Ocean Black

CHAPTER SIX

Svetlana Polodka gripped the lifeline strung between stanchions on the port stern hull of the Orion as the vessel departed the harbor. Her feet were planted wide on the deck, anticipating an unexpected roll.

The seas were mild, and she barely felt the surge as the ship left the protection of the bay and turned into oncoming seas. The lights of the city began to flicker minutely as the distance increased. Behind her, off the bow of the ship, the last remnants of orange and red were following the sun below the horizon. There was a stiff breeze quartering off the bow, and it pressed the nylon of her windbreaker firmly against her back and whipped the ends of her short hair. In a few minutes, she would feel the chill.

She was happy to be accompanying the expedition, achieved after Otsuka interceded with Kaylene. There was an unrestrained air of excitement among the crew, revealed in their jokes and their eyes. All of them were elated at the prospects of even a short and minimum cruise after six or seven weeks of being land bound.

And yet, she felt melancholy. She had been thinking about Valeri Dankelov for much of the day, missing him. Though she knew she was a full member of the Marine Visions family, sometimes she felt the absence of a countryman with whom she could converse. No one aboard the Orion had ever experienced a Moscow winter, which could be beautiful. No one had travelled by train across the Ukraine in springtime, reveling in the rebirth of nature, lost in the lushness of greenery and the spring planting.

She thought she had detected a basic difference between the collective American and the collective Russian. Generally, Americans found thrill in the moment and in the future, while Russians often wallowed in memories. The Rodina, the motherland, and her history had a firm grip on them. Frequently, Polodka wondered what the history books or the story tellers a decade from now would say about the upheaval taking place in her country at the moment.

Today, she was reverting to type, recalling the warmth of Valeri’s arms, bringing to mind vivid moments — at breakfast, at work — with her brother and her parents. She would write her brother and her mother in the morning.

Today, she could not quite become one with the elation being expressed by her new compatriots. For Svetlana Polodka, the future seemed indefinite.

And she was not quite so certain that the next few days or weeks would be the lark that the others anticipated.

The Arienne was docked stern first in a visitor’s berth in the San Francisco Marina. A brisk November wind whipping spume off the bay had driven Mark Jacobs and his six colleagues below to the salon an hour before. A bridge game was underway in the banquette below the port side windows, through which a necklace of headlights crossing the Golden Gate Bridge could be seen. The warning lights on the bridge towers were hazy with descending fog.

Two slips over, a loud party was underway on the seventy-two foot Broker’s Fee. The band was live, and amplified, but their music was obscure to Jacobs.

Jacobs and two of his associates, Debbie Lane and Mick Freelander, were hunched over the coffee table in front of the sofa, poring over the latest data to arrive on the yacht’s fax machines and modems. Jacobs subscribed to as many environmental publications as he could, but since the Arienne was a transient, constantly on the move around the world, printed material generally caught up with him out-of-date. To counter that, he utilized a service which culled the magazines and newsletters, then either faxed copies of pertinent articles to him, or relayed summaries to the boat’s computers.

Debbie Lane was thirty-two years old, an ex-housewife and an ex-Floridian. Jacobs could not imagine her as the young and vibrant suburbanite she had once been. Her waist-length dark hair, shapeless running suit, and piercing blue eyes were the chief traits of her elongated figure. The state of the world had dawned on her one night in a community college class she was taking, and she had vowed to put the earth right. She left her two children with their father, packed a duffle bag, and headed for the sea. She had spent two years with several Greenpeace boats before joining the Arienne.

Mick Freelander, now close to fifty years of age, had left Ireland in 1972 and had never been back. He had once been an accountant, but his shaggy gray and pony-tailed hair disguised that career.

Both Lane and Freelander served as Jacob’s chief advisors. Their quick minds gulped information, synthesized it, and produced concise analyses.

At the moment, the three of them were sifting through the printouts and copies for environmental problems that they might address in their particular way. Lane was jotting issues and geographical locations on a sheet of lined yellow paper. When they had completed their journey through the stack of paper, they would prioritize the listing.

The insistent buzz of the ship-to-shore telephone interrupted them.

“I’ll get it,” Jacobs said.

He got up and walked aft to the desk at the back of the salon where the electronics were stacked.

Pulling out the desk chair, he sat down and picked up the phone.

“Jacobs.”

“Mark, this is Wilson Overton.”

After a few seconds, he remembered who Overton was. He didn’t recall that he was on a first-name basis with the reporter.

Depressing the transmit button, he said, “With the Post. I remember. What can you do for me?”

Overton took a minute to digest the structure of that sentence before saying, “Actually, I was hoping you could do something for me. I know you’re tuned into the gossip and rumors involving oceanographic issues, and I wondered if you had heard about anything funny going on around the Pacific.”

“Funny?”

“I overheard some Navy people talking about a problem off the coast west of San Francisco. Something for which they would need special sonar equipment.”

Jacobs mulled that over. He also remembered that it was Overton who had broken the story on the Russian missile crisis, so he gave the reporter a few points for credibility.

“On first sweep through my memory, Mr. Overton….”

“Please, it’s Wilson.”

“Wilson. I don’t know of anything especially funny taking place. Let me make a couple calls and get back to you.”

“I’m at the Jack Tar. Look, Mark, if you run into anything interesting and decide to go take a look, I’d like to go with you.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“I’ll pay my passage.”

“It’s not a question of payment.”

“You might get some good PR out of it. No guarantees, of course.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jacobs told him, then hung up.

Lane and Freelander were watching him, waiting for a bulletin on the call, but Jacobs was thinking about the people he knew who might have more information.

He found his Rolodex in the desk drawer, and started backwards alphabetically. Hap Wilson was working the Oriental Rose out of Seattle.

He called the marine operator and gave her the number of Hap’s boat.

Aft of the bridge were six small cabins used by the captain and, when they were on expedition, the senior research staff. Brande and Thomas had chosen the first cabin on the port side, then argued over who was entitled to the minuscule space in the hanging locker.

Thomas won, and Brande’s extra clothing was stuffed into the drawers under the double bunk.

The shower was almost as small as the closet, and under Sorenson’s restrictions relative to fresh water use, available for two minutes per person per day.

In the interest of efficiency and water conservation, Brande and Thomas showered together, using three minutes of hot water. It was close work in the confined space, but they both enjoyed it.

Brande stepped out of the stall first, grabbed a big and fluffy towel, and began polishing Thomas’s smooth skin. He took some time doing it, and when he reached her feet, said, “How’s that?”

“You might have missed some spots. Wanna try again?”

“Sure thing.”

The intercom buzzed.

“Damn,” Brande said, stepping to the bulkhead. He pressed the bar and said, “Paco, this had better be good.”

“Sorry, Chief. You’ve got a ship-to-shore call.”

“Anyone I know?”

“You know Mark Jacobs?”

He knew Jacobs. Over the years, they had had a few conversations, and as far as he knew, were merely acquaintances. He respected Jacobs’ stance on the environmental issues that affected the sea, but he deplored the tactics utilized by Greenpeace in many cases. Brande was just as concerned about his world, he thought, but he didn’t believe that sabotage and confrontation with authorities was necessarily the best way to get it changed.

“I’ll be right over, Paco.”

He pulled on a jump suit.

Thomas told him, “I’d better not be asleep when you get back.”

“You won’t be for long, if you are.”

She smiled at him and dove head first into the bunk, squirming to get under the covers.

He opened the door, slipped into the corridor, and walked forward to the bridge. Suarez came out of the radio shack to give him use of the single chair.

“Hello, Mark. Brande here.”

“Sorry to call you so late, Dane. I started on the back end of my Rolodex.”

“I didn’t realize I was in your Rolodex.”

“Just the important people are. The reason I’m calling, I’m trying to run down a rumor.”

“About what?”

“About some problem — magnitude and characteristics unknown — in the ocean off San Francisco.”

Uh oh.

“Have you heard anything, Dane?”

“You don’t know anything more than that? Where’d you hear about this… problem?”

“That’s all I’ve got. Well, except that it must be subsurface. The Navy is talking about some kind of special sonar.”

“Who told you that?”

“A reporter named Wilson Overton. You know him?”

“Never met the man,” Brande said, “but yes, I know of him.”

“He’s written some complimentary pieces about you.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

Brande wasn’t sure where to go with this. Hampstead had not mentioned anything about a security classification, which might be the reason that Overton had picked up on it. Reporters on a quest, however, rang little alarm bells for him. Additionally, he did not want to be hampered by environmental activists hanging around the Orion on the surface while they were conducting deep submergence operations.

On the other hand, he had always avoided building a reputation for lying.

“Dane, you still there?”

“I’m here, Mark. I was trying to think if I’d heard anything at all that fits your description. You’ve talked to others?”

“Yeah, a dozen people along the West Coast, but the results are zero.”

Good.

“The only thing that comes to mind, Mark, is a story I heard about some kind of seabed disturbances.”

“Where from?”

“I got the filtered version, but I think it originated with a seismic report out of the Earthquake Center.”

“That’s it? An earthquake?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, hell, I’ll tell Overton to shove off.”

“Do it gently, Mark. You may need a media friend sometime.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Jacobs said and signed off.

Brande replaced the receiver on its cradle. He’d given Jacobs the basics, but hadn’t been absolutely forthright in terms of MVU’s role. The best outcome would be that Jacobs just forget about it, but he wondered how long it would be before Jacobs realized that the Navy didn’t use sonar equipment to go hunting for seabed earthquakes.

The submersible broke the surface forty meters aft of the Phantom Lode. The seawater was still sluicing off the tiny submarine’s hull when Penny Glenn undogged the hatch and pushed it upward and back. It clanged when it reached its stop.

She scrambled up the short ladder into the sail and looked around. Ten billion stars twinkled overhead. Several hundred yards to the south were the running lights of the small freighter Island Hopper. It was an AquaGeo leased ship, and it was carrying supplies, and especially replacement battery packs, to replenish the worn units of the sea station and its vehicles. Batteries could only be recharged so many times before they began to lose their efficiency. The submersible would assist the freighter in lowering the cargo containers to the sea floor as soon as Glenn left the sub.

“Come on, Gary!” she called down to the pilot. “Let’s get a move on.”

“I’ve got her floorboarded,” he called back.

The sub crawled up on the stern of the Phantom Lode, and her captain and his single crewman met her at the stern boarding ladder.

Darryl Metcalf caught her canvas bag when she tossed it to him, and Captain Billy Enders reached down to help her aboard.

“Good to see you again, Miss Glenn.”

“And I’m damned glad to see you, Captain Billy.”

She had not been on her boat for nearly four months, but a single glance told her that everything was ship-shape. The teak decking gleamed under the lights from the cabin, with droplets of seawater beaded on it.

She leaned back over the stern to call a goodbye to Gary, who had his head perched just above the sail.

“When do we see you again, Penny?”

He had a crush on her.

“Eight, nine days. I’ve left enough work to keep everyone busy for at least that long.”

She had plotted the next exploration charges along the test tracks as well as along the course that she thought would prove most viable. And then she had decided to skip off on her own for a few days. Waiting around for test results could become quite boring.

The sub drifted away, and she headed for the cabin.

“Billy, why don’t you get us underway for San Francisco? And Darryl, I’d like to have a Margarita. Make a full pitcher, please.”

Descending the short companionway to the salon, she turned and took the adjoining steps down to her big stern cabin. Despite the saltwater tang, everything smelled fresh. The furniture had been waxed, the carpets cleaned, the bed remade with clean sheets.

It was a complete contrast to her person, she thought. She felt mildewed and pale.

She started stripping, tossing clothing in one corner of the stateroom. She was naked by the time Darryl knocked on her door, and she opened it a crack to take the tray with the pitcher and glass on it.

“Thank you, Darryl.”

The deck slanted as the Cheoy Lee sport cruiser reacted to the power on her propellers.

Glenn poured herself a drink and carried it into the adjacent bath. It also gleamed, and she relished the cleanness. Subsurface living tended to become musty, and when she returned to the surface, she wanted clean.

Skipping the shower, she took a long hot bath in her oversized tub, soaking luxuriously and sipping her Margarita. She shaved her legs, noting several bruises resulting from collisions with chairs and equipment in the sea station. She washed her hair, which brought out the traces of red among the gold. She scrubbed herself down with body lotion.

And she felt renewed.

And not at all tired.

After dressing in slacks and a heavy sweater, Glenn carried her pitcher and glass topside, passed again through the salon, and climbed the ladder to the enclosed flying bridge.

Billy Enders was in the helmsman’s chair.

“Billy, you go ahead and bunk down. I’ll take it for a few hours.”

“You sure you ain’t tired, Miss Penny?”

“I am deliriously awake. Go on, now.”

When she was alone on the bridge, she refilled her glass and set it in a holder next to the helm. Dialing the radio into a Los Angeles station, she found Dean Martin singing “Houston” and decided that someday she must visit Houston.

With her feet propped on the instrument panel, to the left of the helm, she felt completely at ease.

There was nothing on the sea with her. The lights of the freighter behind had disappeared. The starshine reflected off smooth waters which were going to get rougher according the Billy Enders meteorological notes.

Ahead of her was an empty, lonely, and wonderful sea, as well as the beckoning finger of San Francisco.

She almost thought about the plan that she and Paul Deride had formulated, then immediately cast it from her mind.

For the next hours, nothing was going to interfere with her holiday. Penny Glenn stared into the darkness ahead and imagined that there was nothing between her and the American coast.