Pi Day Doomsday

THE CLEANING CREW

Lt. Poole arrived at the crime lab office at 8 a.m. A normal Friday morning, the SID Lab was buzzing with the week’s remnants, trying to tie up loose ends before the weekend. Although most law enforcement officers worked all through the week, the investigation lab operated on a skeleton crew through the weekends. This was her weekend off. Realizing pi day was only three days out and Adam had been moved a safe distance from land, she had planned a long weekend with Pupski, watching movies and eating popcorn with her telephone forwarded to the switchboard.

Entering the lab, she noticed things were neater, cleaner than when she left yesterday. The floors were glassy; a sure tip-off. Thursday, deep-cleaning day, she thought. Unlocking her office, she stepped in and noticed a small note on her desk. Taped to the lower part of the note was a small yellow post-it note. First things, first, she grabbed her mug and headed to the coffee pot, filling it to the rim. Two sugar packs, stirred lightly, and she headed back to her office. “Morning Lieutenant,” Garcia said, poking her head in. “Ready for the weekend?”

“Of course, Delores. It’s been a hell of a month, getting rid of Adam. Now I can breathe again. Do you realize that Monday is pi day? We almost caught the bullet on that one. Yes, It’s going to be a beautiful weekend.”

“Well, thank you for everything you’ve done, Lieutenant, I thought things were going to critical mass anytime now. I’ll sleep better knowing he’s hundreds of miles offshore.”

Smiling at the compliment, she leaned back in her chair, propped her feet on the desk and picked up the note. It said:

Before reading further, she examined the small attachment: a three by four inch yellow post-it note, slightly brown on the edges as if it had been heated in an oven, black thick ink from a marker pen, a thin smearing of a brown substance over the words. Oh, it’s just someone’s lost shopping list. Then she read on.

She read it again, trying to make sense of it. It slowly drifted back, slamming her in the face. A note written by Fogner. It must have been stuck to the newspaper clippings. She scanned it once more, understanding items one through three, then focused on #4 Reunite Eve with Adam. What the hell does that mean? Her stomach churned as it began to dawn on her. She darted her eyes to the big calendar by the door. Only four boxes remained unchecked. One was today. Nervously she rose to X the square, leaving only three and the third was pi day. Nauseous, she ran to the bathroom to throw up. Hovering over the toilet, her mind was whirling, spinning out of control. Could it be? How could we have been so stupid as to not anticipate another bomb?

Returning to her office, she collected her thoughts. Rummaging through her files, she pulled the Adam folder and extracted the decoded poem, reading it again. There it was: THERMONUCLEAR DESTRUCTIONS. Plural! They had originally passed it off as a grammatical error, but now she knew. There was another bomb, sitting in the ocean near where Adam had been. He reunited them.

Her mind flashed an image of the two weapons simultaneously exploding, creating two mushroom clouds in the distance. The cloud tops would eventually join, creating two fiery columns, a long flat mushroom cap connecting them: a gigantic iconic pi symbol in the sky, looming over Los Angeles. It would be Fogner’s signature move.

She bit at a split fingernail, brushed the hair from her face, wadded his note, and threw it away. There was another bomb! How could we have missed that? Where to start?

Broward had told her his crew would be on shore leave returning to the ship on the thirteenth. That was not enough time. He would have to call them back early to search for Eve. It was starting all over, but with no time for completion. She sat running the tasks over in her mind considering the short lead times.

“E. F. Lab, Jones speaking.” His voice was calm, relaxed.

Hers was desperate, pleading, trembling. “Warren, this is Poole in SID. We’ve got an emergency down here. Remember those coordinates you found from that radioactive Sea Ray’s Skyhook GPS?”

“Not likely to forget that for a while, Lieutenant. What’s up?”

“There’s another set of coordinates in that data: another Skyhook loop. Can you find it?”

“We’ll look, but it’ll probably take us a couple days. Can you work with that?”

“Yeah, if you can work with being vaporized the next day. There’s another bomb.”

“Holy shit! We’ll drop everything and get on it.” His voice had gone from calm to frantic in seconds.

“I suggest that, Warren. I’m calling the ship now to prepare them for the new search.”

“Good luck, Lieutenant. Gotta go now.”

She looked at her short list and ticked off the top item: Search coordinates. Next came the second item: Alert Broward.

“Broward here,” his scrambled voice boomed. Wincing, she held the phone out.

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Poole, Orange County SID. Got a second?”

“Why, yes Lieutenant I have lots of them right now, the crew’s on leave, enjoying your fine city. Any of them in trouble yet? Is that why you’re calling?”

“Er… no Captain, that’s not why I’m calling. There’s an Eve.”

She was used to the scrambler carrier quietly buzzing while he thought, but this time it was longer.

“I’m not understanding that. There’s an Eve? To go with Adam?” His voice was incredulous, even through the growling scrambler.

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. I assume it’s also set to explode on pi day. Fits Fogner’s demonic, iconic scenario. I’m getting the coordinates now.”

“Holy crap! Well, I’m going to have to call in the crew early from their leave. We do have an emergency recall on the books but I’ve never used it. Hope we can get enough crew members back to launch another search. I guess our lives depend on it, so I better get cranking. Three days, huh?”

“Yes sir. I’ll call back later today with the new coordinates: the E.F. Lab assured me of that.”

“I’m alerting the tenders right now. Then calling the crew’s cell phones with our automated messenger. Hope it works. Not all of them have cells. I’ll expect your call with our coordinates later. Goodbye, Lieutenant. Broward out.”

Now idle, her mind still racing, she stepped through the remaining calendar days. It would soon be down to hours. She called Gruber, the resident Nuclear Forensics Lab scientist.

“Charles Gruber. Go.”

“Dr. Gruber, this is Lieutenant Poole. We have a second bomb. This one’s named Eve.”

“Oh dear God. Where is it? From Fogner obviously: a mate for Adam.”

“Yes. We’re still recovering new coordinates from the Sea Ray’s GPS, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?”

“We’re counting down days now but it will soon be hours. What do you think of Fogner’s pi-day edict? Did he mean midnight of the thirteenth, when the calendar clicks over to the fourteenth or something else.”

“I can see several scenarios, Lieutenant, none of them good. Midnight is a possibility, but that would be only 3.14. Taking it a few digits further, 15926 could be hours and fractions of hours. So fifteen hours would be three p.m. Accordingly 15.92 hours would be around three-fifty in the afternoon. Any more digits tweak it forward in seconds, then milliseconds. If we’re that close, it’s just too late. That’s my best guess, seeing his OCD fascination with numbers. Now, whether it’s in Pacific time or Greenwich time, I can’t tell. I would assume he would want them to go off when everyone is at work, concentrated in a small area, not in the outlying bedroom communities.”

“Thank you, Dr. Gruber. I have to put a stake in the ground somewhere and three-fifty p.m. is as good a point as any to place it. If it’s earlier, we’ll never know.”

“Well good luck, Lieutenant. You’re going to need it”

Cross and Briscoe stood in the Captain’s office listening, disbelieving.

“Do you mean there’s another bomb, Captain? Like Adam?” Briscoe asked.

“That’s what she said.”

“Well… what… where is it?” asked Cross.

“She’s pulling the data right now. Should have it in a while.”

“What can we do for now? The crew’s gone; we’re dead in the water.”

“Well, what will you need?”

Cross rubbed his chin. “For one thing, another pi-ball.”

“Excuse me? What’s a pi-ball?”

“That’s what we call the warhead clone the guys down in maintenance made for us. A ballooning throwback. We’ll need another one.”

“I see.” He looked at the returning roster. “Well, a few of them are already back on board. I’ll call down and get another one started. Anything else?”

“The scintillator. Has to be reattached to the Glider.”

“I’ll see to that, too. Remember, we’re short handed. May take a little bit longer. I’m shooting for you to dive tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll have to plan the dive. Things are different, but the same,” said Cross.

“I’ll need the Exosuit again. Can it be readied in time?” asked Briscoe.

“As long as our four launch technicians make it back. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He reread the roster. “Looks like one of them is already back. I’ll get him started on the recharge. Takes about twelve hours.”

“Thanks, Captain. Anything else?” asked Cross.

“No, just prepare your Glider. Dismissed.”

Broward, starting his duties, clicked the intercom, connecting with the Maintenance Bay. A voice answered, “Seaman Horn. What can I do for you, Captain?”

“Horn, make a list. I need the scintillator reattached to the Glider, a new warhead clone, just like the last one you built, and the Exosuit recharged for another dive.”

“Wow, Captain. I’m down here by myself. I can start on everything, but there is a problem.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“A foot joint on the Exosuit was damaged on the last dive. Briscoe says he caught it in a coral reef. Can’t dive with it the way it is. It’s gonna take at least a day to repair it, when the dive techs return. Only one of them knows heliarc welding. I can get started on everything else. Still going to take a day to get all that done by myself.”

“Can we dive tomorrow?”

“I thought we were done, Captain. Why more dives?”

“We just learned there’s another lost nose cone. While we’re here, we’ll pick it up, too. Save us a trip back. So, think we can drop a dive tomorrow?”

“Don’t count on it Captain. There’s a lot of work to do. I don’t even see the crane operators back yet. They probably didn’t get the recall message. We’re at least forty-eight hours out from a dive.”

Broward cursed under his breath, wanting to explain the urgency to Horn, but he deferred, not intending to start a panic at this late date. “Fine, Horn. We’ll go when we’re set.”

Nervous, wanting faster results, he went topside and waited, roster clipboard in hand, by the tender landing platform. He could see the next one, still on the eastern horizon, crawling toward him. It was due to arrive in the next hour. He looked down the roster, circling the key people he needed to be aboard the incoming tender. There were Exosuit techs, crane operators and launch techs circled: fourteen in all. He paced the deck, waiting.

Forty-five minutes later the tender pulled alongside the platform, thirteen crewmen exited, frowning and grumbling over the canceled leave. Pulling one aside, just topping the ladder, the Captain asked, “Seaman, where is everyone? You must have received the message, why didn’t they? I’m still missing almost ninety men.”

“Captain, it’s this way. Most of us turn our cells off when we hit the shore. We’re either having too much fun or too drunk to answer it anyway. If I hadn’t promised a friend I’d call when I was in town, I’d never have seen the SMS message. It simply read, ‘Return to Ship.’ I was close to the harbor so here I am. I didn’t see the other crewmen in town or I’d have grabbed them.”

“Thank you, son. It’s nobody’s fault. We’ve just had an emergency mission pop up. I hated to do it, but now we have to find another missile tip.”

“Sir, if it’s all right, I’d like to unpack and get back on station now.”

“Thanks and carry on, seaman.”

Interrupting the offloading, the 1MC announced, “Captain Broward, you have a shore call in your office. ComSec is holding for you.”

“Broward here.”

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Poole. Our E.F. Lab found another Skyhook loop, as I suspected. It’s four miles straight out from Dana Point, about six miles south of Adam’s drop point. Got something to write with?”

“Yep, go ahead Lieutenant.”

“The loop centers on the point described by 33° 25’ 13.59” North, 117° 45’ 14.47 West. I’m reading that verbatim. Copy it?”

He read back the numbers for confirmation.

“Correct. Can you dive tomorrow?” Broward recognized the worry in her voice.

“That’s not looking very promising right now, Lieutenant. The data you just gave me makes it even more improbable. That’s a long trip for the Glider. We may have to pull anchor and move over it.”

“Do whatever you need to do, Captain, but please, please get it out of there. That’s closer than Adam was. It will certainly takeout Los Angeles and San Diego.” Pausing, she signed off, “I’ve done all I can do. Wish I could be of more help. I’ll be praying for your successful mission.”

“Thank you for the coordinates, Lieutenant Poole. We’ll do our best.”

“Oh, Captain, one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I questioned Gruber about a predicted explosion time. We know it’s on the fourteenth, but we don’t know what time.”

“I’ve been worried about that, too.”

“He reasoned, and I agree with him, that Fogner’s obsession with details probably led him to a literal translation of pi into time. I did a few calculations myself and concluded its most likely timeout is at three fifty-five and thirty-five seconds p.m. Hope we don’t need those extra seconds.” Laughing nervously, she disconnected.

He closed the ComSec line, pulled out his map, and studied the new coordinates. The distance was beyond the normal mini-sub range, making it a riskier trip for Cross and Briscoe, especially with the Exosuit, towing Eve. If anything happened to them, all was lost. He had no other options. They still had three days to find Eve, retrieve and dump her; he rapidly charted a course to the new coordinates and took them to the bridge,

“Captain, we don’t have the manpower to move the ship. They’re still on leave. How do you plan to do that?” asked the XO.

Energized, yet disappointed, he dropped the chart to his side and watched a new storm forming to the west. “We’ve got to move closer. The sub won’t make that distance, not with that load. Plus, there’s a new storm coming. Just can’t catch a break. I’ll be in my quarters. Notify me when we have enough crew to set sail.”

“Aye, Captain.” The XO returned to the helm, watching the next tender approach. It was still on the horizon, moving their way.