled across the Starr’s bow. In the storm, they were not aware if another whitecap lifted them or if they had been hit.
“Green light. Fire at will. Return fire. Fire at will. All hands. We are under attack. I say again, we have been fired upon by unknown vessel at this time. This is not a drill. Damage report.”
“None indicated, Commander.”
“The storm’s become our friend. They can’t judge or figure with accuracy range or azimuth.”
“They’re firing again.”
This time spray from the ocean rained upon the deck, well over the bulwarks. It was not the same as before, when merely from the severity of the storm.
“Off the starboard bow. No damage, but close.”
“She’s closing in. Wells. Hard aport.”
“Command—”
“Hard aport, man. Now!”
“Hard aport, aye. What is our—”
“Forty degrees and don’t spare the inches. Jerrolds.”
“Commander.”
I think you’ve manned a 20 mm cannon before.”
“Aye-aye, skipper.”
“Can you make it to the gun?”
“On my way.”
“Harris. Come in.”
“Commander.”
“They won’t be expecting us to come along side. Wait till we’re flank amidships. Then fire at will.”
“Roger that.”
“Norwich. Christensen. Magruder. Get those M-16’s. Step out on the starboard platform. The old Civil War firing lines, top line, stoop line (first and second, technically, but no time for old time training), just think, people; obviously ladies and gentlemen, no need to wait for the re-load. At will as we pass.”
“They’re firing again,” Wells said. “Clear miss again.”
“They didn’t expect our turn. Steady, Mr. Wells. Maybe we can make them believe it. But do keep in mind we really do not want to ram her.” At the last moment, Delores grabbed the main wheel. “Watch, now, bridge crew, everyone watch now she makes forty degrees, not 36 or 38.”
Down, down, down the Ex-Gee floated, seemingly in a suspension of Jell-O, seemingly in an ocean of black pit crude oil. The whales were in front now. They clearly were attacking something.
“Hodges. Jennifer. Look here. We’re witnessing something no one has ever seen before. Apod of whales attacking Architeuthis.”
“What?”
“A giant squid?” Jennifer said. “No one’s ever seen one being attacked by—oh my!”
“Cameras? Recording?”
“Just a, yes, now, fully operational. Our first marine zoological submission article. ‘Observation of Gray Whale Pod Feeding Upon Architeuthis at 22,000 fathoms.’ We’ll be the first to …”
“What’s that?”
“Where? What the hell?”
“It’s another sub. But how.”
“He was in the pod. Back dropped,” Hodges said. “I thought I caught his signal earlier. Now he’s—Jesus! Torpedo away. Susan! Evasive maneuver Beta-Charlie. Remember, I showed you. Damn it, don’t think, just do it! Go, girl. Launching decoys. Decoys away! That’s it, ladies. Now you’ve got it. Amazing how the training kicks in, isn’t it?”
Oddly, in such a moment, Jennifer realized it was the first time he had called them by their given names.
“Where the … Damn. There.”
“Don’t say ‘there.’ Say, ‘Decoys launched aye. On screen. Fish averted.’ Susan, Jennifer, let me have the con.”
“No,” Susan said. “She’s my ship. I’ve got her now. Hang on boys and girls. Jennifer. We’re going to see what she can do. Aft rockets on my command. Now! Fire rockets!”
“Aft rockets engaged. Whoa!”
“Hang on.”
“Damn. It’s not a ship. It’s a bullet in the sea. We’re riding a damn bullet in the bottom of the ocean.”
Jennifer would always remember Hodge’s simile. The vessel rocketed in the darkness of the deepest deep. A little sub trailed behind, somewhat similar in design, but unable to make the speed of the Ex-Gee. The torpedo chased the decoys and exploded.
The mystery ship followed the water trail and the ever dimmer lights of the Ex-Gee.
Hodges worried. He worked a simple equation. Impossible! No torpedo at this depth could keep its
integrity. The thing would at once implode from the enormous pressure. How did that, that fish continue even for while? Then, as a thought unable to be processed suddenly streaks through one’s brain, he knew. He had heard about a concept so unique as to be thought beyond capability. Clearly someone had conquered the problem, a problem that had dogged U-Boat and Submarine designers since the inception of torpedo development. But who …?
“Jerrolds, at the 20mm Gatling. Now, damn it! All hands, on my command. Fire at will. Open fire! Fire! Fire! Rake those bastards. Wells, give coordinates to gunners, damn it!”
“Roger that. Connecting.”
A blaze of withering hail of bullets came from the defense line Delores arranged. The Starr was an Arleigh Burke class destroyer, an older version. Nonetheless, under ordinary circumstances, she would provide a formidable weapons phalanx of an 8 inch and 5 inch, and 2 75mm guns, 2 20mm Gatling cannon, up to 20 torpedoes, Aegis and Tow missile systems, heat and sonar seeking depth charges, and, with modifications, 10 to 15 Tomahawk cruise missiles. Other guns and weapons array, including anti-missile and anti-torpedo systems could be included. Now, however, she was stripped down for scientific research, she hadn’t been as well-maintained as a regular ship of the line; nonetheless, her commander knew her 30 knots capacity in open seas, and extraordinary maneuverability with her 2 large screws. She was capable of turning even in rough seas her 415 feet, 750 ton displacement on a quarter, if not a dime. Delores had used all of her skill and the ship’s response, and what military personnel she had to fullest advantage.
Harris assisted Jerrolds. The Seaman fired the Gatling. The line of men and one woman the commander of the vessel under attack arranged fired their rifles as uniform as musketeers of the early and mid-19th century. Hot lead projectiles zipped through the cold rain from starboard of the Starr to port of the mystery aggressor. Its personnel, amazed at the daring maneuver, turned to getting away as fast as it could, with alleviation of as much damage as possible.
“Damn, we’re close. Too close!”
“Whites of their eyes!”
“If we had hooks and chains, we could board her.”
Deeptide Vents . . . of Fire Page 12