Vraebel stood from his chair and headed back to the coffee machine. He slotted a pod, put the mug beneath the machine, and pressed the button. The machine hummed as it turned water into steam and spewed it through the grounds. The smell was glorious. His doctor had told him drinking so much coffee was hell on his kidneys, but Vraebel had never had a problem. And without coffee? Man, he’d just cease to function.
There was a knock on the closed hatch. Vraebel looked toward the door and cocked an eyebrow. “Come in,” he drawled.
The hatch opened and Calhoun walked in. The older man was dressed in a pair of heavy khakis and a dark blue PPE work-shirt. Sweat had already blossomed beneath his armpits. The rig might be air-conditioned, but that didn’t seem to assuage the heat. Not for Calhoun, anyway.
“Morning, Martin,” Calhoun said.
Vraebel smiled and looked at the dive watch on his wrist. “Morning? I think it’s afternoon.”
The engineer grinned. “Well, it’s always morning somewhere.”
Vraebel rolled his eyes. “Right.” He nodded to the coffee machine. “Want an espresso or something?”
Calhoun shook his head. “Already had my fill of coffee this morning. Going to head to the commissary and get some iced tea. Much better for the afternoons.”
“Right,” Vraebel said. “What can I do for you?”
The engineer’s grin faded into a thin line. Vraebel could tell the man was about to say something unpleasant. Or something he thought Martin might object to.
“With your permission,” he said, “Standlee would like to send another AUV out. We need to see if we can clear up some topographic anomalies.”
Martin’s stomach filled with acid. He’d known this was going to come up, or hoped it would. Now it was time to lower the boom. “Considering an AUV was launched this morning, without my knowledge, I assume you’re talking about another one?”
Calhoun blinked. A sheepish grin filled his face. “You were sleeping. Catfish and JP decided not to wait.”
The coffee machine burped one last gout of steam and Vraebel pulled out the mug. His eyes bore into Calhoun’s. “I’d thought we had this conversation and that you agreed there wouldn’t be anymore cowboy shit.”
“We had, we did, we do,” Calhoun said. “But this is important.”
Vraebel sipped the black liquid. His tongue burned, but he didn’t care. “I’m sure it is. But we have procedures for a reason, Thomas. And your boys have to follow it.”
“Agreed,” Calhoun said after a pause. He rubbed a hand through his thinning hair. “And I’ll make sure—“
“I’m getting tired of you saying you’ll make sure and then not doing it, Calhoun.” Vraebel’s easy grin disappeared. “So do me a favor. Stop talking, start doing. I don’t want anyone injured on this rig. Not my people,” he said pointing to himself, “and not yours.” His index finger stabbed in Calhoun’s direction. “And I will go to Simpson if this shit continues.”
Thomas chewed his lower lip and sighed. “Understood.”
“Bullshit,” Vraebel said. “Stop grin-fucking me and make it happen.”
The engineer’s face flushed. Vraebel knew he’d just tweaked the man, and that wasn’t a good idea, but fuck it. The asshole needed to know where he stood.
“Just stay out of my team’s way, Martin. I’ll do my best to ‘make it happen.’”
Vraebel smiled. “Anything else?”
“No,” Calhoun said in a clipped voice. “I think we understand one another.”
Vraebel nodded to the man. “Then if you don’t mind, I have reports to read.”
Calhoun turned on his heel and lumbered out the hatch. Vraebel let out a deep breath. His body tingled with stress. Since Simpson thought he was a god, fucking around with Calhoun could be bad. He could have been more diplomatic about the AUV bullshit, but it never seemed to end. Standlee’s pet project was out of control and he was the only one that seemed to see that. Topographic anomalies? My pimpled ass, he thought. Standlee just wanted to play with his toys.
He walked back to the captain’s chair and rested the coffee mug on the console. Reports to read. Reports to study. Reports to double check. It was going to be a damned long afternoon. He shoved thoughts of Calhoun and Standlee out of his mind and began to read.
#
Six hours. From the time he lay his head on the pillow to the time his eyes popped open, only six hours had passed. For Catfish, that was a record when he was working. And it seemed like he was always working.
He rubbed his eyes as he stared at the monitors. On the far left, he had a window filled with code. On the far right? Diagnostic reports. The two middle screens had held his attention for the past half hour. He popped the top of the aluminum can and gulped. The energy drink’s signature buzz on his tongue sent a flame of heartburn into his stomach. He hated the shit, but it was the only thing that got him through the long hours.
After a fast breakfast of oatmeal and greasy bacon and eggs (had to stay regular!), he made his way to the drilling office and plopped down into the chair. His hair was a tangle of curls and knots and he just didn’t give a shit. He hadn’t even bothered tying it up. Vraebel would have a shit attack if he saw long hair unchecked by a cap, braids, or a hair tie. But fuck him and his stupid goddamned rules.
JP had dropped AUV 5 back in the water as soon as Catfish finished updating its mission parameters. Instead of taking Catfish along for the ride, JP had taken another diver with him. Something about rig solidarity. He was pretty sure that had been Calhoun’s idea. JP and Catfish were very much alike when it came to meeting new people and trusting them—they didn’t. The fact JP had volunteered to take one of Vraebel’s crew along for the ride had to be the result of Calhoun. Well, whatever. Calhoun was there to engineer and keep the peace. The old man was doing his thing. Now it was time for Catfish to do his.
AUV 5 sent reports up to the drilling office until it dove below the 18k range. Once it reached lower midnight, there was little for him to do besides pore over the code, examine the diagnostics, and wait. Oh, and answer email. And that’s what had him staring at the screens.
Yesterday, he’d sent pictures of the tube worm beds scattered throughout the trench to Dr. Macully. Macully, friend and occasional lover, was a marine biologist. Since he spent most of his time deep ocean drilling, she always wanted pics from his drones. His machines had captured pictures of five new species of deep sea fish in the last three years. Macully wrote them up, categorized them, and published papers on them. When he was in San Diego, she fed his stomach, and then fed his body. She was a sweet woman.
When he’d opened the email client after AUV 5 passed lower midnight, it had dinged four times. Sure it was more bullshit from Vraebel, or Calhoun requesting reports, he’d sighed and started to read. But the subject lines did more than catch his attention; they made his nerves sizzle.
Macully had analyzed the tube worm beds. All four of the new emails were from her and each was more frantic than the last. She was freaking out over the size and construction of the tube worm beds. Over and over again, she mentioned new species and possible evolutionary throwbacks. In the last email, she’d sent pictures of the oldest known tube worm species and laid it out next to the pictures AUV 5 had taken. Then, she’d superimposed the two.
Standlee wished he’d seen the emails before he sent the AUV back into lower midnight. If he had, he would have ordered it to do more than just take surveys.
The superimposed photos that Macully had put together made it pretty clear what she was so excited about. Normal tube worms congregated together in a patch. There was little to no gap between the bases of the worms. They did this for protection. If a single tube worm was found by itself, predators would quickly consume it. As with most herd species, there was safety in numbers.
But the ones AUV 5 had discovered were different. Instead of growing from a bed in a clump, the new worms were, well, laid out in a precise circle. The middle of the bed? Completely exposed.
Macully had never seen anything like that and according to the email, she’d stayed up all night trying to find an example. But no known species of tube worms acted like that. In addition, the worms seemed longer. Because of the blue-light photography, it was difficult to tell what color they were. But instead of the beige hue worms usually had, these looked, well, strange. They were multi-colored and not in any way uniform.
But the strangeness didn’t end there. Instead of being near perfect cylinders, each worm’s end was flattened like an eel. Catfish tapped a finger on the keyboard’s edge. Macully wanted more pictures. Close-ups. And if possible, a sample.
Standlee leaned back in his chair, swallowed another gulp of the cherry-flavored heart-burn generator, and glared at the screen. Sample? How the fuck am I going to get a sample?
The hum of the computers in the drilling office were comforting. The ambient noise allowed his brain to race and dream. He closed his eyes and let the sound inundate him. Until Harobin or Shawna showed up, he had the place all to himself. He’d even killed the lights. He could sleep here without worrying about noise from the off-shift rig crew or the sound of clanking from the rig floor.
He tried to imagine a creature’s life at the depth of 30,000 feet. Tube worms were eating machines. Nothing more than that. They lived in darkness, died in darkness, and they’d never known any kind of light until the last fifty years when humans started to explore the deeps with robotic assistance.
Did they think? Did they “see?” He didn’t even know if they had nerves with which to feel. Did anyone know?
Questions for Macully. Eyes still closed, a slow grin spread across his face. “You want a sample?” he said aloud. “I’ll get you a sample.”
He opened his eyes and brought up the AUV design drawings. The two middle screens lit with the schematics. His grin widened into a ferocious smile.
When he and Calhoun designed the AUVs, they hadn’t made them specifically for oil exploration. That was their primary goal, of course, but Calhoun insisted they think bigger. Why design a different AUV for each type of sensor? Why wouldn’t you make those pluggable and extensible? Just like code?
His AUV toy box had a number of implements he could attach in order to perform specific tasks. One of them? Soil collection. A small shovel with jaws that screwed into the AUV below the ballast tanks. The AUV could sweep low over a field of sand, extend the shovel, calculate the size of the sample, and then retract the tool before rising to the surface.
All he had to do was write a new program. Instead of the AUV sweeping up sand from the ocean floor, it could ride at a good speed through the top of a tube worm clump and use the shovel as a blade. He couldn’t guarantee it would manage to collect a sample, but the chances were good something would get captured. He could change the weight algorithm too. Instead of ensuring it had so many ounces of particulate matter, he could program it to require a minimum weight and density before the AUV knew its mission had been accomplished.
With all the damned problems AUV 5 had had, it was by far the worst candidate for the job. He’d have to work on using one of the other metal fish to carry it out. He had four candidates. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
He’d have to get Calhoun’s permission, of course, and probably that prick Vraebel’s as well, but it wouldn’t add any kind of risk. Worst case scenario? The AUV returned with nothing or burned out the retraction motor in the shovel. It could get trapped in the worm bed too, but he doubted that was a real danger.
Rather than talk to Calhoun about it, he started going over the specifications of the shovel rig. He needed to recalculate the physics and then work out how to code it. Macully might have some idea of the kind of resistance the shovel would meet.
He replied to her email and told her his plan. With any luck, she’d see it in the next couple of hours and send back word on the strength of tube worm flesh. Whatever calculation she came back with, he’d double it. Just to be sure.
#
Belmont, the other diver, was yet another humorless asshole. JP was beginning to wonder if everyone Vraebel hired was as tightly wound. Perhaps the rig chief was only interested in hiring the most insufferable shit-heads in the industry.
Ukrainian, Belmont had never been in the US military. The man’s English was excellent, but his accent set JP’s nerves on end. Belmont’s hair wasn’t much longer than Harvey’s, but it actually had a “style.” Grease-ball-gangster were the words that came to mind the moment he’d met the other diver.
Instead of having a nice chat comparing war stories, Belmont had hardly spoken or shown any interest in conversation. The man only replied when forced and in as few words as necessary. JP didn’t think Belmont knew how to smile, much less what a joke was.
But he had to admit Belmont was a professional. Instead of having to worry about some newbie getting tangled up in the lines as they lowered the AUV, or banging their head on the ballast tanks, Belmont had treated the metal robot with care and caution.
When the AUV sped away and headed for the bottom of the ocean floor, Belmont had climbed back into the Zodiac, taken off his mask, and stared at JP. “Is anything else necessary?” he’d asked.
Harvey had forced a grin. “You handled that well. Most people—“
“I am not most people,” the man had replied in a robotic voice. “Is there anything else?”
JP had shaken his head. “No. Time to get back to the rig.”
Belmont had nodded and headed to the boat’s bow. He stripped off his gear, stowed it, and then sat in his wetsuit on the recessed bench. With a sigh, JP had started the engine and drove the Zodiac back to the rig.
After a shower and a gear inspection, he’d headed to the commissary. Catfish hadn’t woken him up soon enough to get a bite before dropping the AUV in the water. After last night’s work-a-thon to recover all the AUVs and get them recharging, Harvey had been exhausted. The moment his head hit the pillow, he’d been out like a light.
Stomach rumbling, the commissary looked like a glutton’s delight. It was still early enough in the morning for the omelette station, not to mention the waffle irons and pancakes. JP had been on rigs where there were eight chefs in total. Four were on duty at any one time. While two served or cooked short-order, the others were prepping or cooking the good stuff. But mornings? Mornings were for the typical American fat bastard diet. Fuck a bunch of Dennys—JP would opt for a rig commissary on any morning.
A small rig like Leaguer had a commissary crew of four, meaning only two of them were on duty. JP had thought that would lead to problems getting meals, but as with everything else, Vraebel’s hires were excellent at what they did.
He stood in front of the omelette station for a total of twenty seconds before the chef appeared. Cups of crumbled fried bacon, shredded cheese, freshly diced vegetables, including jalapeños, and ham were spread out in front of the chef. Harvey ordered a four-egg omelette with everything. Unlike the rest of the rig crew, the chef not only had a personality, but smiled. It was a refreshing experience.
After devouring his breakfast and two cups coffee, he leaned back in his chair and rested. He’d probably eaten too much, but fuck it. He was going to get on the submersible crew for Vraebel and spend time inspecting the rig’s under structure. Until Catfish had something else for him to do, he’d just end up pissing off the rig chief.
Harvey had been somewhat surprised when Calhoun had knocked on his door that morning. The older man was dressed in his trademark khakis and long-sleeve shirt. JP had been dreaming about some horrible creature lurking in the ocean. After all his years diving, it was a pretty common dream.
JP had scratched his nuts through his boxers and loosed a huge yawn. Calhoun had shaken his head.
“Time to wake up,” the man said.
“Uh-huh,” JP said in sleep-gravel voice. “Is the goddamned rig on fire?”
Calhoun grinned. “It’s 0900, JP. Catfish wants AUV 5 in the water.”
A groan escaped
the diver’s lips and the fuzz of sleep left his brain immediately. “Shit. Didn’t realize it was that late.”
“Not like you to oversleep,” Calhoun said.
“No. No, it’s not. I’ll, um,” he looked down at his Oscar the Grouch boxers, “get dressed. After some breakfast—“
Calhoun shook his head. “No time. We need to get the fish in the water. ASAP.”
Harvey’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Why? What’s the—“ He paused when he saw the stern look on his boss’s face. “Shit. We’re doing another end-run.”
“Right,” Thomas said. “I doubt Vraebel will have a problem with this, but I’d rather put it down to miscommunication and frantic thinking.”
“Uh-huh,” JP sighed. “So is Catfish waiting for me?”
Calhoun’s sour visage melted into an easy grin. “Yes. But not at the platform. He’s at his console.”
“So, what, I’m going out by myself?”
“No. I want you to take one of Vraebel’s people with you,” Calhoun said.
“Shit.” JP ran a hand through his close cropped hair. “Why?”
“Because it’s a good idea. That’s why. Also, I want you to volunteer to help inspect the rig’s sub-structure.”
“Ah,” JP said. Calhoun was a devious bastard. “You’re going to smack around his authority and use me as an olive branch.”
“If it comes up,” Calhoun chuckled. “I’ve no doubt he’s going to have his panties in a twist. But he’s not awake. So, he’ll have to deal with it.”
JP shook his head. “You sure like playing with fire.”
“Get moving,” Thomas said. He looked down at the boxers. “Stay Drunk and Grouch On,” he read. “Definitely sounds like you.” Calhoun tipped an imaginary hat and disappeared from the doorway as if he’d never been there.
JP didn’t want to know how Calhoun’s conversation with Vraebel went. He was sure Belmont had reported the unauthorized trip out on the water. The diver seemed enough of a “company man” to scream bloody murder over it. Which begged the question—why had he agreed to go?
The Black: A Deep Sea Thriller Page 8