Pi Day Doomsday

SEANET — DAY 3

Two days had passed without an alarm; the Bluefins had returned once for servicing and charging, but they were back out combing the ocean floor. Operating day and night, they had surveyed roughly one square mile per drone, yielding five square miles of warhead-free ocean. With over 120 square miles left, the situation seemed hopeless.

After conferring with his SeaNetOps team at their morning status briefing, Broward was convinced he needed more information. Either that or set sail to the furthest port and await the devastation from afar. He had always been hard-nosed, not afraid to face any situation, but he was not careless enough to let his ship sit over a thermonuclear undersea explosion.

Mulling the problem over at his desk in the CIC, he requested a secure ship-to-shore through ComSec and was granted access. The first call, through the secure line at Seal Beach NWS, was to Commander Norton asking for the Adam team leader’s number. Norton obliged and gave him Lt. Poole’s Crime Lab scrambler number. He placed the call.

“Hello?” the voice said calmly, a standard response on a scrambled line preventing further disclosure.

“This is Captain Broward, U.S. Navy, Ship’s Commander, aboard the Trident Tine. Can you get Lt. Poole on the line for me?”

“One moment sir.” Several clicks. A buzz. The scrambler reset.

“This is Lieutenant Poole. How can I help you sir?”

“We have a problem with our SeaNet exercise, Lieutenant.”

“Excuse me.”

“In two days we have scanned and cleared five square miles of the ocean floor off Dana Point. At our going rate we’ll have your suggested scan area completed by kingdom come. Can you help us?”

“I’m glad you called, sir. Our E.F. Lab, excuse me, Electronics Forensics Lab is in the process of determining possible drop coordinates as we speak. They’re using the memory chips extracted from the drop boat’s vandalized GPS, substituting them into another identical working unit.”

“Oh? Go on.”

“Yes, they’re tracking waypoints from the recent past, trying to find a suspicious pause, a potential drop spot. The suspect that owned the boat traveled a lot, leaving thousands of waypoints. Not an easy task.”

“Well Lieutenant, I’m sure it’s easier than finding a two-meter-sized object in a 328 million square-meter area. Can they speed it up?”

“They’re working around the clock now.”

“So are we. And I’m talking about a hundred-and-fifty men. Can you possibly get information from the bomber?”

“No, I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. He died yesterday. Bullet wound and radiation poisoning.”

“Did he say anything? Any last words?”

“I was there by his isolation tent, in the hospital, dressed in a biohazard suit. He was barely breathing, gasping each breath. I asked him to confess, bare his soul on his death bed.”

“And what did he say?”

“Strangest thing. A calmness fell over him. He started murmuring things, almost musically. I could barely hear them. The whispers said, ‘A long, long time ago, I can still remember how, music used to make me smile.’ Then he drifted off. He twitched, then continued, ‘But February made me shiver, with every paper I’d deliver. This’ll be the day that I die.’ I’ll never forget his words. Seemed familiar, like I’d heard them before, but distant. Then he opened his eyes, staring through me, and asked, ‘When did you die?’ He wasn’t coherent; I could tell. His mind was gone. I didn’t know how to answer. Then he muttered, ‘Eleven… eleven. When did you die?’ He kept repeating it. It was so eerie I had to leave. Got a call from the hospital last night at eleven-ten that he had just passed.”

“Well, that’s quite some story Lieutenant. You do realize those are the lines to “American Pie” don’t you?”

The scrambler’s carrier buzzed for seconds. “I do remember. I was very young when it came out. Never understood the words, though.”

“I know it well. My high school’s graduation song. Don McLean was masterful when he wrote that. A mysterious, sorrowful ballad. Everyone cried.”

“Well, maybe there’s a clue in there, Captain. It has a strange connection to the case, ending in pie. Glad you reminded me. I’ll look into it. Other than that, I got nothing. Still waiting on the E.F. Lab’s results. Maybe tomorrow.”

Broward disconnected, looked back into the dark Ops Room through silhouettes of his SeaNetOps crew intently watching their screens, and called out, “I want some results Goddammit! Change your search algorithms, increase the sensitivities, drop another data repeater, do something! It’s got to be out there.”

At a rear console, Cross had teamed up with a SeaNet operator and was watching, learning the robot’s search techniques and the ocean floor’s characteristics. Briscoe sitting several consoles over, had done the same. The screens refreshed every five seconds, creating a slide-show effect; each slide, coarsely transmitted back by ultrasonic communicators, reflected a ten-meter forward movement. Still, they could often see silt covered bottles and cans sitting on the bottom, illuminated by the floodlights, moving with the currents. A two-meter long object would tower over them. Besides, the radiation alarm above the image screen would flash brightly at the slightest indication of radioactivity from the Bluefin, illuminating the room with a crimson glow. It had only happened once since the search began and that was when Briscoe walked closely by a Bluefin on the deck, charging for the next dive. It took him hours to explain that incident to the crew.

Broward soon left the Ops Room, headed to his quarters, kicking pipes, slamming doors, and cursing on the way, knowing he had to write another failing entry in his logbook. He sat at his desk, put pen to paper and told of another futile day.