by Steve Alten
Jonas turned to the boy.
The boy was gone.
Jonas was alone.
His heart pounded, disrupting the silence. Every breath echoed in his ears.
A deep rumble built like distant thunder. The sky remained clear.
A mile out to sea the tidal wave appeared, levitating the horizon. It crested slowly, majestically—a mountain of curling dark water rising twenty stories high.
Jonas turned to flee, but his legs felt like lead.
He looked up. The sheer wall of water blotted out the sky. With a clap of thunder, it fell.
“Ahhh!”
· · ·
Jonas Taylor sat up in bed, his flesh and the tangled bed sheets drenched in so much sweat that for a moment the thirty-year-old naval commander wasn't sure if the tidal wave had been a nightmare or real.
The familiar gray cabin walls assured him it was a dream.
And then the room began to spin.
He closed his eyes, but the nausea said no and he reopened them. The suddenness of the vertigo returned him to a similar sensation experienced a decade earlier as he lay semiconscious on a grass football field, the junior tight end’s head ringing and Beaver Stadium rolling sideways in his vision. Penn State’s team physician had shouted his name over the crowd noise. “Don’t move, J.T.! Focus your eyes on one spot until your vision clears!”
His first choice back then had been to focus on the football, still clutched in his hands; the choice now was the porthole, but with the ship swaying he held up his left hand and stared at his wedding ring.
As his pupils locked on, the vertigo passed.
An insistent knock demanded his attention.
“Shut up already and come in.”
Michael Royston entered, the DSV pilot’s East Tennessee State University tee-shirt soaked in sweat from a morning workout. “Sorry to wake you, boss. Heller wants you in sick bay for the pre-dive. Jonas, you okay? You look like hell.”
“Been there. Three times in the last eight days. Don’t have a fourth in me. Not today anyway.”
Royston’s eyes widened behind his glasses. As the mission’s back-up hydronaut, the twenty-seven year old was accustomed to playing Robin to Jonas’s Batman. Twice in the last year he had accompanied his mentor to the bottom of the Middle America Trench, but co-piloting a DSV at 20,000 feet and making a solo dive to 36,000 feet suddenly seemed worlds apart—the equivalent of asking a Single-A pitcher to strike out Micky Mantle in game seven of the World Series.
“Jonas, you think I’m ready? I mean, hell yeah, I’m ready. I’m your back-up, right? If you need me to stand in, then sure, let’s do it.”
It was a bad play. Royston’s cockiness was gone, replaced by trepidation. A healthy dose of fear was warranted before any deep sea dive; what concerned Jonas was that his young co-pilot was a better actor than this. Clearly he wanted to be bailed out.
“Let’s see what Heller says. Tell him I’ll be there in five.”
· · ·
From his porthole, Jonas could see the shadow of the DSV as it rocked back and forth within its harness, forcing its “pit crew” to hold on. Thirty feet long, with a twelve foot forward beam that tapered back to an eight foot propeller shaft, the Sea Cliff (DSV-4) and her sister ship, Turtle (DSV-3) had been the Navy’s workhorses since they were commissioned back in 1968. White with an orange-red dorsal hatch, the sub was designed around a six-foot-in-diameter, four-inch-thick titanium sphere that held its three-man crew. The exterior hull was neutrally buoyant fiberglass, supporting a propulsion unit, ballast and trim system, lights, cameras, steel weights, grappler arms, and a series of collection baskets.
What few people outside the Pentagon knew was that the Sea Cliff had recently received an extensive overhaul, the titanium pod and aluminum chassis upgraded to withstand 18,000 pounds per square inch of pressure. Life support capacity was doubled to thirty-two hours, descent weight increased by eight hundred pounds—features necessary when taking an elevator to a bottom floor whose basement exceeded Mount Everest’s height. Of course, if something failed on Everest’s summit, the pressure didn’t implode your skull.
It took a cool customer to pilot a DSV; it took the best the Navy had to offer to guide the upgraded Sea Cliff into the Challenger Deep, the deepest most unexplored realm on the planet. Only four men had ever ventured into these depths—both in 1960 aboard bathyscaphes. In either case there was no piloting involved, the vessels simply went down and came back up. On one of these dives, the lone viewport had actually cracked, four inches of reinforced glass buckling under 16,000 pounds per square inch of pressure.
In the three decades that followed, no human had returned to dive the Mariana Trench.
Jonas Taylor had been preparing for the Challenger Deep for six months. His nerves were rock-steady, his attitude evolving from “cavalier cowboy” to a higher, zen-like state once he’d entered the DSV’s titanium sphere—a claustrophobic life support chamber somehow deemed large enough to accommodate three passengers for upwards of twenty hours.
The top-secret mission was as straightforward as it was dangerous; Jonas would pilot the DSV six miles down, hovering just above a silty warm oasis of ocean created by the superheated mineralized water pumping from the abyss’s hydrothermal vent fields. Once in position, the two scientists on-board would release a robotic drone which would enter the Challenger Deep and sink another five thousand feet to the bottom where it would gather samples of manganese nodules via a remotely-operated vacuum assembly.
Jonas had no idea what was so special about these pineapple-sized chunks of rock, nor did he care. As he told Danielson at their first meeting, “To me, the descent becomes routine the moment we pass beyond the light, right around twelve hundred feet. There’s a lot going on in the universe outside that porthole—bioluminescent creatures, mating rituals, schools of jellyfish and things that glitter in the night—but until I get down to the basement, all I’m watching are my control panels. I don’t want to know what’s out there, I don’t want to think about anything other than operating the DSV. Once I slip on my headphones and tune into some classic rock, I’m pretty much on auto-pilot for the next fifteen hours.”
The first descent, eight days ago, had changed his tune.
Deep dives into the Hadal zone meant longer missions, the additional “on” time affecting the pilot’s mental and physical attributes. Like an airline pilot or radar control operator, stress and fatigue quickly become a dangerous twosome, compromising the mind’s ability to reason. Work-rest cycles of both submersible pilots and their surface support crews have to be strictly monitored, with back-up personnel on hand lest mental acuity be affected.
Diving the Challenger Deep was like nothing Jonas had ever experienced. The water pressure was tremendous, causing an unnerving rattle in the titanium sphere. Worse was the hydrothermal plume. Temperatures below this raging river were tropical, above the layer near-freezing, and the temperature differential created unpredictable water currents that threatened to flip the submersible into oblivion. It was like hovering above Niagara Falls while balancing on a tightrope.
Sixteen hours after the first dive had begun, the DSV surfaced. Jonas had been so exhausted that he had to be carried out of the sub.
Two more dives had followed in less than a week. Over fifty hours spent in a six-foot titanium sphere with two scientists, and now they wanted him to do it again.
Every man has a limit. Jonas knew he had surpassed his after the last dive when he could no longer tell if he was piloting the Sea Cliff or dreaming that he was piloting the Sea Cliff.
· · ·
Dr. Frank Heller may have been a first generation medical man, but he was third generation Navy, his grandfather having served in World War II aboard an aircraft carrier, his father and two uncles assigned to the battleship USS Missouri during the Korean war. Younger brother Dennis was an Assistant Chief Engineer aboard a Los Angeles Class attack sub, their older sister a former diving officer.
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Heller knew that Chief Warrant Officer Carolyn Heller-Johnston would never have certified the pilot seated on his exam table as dive-ready. But then, his big sister didn’t have to deal with a pencil-pusher like Dick Danielson or the other desk jockeys back at the Pentagon.
Taylor’s last dive had yielded the type of manganese nodule the team of scientists had apparently been hoping for. Now they were demanding that Taylor make another descent before the brunt of Typhoon Marian arrived by noon tomorrow. Rough weather, a subterranean current, even a school of fish could cause their bounty to drift to another location, making it impossible for a returning mission to locate the same patch of volcanic rock.
Danielson essentially gave Heller little choice. As long as Jonas Taylor appeared reasonably coherent, he would be cleared for one more dive.
· · ·
The forty-four-year-old physician with the graying crewcut removed the blood pressure cuff from Jonas Taylor’s left bicep. “One-thirty-seven over eighty. Slightly elevated, nothing to write home about.”
I’m normally one-ten over sixty.”
“You’re anticipating this morning’s dive. Arms out to the side, eyes closed. Now touch your nose with your right index finger.”
“Whoa!” The vertigo washed over him, causing Jonas to lose his balance. He reopened his eyes, struggling to stop the room from spinning.
“Vertigo?”
“No thanks, I have enough.”
“It’ll pass.”
“As reassuring as that is, Frank, I’m pretty sure my brain is milk toast.”
Captain Danielson entered. “How’s our boy?”
“Grumpy. I’m prescribing Antivert for his vertigo and a shot of B-12 to alleviate the fatigue, otherwise he’s good to go.”
“Wait, what?”
“Excellent. Commander, I’m sure the good doctor will have you feeling ship-shape in no time.”
“The good doctor must have fallen off the wagon. My brain’s in a fog, my dexterity’s off-kilter, and I’m working on three hours sleep.”
“Navy SEALs do it all the time. Man up, Taylor. Get some caffeine in you, a few calisthenics. You’ll be right as rain.”
“Right as rain? I’m not driving Aunt Bea in the squad car to deliver apple pies to Mayberry’s church picnic, Dick. This is the Mariana Trench! I need to think clearly down there. And don’t get any ideas about Royston. He’s nowhere near ready.”
“The Navy obviously disagrees or he wouldn’t be your back-up.”
“Regulations demanded a back-up. Royston was the only pilot available who had dived beyond 15,000 feet.”
“Technically, he’s qualified.”
“Technically, Frank here is a doctor, but I wouldn’t recommend him performing surgery on a brain tumor or lancing a boil on your ass, which in your case is probably the same thing.”
Danielson’s face turned red. “Dr. Heller, have you certified Commander Taylor fit to dive?”
Frank avoided Jonas’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Commander Taylor, I am ordering you to pilot the DSV at oh-nine-hundred hours. If you fail to do so you will be subject to a court martial and Mr. Royston shall take your place. Is that clear?”
Jonas stood. For a long moment he and Danielson stared at one another, then the DSV pilot unbuckled his pants and ceremoniously dropped his boxer shorts, exposing his bare buttocks. “You can plant your B-12 shot right there.”
Forty minutes later, Jonas Taylor was in the DSV Sea Cliff going through his pre-dive checklist—his life about to change forever.
2
Guam Naval Base
LOCATED IN THE REGION of the western Pacific known as Micronesia, the Mariana Island chain is an arc-shaped archipelago consisting of fifteen volcanic mountains. The islands were birthed millions of years ago when lava was released along the Philippine Sea floor as a result of the western edge of the Pacific Plate subducting beneath the Mariana Plate. This region, the most volcanically active convergent plate boundary on Earth, forms the deepest point on the planet—the Mariana Trench. Water trapped in the fault line, heated by the subduction process, is the source of the hydrothermal activity that proliferates throughout this seven-mile-deep, 1,550-mile-long crevasse.
The largest and southernmost island in the Mariana chain is Guam. Home to the Chamorro, a seafaring people whose heritage dates back over four thousand years, Guam’s identity underwent a drastic change when it became part of the United States following the Spanish-American War. Guam’s location between Hawaii and the Asian mainland rendered the island a strategic location for a U.S. military base, and it is now home to five installations, including the main naval base on Orote Peninsula on the central west coast and Andersen Air Force Base on the northeastern tip.
· · ·
Command Master Chief Steven Leiffer’s gaze shifted from the dark gray skies to the black Cadillac SUV now approaching the main gate. Rear Admiral Kevin Quercio’s unannounced visits were more social call than inspection, his V.I.P.s always political allies or elite members of the military industrial complex. At the end of the day (or days) everyone had a good time, entertaining themselves on a taxpayer-funded holiday.
With Danielson gone and a typhoon on the way, the last thing Leiffer needed to deal with was the renowned partying admiral and his inebriated guests.
Leiffer saluted Quercio as the imposing man climbed out of the SUV.
“Admiral, welcome back to Guam.”
“Chief, good to see you. You remember Senator Michaels?”
The Republican from Alaska nodded.
“And these two gentlemen… well, let’s just call ’em Mr. Black and Mr. Blue to make life easier.”
Leiffer recognized the two executive officers from Brown and Root and BP Oil. “Gentlemen. My apologies. Admiral, Captain Danielson is away on a mission, and we’re busy preparing for Typhoon Marian. However, if you need me to arrange accommodations off the base—”
“Already handled, Leiffer, we’ll be staying at the Radisson. But I promised our guests a helicopter tour of the island. Where’s Mac?”
Leiffer’s heart skipped a beat. “Sir, Commander Mackreides is securing his airships in their hangars. Perhaps I can arrange for Commander Rosario to escort your party.”
Admiral Quercio placed a hand on Leiffer’s shoulder, leading him away from his guests. “Let’s dispense with the horseshit, son. Go find Mac and tell him to meet us at the helipad in exactly ten minutes, or it’s your ass and his.”
· · ·
Commander James “Mac” Mackreides’ hawkish eyes moved from the pair of jacks in his right hand to the D-cupped breasts barely contained beneath the brunette’s olive-green tee-shirt. “You’re bluffing again, Rudd. I can always tell when you’re bluffing because your nipples get hard.”
Natalie Rudd blew him a kiss. “The bet’s a hundred, Mac. Like your hookers say, are you in or out?”
“They’re not hookers, Rudd, they’re military escorts.” Mac glanced down at the dental assistant’s remaining chips. “Tell you what. I’ll see your hundred and raise you two hundred.”
“Asshole. You know I haven’t got two hundred, I only have sixty.”
Warrant Officer Vicky Baker rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. What’s it going to be this time, Mac? Shots at Geronimo’s or a drive down to Facpi Point?”
“Quiet, Baker, we’re negotiating. Actually, Rudd, if you lose, I was thinking about a weekend’s stay at Pago Bay. Just you, me, and the twins.”
“Vic, lend me the buck-forty so I can call this gorilla’s bluff.”
“Let me see your cards.”
Rudd passed her friend the hand.
“Call,” said Vicky, adding her own chips to the pile.
“If you’re so sure, Baker, why not raise me?”
“And give you a chance to raise the pot again and draw me into your childish games? Not a chance.”
“Think about it, Baker. You, me, and Rudd, alone in a bungalow.”
“So
unds like fun, Mac, but what will you do?”
The enlisted men whistled cat calls.
“Okay, Rudd, I call. Show me your pair… and your cards, too.”
The brunette turned over her hand. “Full house, tens over threes.”
Mac ground his teeth, snapping the wooden match in his mouth. “Take it.”
Rudd high-fived her friend. “Pleasure doing business with you, James.”
“Aw, poor guy,” Vicky pouted, “He looks like he’s gonna have a Mac Attack.”
Mac was about to reply when he saw a jeep skid to a halt in front of the open hanger doors, Steve Leiffer hustling inside.
“Well, if it isn’t our second-in-command. What’s wrong, number two? Danielson drown at sea trying to retrieve his golf balls?”
“This is serious, Mac. Rear Admiral Quercio just arrived, along with a GOP Senator and two civilian hard-ons. He wants you and your chopper ready to go in ten.”
“No way, Stevie. First, my crew just finished tucking the birds in their nests. Second and more important, Quercio stiffed my girls the last two times out. I’m not taking him to the lagoon until he settles his tab.”
“Mac, please—”
“Forget it. Get Baker and Rudd here to entertain them.”
“Like that’s ever gonna happen,” Natalie said, cashing out her chips.
“Mac, he’ll have both of our asses in the brig.”
Vicky smirked, “Is that why they call him a Rear Admiral?”
Leiffer ignored the joke. “Mac, you owe me. I covered for you twice last month with Danielson.”
“My girls have families they support, Stevie, they expect to get paid. No tickee no shirtee.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to bring this up, but if you don’t handle this for me, I’ll tell Danielson about Ashley Kushnel.”
Natalie Rudd’s eyes widened. “The ER nurse with the tattoos? Man, Danielson fell head over heels for that chick. Remember her, Vicky?”
“How could I forget, he kept asking me for advice. That boy was whipped. He wined her, dined her; he even picked out a ring. Two days after he popped the question she put in for a transfer.”
“All Mac’s doing,” Leiffer said.