Pi Day Doomsday

CLOSER

Reveille played to a half-full ship, still not enough crew to pull anchor, but an adequate number to begin preparations. Early Mess done, the maintenance crew went to work on the new clone, pounding metal, grinders throwing sparks; a new cone was taking shape. At the other end of the room, three Exosuit techs worked, refurbishing the suit, checking for damage, the foot joint remained twisted, locked in place. The welder had not yet returned.

On deck, activities were returning to normal; overhead, a crane was moving, lifting large cable reels and UUVs from their cradles into the hold, preparing for another storm. Crewmen rushed over the deck, securing loose items, looking to the west, trying to beat the weather. A morning tender pulled alongside, dropped a few dozen crewmen onto the platform, then moved off, returning for more.

In the ship’s bridge, the radar screen glowed with bright green and yellow patches, tracking approaching storm cells. Broward paced the room, looking at the calendar, then the radar, with each pass. It showed another delay, an unavoidable wait. He and the XO were the only ones that knew the real reason for the urgency of the move; their hands were tied, they couldn’t budge until the weather cleared. The crew was building back to normal; they would be full force tomorrow.

Below deck, in the Mess Hall, Cross and Briscoe waited, planning their dive. Ship’s officers moved around them, trays in hand, sitting at empty tables. Breakfast aromas drifted by them from each tray. Holding coffee in one hand, the new map, passed to them by the Captain at breakfast, in the other, Cross pointed, almost tipping his coffee, and said, “This one is closer to shore. If the contours are right, it may be deeper, too. Still above the Exosuit’s test depth, but close. We’re have to make a quick grab-and-go, bring it back to the ship, then hand it off to the Osprey.” He sighed. “You realize we may be working with only hours to spare, don’t you Chief.”

Briscoe nodded.

“Does that worry you?”

“If what the Captain says is true, that we have until three-fifty-five p.m. on the fourteenth, I don’t see a problem. Harper can pick it up, fly out, drop it, and return in two hours. That gives until about one-fifty-five to return it to the ship. We better start our dive early, like 0700, to give us a little slack time. There won’t be any penalties for being late, just a quick, painless death.”

“That’s a comforting thought, Chief,” he said, chuckling.

“Seriously, Marker, I want you to remember everything I’ve ever taught you. Keep one eye on Eve, one on me, and the other on your gauges; can’t go wrong that way.” He said, a wry smile covering his face.

“Got you, Chief.”

Briscoe’s coffee sloshed out, raced over the table, then splashed onto Cross’s shoes. The first swell brought the storm’s arrival. Overhead lights flickered, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled in its wake. A loud crash accompanied a tray sliding off a table; utensils and dishes flew over the floor. Men jumped at its suddenness. Crewmen waiting in the Mess line sat in nearby chairs, avoiding falling, sliding across the room. It was one of those storms.

Topside an arriving tender was turned away; conditions were too dangerous to dock. Harper was on the pad, tying down the Osprey while a crane operator winched up the cables; crewmen ran for shelter, scrambling into the stairwells.

It was time to wait out another storm.

The ship had been locked down tight until sunset. Activities had ceased, some crewmen were discussing their cancelled leave, wondering why, and others watched the television, cheering their teams on to the final 68. The tournament would start in three days; the day after pi-day, but no one suspected that day might never come.

A brilliant red sun, throwing orange daggers into the sky, dropped below the horizon, clouds raced inland, as the storm cleared. Soon the ship leveled, everything was calm; the smooth, rolling seas brought peace to the ship’s rhythm.

The maintenance crew, behind in their work, returned to the bay, continuing with their tasks. The welder, finally back from leave, sprayed fire over the floor as he began to repair the Exosuit’s failed joint. Another Exosuit tech polished the acrylic faceplate, breathing onto it, mouth open, then wiping the fogged areas with a white linen cloth. The cone builders welded the final plate over the exterior and began installing the lighted beacon.

It was all falling back into place. All they had to do was move six miles, re-anchor, then drop a dive to save the world, as Briscoe put it.

Taps sounded through the ship reminding everyone of the time, but restlessness consumed the crew. Rumors were beginning to circulate concerning the new missing missile tip story. Most crewmen had never been called back from leave; the few that had, had returned to wartime emergencies. Everyone slept with an open eye.