Pi Day Doomsday

FINDING ADAM

Reveille crackled over the 1MC at five a.m. signaling day’s start. Seamen raced across the deck, shouting, hoisting, launching Bluefins into calm seas. In the chaos, the Maintenance Bay elevator whined, carrying the W-88 clone upward.

Another message from the 1MC, “There are divers over the side, do not rotate screws, cycle rudders, operate sonar, take suction from or discharge to the sea, blow, flood or vent any tanks, or operate any underwater equipment without first contacting the Chief Engineer and the diving supervisor.” It played twice, reminding the ship’s crew of its importance.

Below deck, Cross and Briscoe rose from their bunks, dressed and rushed to Early Mess, hoping to get nourishment and, more importantly, coffee before their dive. The Mess was almost vacant. Several officers sat in a corner quietly discussing the POD.

“Anything we’ve missed?” asked Briscoe, sipping from his cup. He crunched a slice of bacon noisily.

“Not that I can think of,” Cross replied. Chortling, he added, “We’ll probably remember it halfway down.”

“Would you rather me take the hard shell down? We may need the extra hands.”

“No, not yet, Chief. We’ll do a recon today and if we find Adam, return later to bring him up. Maybe then.” Looking at the wall clock, he ate faster, trying to keep up with Briscoe.

“You’re the boss now. Remember I’m just a traffic cop.”

Cross snorted his coffee, laughing loudly and said, “More like a hero on land and sea. You’re just amphibious now, Chief.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I guess I am. You brought it all back, Marker, and I thank you for that. Never realized how much I really love the sea.”

“Speaking of that, ready to see the activity on deck?” asked Cross.

“Yep, let’s go.”

Up the steps, out into the morning air, they dodged crewmen working the deck. The dusk-like illumination yielded shapes and motion but little details. Overhead a crane was swiveling a cone-shaped object toward the rail dock. Seamen stood by the Glider ready to guide it into place. Like clockwork, the activity progressed, impressive in its efficiency.

Pointing toward the cone, Cross said, “That’s our pi-ball. Looks great.” He could hear its periodic squawks; see the beacon activating. The brilliance from its flashes forced him to look away.

As it neared the rails, a seaman broke off and ran up to Cross. “Want us to put the clone at the Glider’s bow? Then you can just bump it off the dock when you’re afloat. Right in front of you. It should sink like a rock.”

“Sure,” he answered. “Good idea.” He looked at Briscoe and said, “This is going to be easier than shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Famous last words, Marker, famous last words.”

Waiting for the final Bluefin to launch and their turn on the crane, they completed the predive checklist, Briscoe alarmed the probe, and they entered the Canyon Glider, preparing to dive. The clone’s beacon flashed through the front viewport while Cross adjusted the passive sonar frequency to match the squawker. Nervously, they awaited the crane, knowing it wasn’t going to be a normal dive. Everything was ready. All they needed were the crane hooks on the rails.

He jumped at the head poking through the open hatch. “Need a lift guys?” the voice asked.

“Ready to launch,” Cross replied. During his time off, waiting for the search coordinates, Cross had modified the onboard scrambled radio set to match the bridge’s frequency. With the expected activity on the floating rail dock, he preferred not to read or send semaphores. He tried it, “Trident bridge, this is Canyon Glider. Copy?”

“Sure, loud and clear, Glider. Prepare for winching,” came the reply. He didn’t recognize the deep scrambled voice, but its chopped rhythm reminded him of Broward’s.

Cross closed the hatch, locked it, waiting for the four jolting clanks: massive hooks grasping the rails. The sideways shift signaled the umbilical pull.

They were up, swinging over the side, then down to the water in minutes. Cross warned Briscoe, “When I push the pi-ball over the edge of the dock, it’ll drop straight down. We’ll give it a ten-second head start then fall in behind it in a nose-down dive. Your stomach will come up in your throat and you’ll feel like you’re gonna die, but don’t worry, that’s normal.”

“Gee, thanks for the heads up, Marker. But you left out ‘and kiss your ass goodbye.’”

“Any time, now Glider,” the radio growled.

The rails hit the water, splashing the viewport. A few feet deeper and the Glider floated, hovering slightly behind the clone, still resting on the dock.

“Ready?” Cross asked, looking at Briscoe.

Briscoe coarsely voiced a klaxon dive signal, then said, “Dive! Dive!”

Shaking his head, smiling, Cross edged the Glider forward, scraping the pi-ball on the rails until the resistance disappeared. He counted, “ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four,” pushed the fill-ballasts and transfer-mercury-ballast-forward switches together, then continued, “one. Dive!”

Down they went, water roaring by the sub, in an underwater free fall. Briscoe gasped. The depth gauge spun, measuring a two-meter-per-second descent. In the distance, out the front viewport, the pi-ball led them downward. As the gauge clicked deeper, the light dwindled, bringing the flashing beacon into focus. Veering off to starboard, it caught a current. He eased the right horizontal rudder, keeping the beacon centered in the viewport. With a two-meter fall rate, he calculated he had roughly a hundred and fifty seconds to reach the floor. The pi-ball would reach it only seconds before him. Then he would crash behind it.

He stared at the depth sounder, watching the floor approach. Coming up at him quickly, he knew he had to slow and level out before he crashed nose-down.

Thirty meters over the floor, the sounder flashing danger, its voice warning, “Pull up. Pull up,” he switched to reverse thrusters, jammed the throttles, stomped the vertical rudder, and blew the ballast to add floatation and reduce speed. Briscoe, saucer-eyed, mouth agape, watched the pi-ball hit the bottom and rush toward them. Its flashes grew brighter with each second.

“Stop!” he yelled, pushing on the dashboard, arms taut against it.

A rushing, gurgling sound indicated the mercury ballast was flooding the aft tank. Within seconds, the Glider had leveled off and was drifting slowly downward.

Clang! Screeeech! Thump!

It scraped the bottom with a jolt, vibrating violently as it slid to a stop.

“My God, Marker. Do you always land that hard?” Briscoe asked, his face showing white in the instrument’s glow.

Exhaling sharply, the chaos ended, smiling, he looked at Briscoe. “No. Not always, Chief. Sometimes I hit harder.”

“Well, I’d have to change my pants after that,” he snickered, adjusting himself in his seat.

Moving the controls, Cross said, “Let’s go find Adam.”

The Glider, its floods illuminating the ocean floor, rose slowly. Cross nudged forward, pushed left rudder; it spun slowly in a tight circle sweeping a panorama of the surrounding area. The scintillation probe remained dark. Then a distant flash, from the pi-ball’s beacon, caught Briscoe’s eye.

“There’s the pi-ball! About one-o’clock, fifteen meters out.” Briscoe said, pointing forward.

Cross straightened the Glider, maneuvering slowly toward it. The comforting purr of the propulsion motors put them over the pi-ball in minutes. Light flashed from the bottom viewport illuminating the cabin in pulses.

He locked the coordinates into the inertial navigation system, then lifted it under the Glider by the catch hook. He planned to release it near Adam, providing a return beacon for their retrieval trip. “Now I’m going to start an outward spiral shifting ten meters out with each circle. We’ll start slow, then increase our speed with each loop, up to our maximum four-knot speed, as we spin outward. Keeps us from getting dizzy. I’ll set the guidance at three minutes per loop. In an hour, we’ll have cleared a two-hundred-meter radius from the pi-ball. Not fast, but thorough. Just so you know,” said Cross.

“Good search technique,” replied Briscoe. How long do you think it’ll take to find the warhead.”

“Until the probe flashes, Chief. No idea really, but we’re way better off than a blind search. Now sit back, relax and keep your eyes peeled. No sleeping.”

He reached to the control panel, dialed in the trajectory and pushed Go. Hydraulic motors whined, moving the rudders as the propulsion blades began churning slowly through the water, filling the cabin with a soothing whop-whop-whop-whop sound.

In the fourth hour, seventy-five loops into the search, seven-hundred-and-fifty meters from the pi-ball, the probe flashed briefly, awakening neither Briscoe nor Cross. They had both struggled to stay awake, but were overtaken by lack of sleep and the peaceful motion of the sub.

Three minutes later, it flashed again, brighter, with greater frequency. Cross flinched at the flashes, shielding his eyes with a hand. He jerked bolt upright, realizing the probe was alarming. He grabbed Briscoe’s arm. “Chief! Chief! We’ve found Adam. Wake up!”

“Huh? What?” he said, rubbing his eyes. Too drowsy to notice the rapid pulses of light filtering through the viewport, he ignored the call. Then, “Holy shit! It’s Adam!” he shouted, finally realizing what was happening.

Seconds passed; the light was gone. “What happened?” asked Briscoe, craning his neck toward the viewport.

“We should orbit back over it in three minutes. Just wait.”

As predicted, the next loop brought even faster, brighter flashes. Cross jammed the Save Location button on the GINS as they peaked. Stopping the auto search, he u-turned to the saved location and continued outward, away from the pi-ball. They could barely see the small black cone lying near the mud as they approached with the probe flashing in their eyes.

“Stop! There it is,” Briscoe shouted. Pointing down, his hand shaking with adrenaline, he stared out on Adam, resting on a colorful coral growth.

Cross killed the motors, leaving them adrift. With neutral buoyancy, they hovered, motionless, over the warhead. Instinctively he pushed the Save Location button again, locking Adam’s coordinates into the GINS memory.

Remembering his plan, wanting redundancy, he moved the Glider closer, a few meters away from Adam, and released the hook latch, dropping the pi-ball next to the coral reef. Now the two cones lay together, only yards apart on the ocean floor, a thousand feet down. He could easily return.

Sighing, relieved, he looked at Briscoe, held up his hand for a high-five and said, “We did it Chief. Now the hard part. We’ll return to the ship, drop the probe and caucus with Broward. Then the relocation program. Now that’s gonna be fun.”

“Yeah, Marker, if you think this is fun, I can’t wait to see what you do for excitement.”

It took a little over an hour to return to the ship, going the direct way this time. The Glider popped to the surface near the rail deck area at three p.m. Clouds were gathering toward the west.

Cross pushed the microphone and asked, “Trident bridge, Canyon Glider portside. Lower the rails for docking. ”

“Welcome back, Glider. You’re early. Crying uncle already?”

“I don’t know. Are we gonna be piped aboard this fine afternoon?” said Cross, winking at Briscoe.

The gruff voice returned, “What in the hell for? We only do that for dignitaries and flag officers.”

“Well we beat your brainless robots. We found and tagged Adam. He’s ready for disarming or relocation. Whichever you prefer.”

Silence.

“Do you copy Trident bridge?”

Silence.

The 1MC announced a message, unheard by them.

Overhead, the crane swiveled the rail dock over the side and lowered it to the waterline.

Smoothly, Cross slid the Glider onto the rails. “Ready for winching, bridge,” he said. He twirled the lock and threw back the hatch, welcoming the fresh air. Waves crashed against the Glider’s hull spraying seawater in on them. “Ready for winching, bridge,” he repeated, more insistent.

Quietly, swiftly they rose to deck level. Through the open hatch, echoing from the 1MC, they heard, "Lay to the quarterdeck the sideboys." Out, topside, on the port side, were two lines of four sideboys, standing at attention, saluting, near the dock’s resting spot. With the jolt of landing, Cross stood through the hatch, looking out to see what was happening on the deck.

Immediately, the quartermaster trilled the bosun’s call through the air, welcoming them aboard. Cross pulled himself out onto the Glider’s hull, looked back in and said, “Chief, get your ass out here. You’re going to want to see this.”

Briscoe poked his head up and looked around, tears welling in his eyes. He had always been on the other side, standing, saluting, never expecting to be honored like this. He jumped through the hatch and sat beside Cross, taking it all in. It was the pinnacle of his life. Gone from his mind were patrol cruisers and gridlocked traffic.

Still atop the yellow hull, ignoring four ruffles and flourishes from the 1MC, they chatted briefly. “Hey Chief, we did good, huh?”

“Yeah, Marker, we did good. I’m really proud of you. Never in my wildest dreams, teaching you, did I think you’d be piped aboard a ship. And you’re not wearing stars either.”

“You are the man, Chief. It all started with you. According to the 1MC you have four. How does it feel, Admiral?”

“Good, Marker. Good. Now, let’s go see the Captain, then hit the Mess line. I’m starving.”

Jumping down to the deck, they saw at the far end of the sideboy columns, the Captain waiting, smiling. Something they rarely saw. He stepped up to them, hand extended, and said, “Congratulations, men. You bested my machines as I thought you would. You took my challenge and won. I just knew you weren’t average divers. Too bad you’re not still serving with us. You’d both be wearing stars.”

Exchanging smiles, they looked back at the Captain. “What next, sir?” Cross asked.

Looking out to the west, over the railings, he said, “From the looks of those storms coming toward us, we’ll be dead in the water for a day or so. Nobody launches. We’ll have plenty of time to plan our next move, tomorrow. Now why don’t you fellows head down to Mess and chow down. I opened it for you. Private meal for our dignitaries.”

“Thank you, sir. We’re famished. That took way longer than we expected. But it was worth it.”

With the deck returning to normal, Bluefins being hauled aboard, set carefully in their cradles, they went to Mess, warmly welcomed by the Culinary Specialists. They had pulled out all the stops: prime rib for dinner, laid out in a large spread on a white linen tablecloth at the Captain’s table, a moment they would never forget.

“Poole, here,” the scrambled voice answered.

“Lieutenant Poole, this is Captain Broward aboard the Trident Tine.”

“Oh hello, Captain. Hope you’re calling with good news.”

“That I am, Lieutenant. Cross and Briscoe just located Adam, tagged him; he’s ready for extraction. About a mile west of us, toward Santa Catalina, a thousand feet down.”

“Oh my God, Captain. Can you say that again? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you correctly.” Her voice trembled with excitement.

“I said the diving team you sent out has been successful in their search. They found the warhead, not far from us, thanks to your GPS coordinates and Cross’s determination and ingenuity.”

The line paused; over the scrambler-carrier buzz, he heard Poole excitedly screaming the news back to her crew. Back on the phone she asked, “What are you going to do with it now?”

“Exactly what I was going to ask you, Lieutenant. Do you have a bomb squad that could disarm it?”

“Normally I would, but not one bound up in deep-sea diving suits in a thousand feet of water. They just won’t go for that.”

“I don’t blame them either. Not a decent working environment for any task. Impossible for disarming a nuclear bomb. If they make a mistake, it takes them and most of southern California with it. Best to move it further out to sea and let it explode.”

“Well I suppose so, but won’t that hurt the environment?”

“Tell you what, Lieutenant. If I remember correctly, you have nuclear specialist on your team, Gruber, I think. Pass the scenarios by him and ask for recommendations. I already have one from Cross. He wants to deep-six it two-hundred miles west, toward Hawaii. The ocean’s about two miles deep there. Should be nothing more than a big mushroom water splash, possibly visible from your coast. Maybe a little fire mixed in, but no damage to California. Or Hawaii.”

“I’ll do just that Captain. He’ll be glad to help. He always is.”

“Can you get me an answer tomorrow? A storm’s coming; we can’t dive, so we’ll be idle. Call me anytime.”

“Will do, Captain. Batten down those hatches. Poole out.”

With ComSec still holding his secure line, he flashed the hook, bringing the operator back on line. “Now connect me with Commander Norton, NWS Seal Beach. Thank you.”

“Commander Norton.”

“Roger, this is Tim Broward. I have some crow to eat. Your fellows, Cross and Briscoe found Adam today. Sorry I doubted you.” Between senior officers, formalities often dropped in favor of efficiency. This was one of those times.

He held the phone from his ear, before Norton yelled, “Woo-hoo! Told you so Broward.”

“I just gave them four ruffles and flourishes when they boarded with the news. They are as good as you say they are. Just to let you know. Thank you for sending them my way.”

“No problem, Tim. Just remember that next time you doubt my judgment.”

“I will. Oh, Roger, speaking of judgment, I could use your opinion on another matter. What do we do with Adam now. Can’t defuse him. Can’t leave him where he is. Too close to the coast.”

“Hmm. With the short fuse, I say you take him out to a harmless distance off shore and drop him down.”

“How far out? Suggestions?”

“I’d say a couple hundred miles, Tim. Find some deep canyon, a couple miles down, and lose him there. The press will report it as a lost bomb that fortunately landed in a harmless location. Don’t say it’s nuclear. They’ll attribute any marine life loss to Fukushima. I’ll go along with that: a conventional bomb, lost from our NWS inventory on a training exercise. We’ll get a slap on the wrist, not much more. Or blame an underwater volcano. That will work, too.”

“Ýou’re a genius, Roger. I’ll keep you updated. Broward out.”

Contented, he went to the Mess Hall to meet with the XO and plan the new POD. It would be simple: storms. His table was clear by now, Briscoe and Cross had dined and were sitting around the TV watching a movie. Dr. Strangelove was playing amid hoots and whistles. They all cheered for the cowboy, Major Kong, to ride the bomb.