Pi Day Doomsday

SCRUBBED

Dark clouds rumbled low over the main deck, lightning crashed nearby, waves sprayed over the ship, as the 1MC intercom echoed the wakeup call, "Reveille! Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave out and trice up. Reveille!"

Cross jerked up from the uncomfortable bed, wishing he had gotten more sleep. Flipping on the lights, he read the small alarm clock on his bedside table. It said 0500 hours. He had forgotten that he wouldn’t need an alarm; reveille served that purpose. Standing, he looked around, trying to remember the procedures he had once followed. Across the room he flew, as a wave heaved the ship sideways, something else he had forgotten. Quickly he folded the bunk against the wall, pulled on a khaki jumpsuit, slid on his shoes, a “Canyon Glider” cap, and rushed awkwardly down the hallway, fighting rocking, heaving motions, to the head, then the Mess. He was ready for coffee; its pungent aroma led him on. He was remembering the good old days.

Captain Broward sat at a side table, the XO and another officer with him, discussing the day’s plans. Coffee mugs slid around their table splashing out coffee at regular intervals. The storms had changed the ship’s POD, plan of the day, and they were rewriting it.

Moving to the serving line, he heard his name. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Captain motioning. He stopped and fought his way to the table.

“Good morning Captain,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Mr. Cross, we’re scrubbing the dive this morning for obvious reasons. Your sub, dangling from the crane’s cables, could cause quite a bit of damage to it and our ship’s hull, if a wave rocks us at the wrong time. You understand? We have to wait for smoother seas.”

“Fine sir. What will you have me do today?”

“Engineering. The crew down there is jury-rigging a scintillation probe to fit the robot arms of your sub. The towable option didn’t work; keeping the integrity of your cockpit and all. You could spend some time with them, overseeing your sub’s modifications. I recommend that. We’ll try a dive tomorrow. The storms should move east, leaving us with beautiful blue, diving skies,”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do that. You know where I’ll be if you need me.” He started to leave.

“Oh, Mr. Cross. If you don’t remember, it’s customary to request permission to leave when you’re done conversing with a ship’s officer. Just so you know.”

“Beg your pardon, sir.” He snapped to attention in his jumpsuit, saluted the officers, and said, “Request permission to leave, sirs.”

“Carry on.” Broward said, winked at the XO, and chuckled as he left, headed for the chow line.

The breakfast was great, but horrible memories of his prior military service rang through his mind with each bite. He knew total subservience was necessary in combat situations; commanders couldn’t have their troops saving, “Nah, I don’t think so,” when asked to move to the front line. However, they carried it into peace time, as if they were kings. And they were, of a sort. He preferred democracy, free will, self-choice; it suited him better. He never wanted to die a hero.

Signs to the Maintenance Bay led him to a large spacious dimly lit machine shop: lathes, winches, grinders, drill presses, and welding equipment surrounded the large platform in the center of the room. It looked like an elevator platform. On it, a sixteen-foot-long Bluefin-21 UAV, strapped-down on a rack, surrounded by busy workers, was the center of their attention.

Arc welders sparked rapidly, lighting the room from different directions; fumes of sintered metals, bright blue pulses, pops and sputters accompanied them. He coughed and squinted, shielding his eyes, avoiding the UV rays.

“Hold that tight,” a seaman yelled. “Get me a wrench.” Near him, another seaman held the far end of the probe, measuring, inspecting, and photographing the union with the UAV. It was being retrofitted for a scintillation sensor.

At his approach, a crewman broke off and greeted him. “You must me the sub pilot,” he said. “Welcome to the shop.”

Nodding, he said, “Yes, I’m Matt Cross, the pilot. Doing a Bluefin mod?”

“Yep, it’s our third one. Two more to go. We’ll get them done by mid-day.”

“What about Gilda, my sub? Is she ready?”

“Not yet. Can’t get topside to mod her yet. Way too stormy. Is that what you call her?”

“Yeah, her real name’s Canyon Glider, but I call her Gilda. Much easier to remember.”

“Oh, one of those shipboard romances, huh?” He chuckled, looking back at another welder off to the side of the room.

“Yeah, something like that. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“Well, right now he’s welding a retrofit probe for Gilda. Can’t run cables into the cockpit, too risky, so we’re giving her a self-contained probe she can cradle in her arms. If it senses radiation, it alarms visibly, flashing through your forward viewport. You can’t miss it. Bright blue flashes from a xenon lamp.”

“Got it. When will she be ready?”

“Well, Gilda’s too heavy for the elevator. Can’t bring her down. We’ll have to take the fixture up to her with the next trip. We can manhandle it from there. Only weighs about three-hundred pounds. Neutral buoyancy, though.”

“Good. Shouldn’t affect my balance. Need my help?”

“No one on this ship knows the controls. You’d be the best one to grip it, once we get it up there. But not until the seas calm down. We can’t afford to have a heave or roll send it overboard. It’s our last probe.”

“Well, in that case, I’m going back to my quarters. I’ve got a thick folder to read. Catch-up type reading. I’ll be a while. Can someone come get me when you’re ready?”

“No need. When the weather settles down topside, we’ll call you on the ship’s intercom. It blares everywhere. Can’t miss it.”

Departing the shop, he saw the crewman offer a brief salute. He hesitated, returned it, then stumbled, rocking with the waves, down the hallway to his stateroom. The folder, marked Adam, came from his duffel bag with a swipe of his hand. He sat in the wardroom chair, stacked the pages neatly on the small desk, and began to read.

Inland, Lt. Poole was catching up on paperwork as well, trying to piece together the remaining clues, trying to better define a reasonable search task. Two loose ends still taunted her. Alone at her desk, she called the Electronics Forensics Lab.

“E.F. Lab, this is Jones.”

“Agent Jones, Lt. Poole in S.I.D. here. How’s that evidence coming on the Adam case?”

“The GPS chips?”

“Yeah, that one. Any progress yet?”

“We have the model number. They’re from an old MercuryMarine GPS, circa 2008. Out of production. Superseded by a completely different unit. Besides the radioactivity of those chips, they’re obsolete. We’re trying to find one of those vintage units, still operable, on the web. It’s been slow going, but we think we’ve found one. With express shipping, it can be here tomorrow afternoon. Then our plan is to replace the memory chips on the old unit with our radioactive ones and pull up the last recorded waypoints, examining them for anomalies. With any luck at all, we’ll have coordinates for you in two days max, by the 28^th.”

“Great, Agent Jones. Call me then or anytime you have updates. Thanks. Bye.”

The phone rang, vibrating in her hand, causing her to jerk. It was Sheriff Victor. His voice agitated, was ranting.

“Poole, we’ve got a problem. A 10–82. Structure fire on Ocean Drive. It’s fully involved; might want a few of your team there. It’s Fogner’s house on the hill. Firefighters are letting it burn, afraid of the radiation.”

Vivid images flew through her mind with his words. “Is Fogner inside? Anybody sighted him?”

“Don’t know. Neighbors say it started smoking several hours ago, right after a black Prius left the premises. None of them called it in. Wanted it to burn.”

“Well that’s just great. Damn him. All our evidence up in smoke. Why aren’t they stopping it?”

“Worried that the radioactive steam and run-off down Ocean Drive will pollute everything. They refuse to fill the hoses.”

“A mutiny. A frickin’ mutiny. Can’t say that I blame them, though. Might be a wise decision.”

Poole could hear radio chatter in the phone’s background.

“Gotta go, Poole. We’ve got another problem now, up in Sylmar, north of L.A. Not our jurisdiction, but we seem to be involved. I’ll get back with you.”

She clicked off, her mind racing. What in hell was happening? She switched her radio to the L.A. Sheriff’s channel. She would hear more there.

The radio blasted, “… I’ve got a late-model black Prius parked off the southbound lanes of the I-5 by the L.A. Reservoir. Nobody inside but the engine’s still warm. It’s got smeared plates, listed on the APB for Simon Fogner, wanted in Orange County. Proceeding to search the reservoir. Requesting backup.”

Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, she panicked. The Los Angeles Reservoir in Sylmar feeds most of the drinking water to L.A. Its perimeter had been carefully guarded since 9-11, worrying that a terrorist would pollute the city’s water supply. What was he doing? Was he the terrorist they feared?

Crackling, the radio continued, “I see movement. Across the reservoir, on the bridge. A figure walking back and forth. In pursuit. 10–43. I need backup, dammit!”

Her mind pictured the action, the deputy running around the huge lake, racing to intercept Fogner before he jumped. What would happen then?

Hand on the microphone, she called out, “Lt. Poole here in Orange County. Approach the perp with extreme caution. He’s contaminated with anthrax. May be carrying ricin, too. Keep him away of the water. Repeat, keep him away from the water.” Knowing that it was forbidden to break in on another jurisdiction’s call, she did it anyway. He had to be warned. Her decision to use anthrax and ricin as diversionary tactics, alerted them to a deadly danger, yet avoided questions she preferred not to answer.

“Roger that, Lieutenant. I’m at the entrance to the bridge. He’s midway out to the tower, over the water, threatening to jump. He has something in his hand. Can’t tell. Might be a weapon. Still waiting for backup. I need officers. 10–48. 10–48.” His voice was desperate.

Victor broke in, his deep voice vibrating the speaker, “Sheriff Victor, Orange County speaking. We’ve got two Code 3 units on the way, deputy, lights flashing, sirens on. They’re still an hour out, but they’ll be there to support your squad. Back off and detain him, if you can.”

“Trying, Sheriff Victor. A few of my units arriving on scene. I see four men out of their cruisers at the end of the reservoir. They’re running around the perimeter toward me….”

Two loud pops ended the call. Silence.

Waiting for more information, Poole imagined the worst. Then it came.

“Officer down. Officer down. He took a shot to the shoulder. 10–52,” the radio screamed. “Perp is in the water, moving. He’s been shot, too. Need EMS now, two units.”

“Get him out. Now!” Poole screamed into the microphone. “He’ll contaminate the water.”

“10-4. Working it.”

Tense minutes passed, then, “Fished him out. On the berm. He’s really messed up. More than a gunshot wound. He’s emaciated, bleeding scabs all over.” The words chopped, coming in breaths, described the scene. “Four units on scene. Two EMS units pulling down the side path toward us. He’s cuffed and unconscious. Where do you want him sent? What hospital?”

“Orange County General, here in Santa Ana. I’ll meet them there.”

“I’ll tell them. Should take a while though. Hour-and-a-half in this traffic.”

“Thanks, deputy. Be safe. Poole out.”

Making notes, she realized she had too many lines in the water; tending them had suddenly become challenging. But things were resolving. She was near having GPS search coordinates, Fogner was in custody and her houseful of radioactive evidence was burning down.

Phone beeping, she knew it was Victor. “Thanks for that intercept, Lieutenant. I froze. Didn’t know how to handle the radiation angle. Appreciate the save. I’d rather explain something like anthrax than deadly radiation.”

“No problem, Sheriff. We’re quite comfortable with disinformation on our Adam team, now. No panics yet. I am a little worried what happens if the water is polluted by him. Think that’s gonna be a problem?”

“I don’t know. Ask Gruber, I’m sure he’ll tell you more than you want to know.”

“I’ll check with him later. Heading to the hospital in a few. I want to personally meet this demon, Fogner. See if I can get some information from him. I’m sure he’ll be in isolation, if they let him in at all.”

“Well, good luck, Poole. You know what you’re doing. Make sure he’s locked up tight.”

“Oh, sir?

“Yes?”

“What happened to that fire?” asked Poole.

“Burned to the ground. Funny thing, only the chimneys are still standing. Ironic.”

“Radiation leaks?”

“It’s all in the soil. We’ll bulldoze it in a few days and cart it off. Hope it doesn’t rain.”

“Um-hmm. Fat chance in this God-forsaken drought, take your time.” The storms, unseen by them, were moving from the Trident Tine toward the coast.

“You want to see who?” the E.R. receptionist asked. Orderlies pushed gurneys past her, heading for the elevators. Visitors waited, reading old magazines in red plastic chairs lining the barren room. The room smelled medicinal, of alcohol and sharp disinfectants.

“Simon Fogner. Should have been brought in by EMS with a Sheriff’s escort. Seen him yet?”

Paging through a logbook, then the computer display, she looked up and answered, “Yes ma’am, he’s in O.R. right now. Bullet excision. He should be out in thirty minutes, then into Room 425, fourth floor, last room on the right. It’s an isolation room.”

“I’ll wait.” Time Magazine, she picked from the rack. Dated June 5, 2012. Good, only three years old. I love history books. She took it to a red plastic chair, sat, and stared at the pages, thinking of other things.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” the voice said. A gentle hand on her shoulder woke her.

She looked around, then up at the receptionist. “Sorry, I must have dozed off.”

“That’s all right, ma’am. Mr. Fogner has been taken to his room. There’s a deputy with him.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m going up.”

As she approached Room 425, the deputy outside the door stood from his chair and greeted her. The sign on the door warned:

She peered through the window at the large clear plastic tent over the bed, a frail shell of a man lay inside. His thinning hair was missing in patches, showing open red spots. His face was distorted, pulled in all directions by hardening scabs. The little skin that remained there clung to his facial bones, creating a skeletal effect. Hollowed-out eyes, closed, drawn together, gave him a gaunt, almost alien appearance. Suddenly, she empathized. She felt his pain.

She turned back. “Deputy, who’s his doctor? Have you seen him yet?”

“No, Lieutenant. An orderly brought him from surgery. That’s all.”

Minutes later, she knocked on Dr. Akers’ office door. She had tracked him from the work-up sheet hanging by Fogner’s door.

“Come in,” Akers said.

“Dr. Akers, I’m Lieutenant Sherry Poole, here about of Fogner. He’s my case. He’s murdered two of my best men.”

He sat up in his chair, stacks of papers before him. Fogner’s was on top. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. How did he contract anthrax?”

Pausing, she said, “It’s not anthrax, it’s radiation poisoning.”

“What? Well, we’ve been using the wrong protocol here. Good thing I operated in a biohazard suit. Still I’ll have to get checked out. How in God’s name did you miss that diagnosis?”

“I didn’t doctor. It was intentional. We have a very sensitive national security issue in existence here. It’s best if we keep the anthrax ruse while he’s under your care. Can you do that?”

“Worse than an anthrax scare? Really?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We’re working with the FBI, DHS and others. I can’t really tell you more.”

“Hmm. That’s highly unusual. Puts me at a bit of a disadvantage”

“It’s for national security, sir.”

“Well, I’ll have to switch him from antibiotics to chelators, although the Cipro will help infections from the open sores.”

“I know… call this number at our Nuclear Forensics Lab. Ask for Dr. Gruber. He’s a nuclear physicist and medical doctor, too. A double doc. He knows the case in and out, and can help you with medications.” She wrote a number on a small slip of paper from her satchel and handed it to him.

“Orange County?”

“Yes. Right down the street.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Oh, doctor, one more thing. When can I talk to Fogner? I have a lot of questions to ask.”

“Probably tomorrow, if he awakens. His vitals are very weak. Not a good prognosis at all. Especially now that I know the antibiotics aren’t helping. I’d be surprised if he makes it through the night.”

“Well, thank you for seeing me, doctor. Sorry to bother you. Here’s my card. Please call me if there are any changes.”

He smiled, nodded and clipped her card to Fogner’s sheet. Over the speakers, a voice called, “Dr. Akers, report to E.R. Akers to E.R.” He rose from the chair, excused himself and rushed down the hallway to another emergency. Poole followed him as far as the lobby, broke off, and headed to her car.

“Mr. Cross report topside. Mr. Cross report topside,” the 1MC requested. Reading the Adam report, he had fallen asleep in his chair, resting his head on the small desk. The ship was steady now; the rocking had stopped. He raced down the hall, then up the stairs into the bright sunlight. The air smelled of wet metal. Wisps of steam rose from the deck around him; the Osprey was gone, its helipad vacant. Below, the sea was calm; waves, no longer white-capped, reflected the mid-afternoon sun in frenzied glints.

From the port side, he heard a commotion: crewmen yelling, hauling a long gleaming black cylinder towards the Glider. That will work, he thought. Atop the shoulders of six men, shuffling forward, it neared the sub. The front man yelled, “Heave on my command.”

“Need some help, guys?” Cross asked, approaching them.

The leader straining at the weight, snapped, “Yeah, adjust the arms so we can drop it in. You’ll want it pointing forward.”

He rushed up the sub’s hull, popped back the hatch, and slid through into cockpit. Throwing switches instinctively, he moved the joysticks; articulation motors whirred his commands, rotating the arms into view out the forward viewport. Then a twist brought them into position, like waiting cradles. Another switch opened the claws, perfectly aligned to accept the probe.

“Heave!” said the leader. The probe dropped snugly into its grasp. From inside, Cross closed the claws around it. A cheer erupted outside; the crewmen were high-fiving the task. He smiled, glanced around the cockpit ready for a dive. He knew that tomorrow he would start.

“Thanks, guys. Excellent job. Now, how do I work it?” He stood by the probe admiring it.

A senior crewman came forward and placed his hand over a circular sleeve around the probe’s body. “There is a magnetic switch, inside, under this sleeve. Twist it here to activate the probe, then watch the stern light panel through your forward viewport. It’s small enough it shouldn’t block your view.” He pointed back toward the panel. “That panel will flash blue when it senses radiation. The faster the flash, the higher the danger. A periodic green flash, every ten seconds, just means it’s working. That’s normal. Flashing red indicates a low battery; time to recharge. No flashing at all means you forgot to turn it on. Any questions?”

He laughed. “Hope that never happens. How long will it last before it needs recharging?”

“She’ll last longer than your sub. We’ll recharge both every night when you return. No worries.”

“I think I can work it, although it may be too simple for me,” he chuckled. “Every control in the sub serves at least three functions. I have to remember them all.”

“Well, Mr. Cross, we’re heading back down. On our last Bluefin mod. They’ll be out, ready to winch down by morning. Have you heard what time we start?”

“No I haven’t. Guess I’ll have to read the POD at Mess like everyone else.”

“Yep. That’s the way it rolls around here. See you then.” They walked to the large platform under the crane, pushed a button on a waist-high post, and slowly dropped out of sight. Over the void, a large thick clanking surface slid into place. He shook his head, marveling at the new Navy technology. Behind him, far to aft, the Osprey returned to its roost. He didn’t notice it.

Heading back, thinking his quarters were already closing in on him, he passed the officer’s mess. The aroma of coffee called him. Entering, he drew a mug of coffee and sat at an empty table. It satisfied his need for caffeine and gave him time to plan. He pulled a small hand-drawn map from his pocket and studied the grids. Running his finger toward Dana Point, then back to the ship and five miles further, he planned to create a fan of paths requiring five hours per leg. He could make two per day, leaving at sunrise and returning at dusk. Daylight made no difference a few hundred meters down, so he was not tied to it, he just had to have light to launch and dock.

A familiar voice came from above, interrupting his thoughts, “Excuse me. Permission to join you, sir?”

“Sure, sit.” he said, still staring at the map.

“Busy, Seaman Cross?”

“Sorry, I’m not--” He looked up. At the table, across from him was Mica Briscoe, navy blue jumpsuit, CHP baseball cap, looking healthy, lean and trim. A smile covered his face.

“Welcome aboard, Chief. How are you feeling? Radiant?” Shaking hands, he returned a huge grin.

“Ha ha. Very funny, Marker. I’m riding the waves again. In heaven. The radiation? Behind me now. I pissed it all out. Been working out, too.”

Cross smiled at the nickname, Marker, absent from his life for the past nine years. It felt good. Few people knew his middle name, from a maternal grandfather, but Briscoe had found it on his enlistment papers and used it throughout his tour: Matthew sounded too sissy.

“Where’s your duffel? Did you find our stateroom?” asked Cross.

“Sure did. I noticed you picked the bigger bunk, too.”

“Well, it’s yours if you want it, Chief. You’re bigger anyway.”

“I already took it. Hope you don’t mind. Did you dive today?”

“Nope, too rough. We did reconfigure the Glider for the scintillation probe, though. It’s ready to go.”

“Hey, did you hear about Fogner?”

“No, nothing. We’re in a communications blackout shipboard. What happened?”

“Get this. He set fire to his house in Dana Point then drove up to Sylmar and jumped into the L.A. Reservoir. Shot a deputy, in the process, then took a bullet himself.”

“My God, this just keeps getting better. What a wacko. Did either of them die?”

“No. Deputy’s okay, recovering; Fogner’s at Orange County General, dying. They don’t expect him to make it through the night.”

“That crazy son-of-a-bitch. He deserves to die. I just wish we could waterboard him first; get some facts.”

Briscoe sipped from his mug. “From what Poole tells me about his condition, he wouldn’t feel it or even care. He’s a dead man.” He looked back at the empty serving line and asked, “Hey, they serve donuts in here?”

Chuckling, Cross answered, “You are a cop now, aren’t you? You used to hate donuts. Said they were too fattening. What happened?”

“You know, Marker, it’s contagious. Hang out with me long enough, you’ll be craving them, too.”

“Too late. I already like them. Especially the fresh ones they serve at breakfast. They do serve them, but only at first Mess. They’re really good.”

Chatting over old times, they saw a seaman walk through, drop a stack of POD sheets by the entrance, then announce, “The POD is out!”

“Some things never change,” Briscoe said, rising to get a POD. He brought back two, handed one to Cross.

At the top of the page was:

“Huh. Upstaged by robots. At least they’ll be out of the way when I launch.” Pausing, he added, “Hey Chief, now that you’re here, want to pal along? It has two seats. I can use another pair of eyes and a log man.”

“I thought you’d never ask, Marker. That’s why I came out. You’re gonna need help on this search mission. Lots of it.”

“Agreed, partner. No backseat driving though.”

Briscoe smiled, “I once told you that. Remember?”

“Yeah, I wonder whatever happened to that old DSV. We called her Dipsy, if my memory serves me. The Latino divers called her “Deepsea.” Funny name. She was like one of the first Alvin subs commissioned. Had leaks everywhere. It’s a wonder we didn’t drown. If it weren’t for that Emergency Exit Procedure you developed, we’d be at the bottom of the Pacific right now.”

“That got me my Master Diver rating, if you remember. Those pressure pods saved us every time. Have any on the Glider?”

“No, but it has a break-away titanium sphere. Same idea, but classier. Two-man capsule. Never have had to use it though. It deep-sixes the hull and propulsion units. Expensive lever pull.”

Officers began filing into the room, passing their table, as the 1MC announced, “Mess Call, Mess Call.” The CS, culinary specialist, pulled the lids from the steam trays, releasing tantalizing aromas throughout the room. Officers with trays stood in line, talking, waiting their turn.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Always,” answered Briscoe.

“After you, Chief.”

The food was better than they both remembered. “The New Navy,” Briscoe called it.

With hours before lights out, Cross offered him a tour of the Operations Room: the search command center that would control the Bluefins.

The darkened Ops Room seated specialists at their consoles, poring over large color screens and digital displays. Oblivious to their visit, the SeaNetOps crew worked their stations through pre-search tests. The glow from the screens showed frozen silhouettes. Curious, Cross joined them and began asking questions.

The day’s activities on shore and at sea had exhausted Briscoe. He returned to the stateroom, fell into his bunk, and slept. Cross stayed behind talking with the SeaNet crew, learning their procedures. Eventually, satisfied and tired, he returned to the stateroom, found the open Adam file on his bunk, closed it and tossed it onto a shelf. Briscoe was already snoring. He knew enough. Enough to be scared. He patted down his bunk, crashed onto it, and closed his eyes.