Pi Day Doomsday

ANCHOR’S AWEIGH

Dawn brought a new sun; signs of the storm dwelled to the east, it had passed during the night. Anchor rising, one clunking forty-pound chain link at a time, the Trident Tine lumbered southward to the new coordinates, centered over Eve. Captain Broward, intensely studying the GPS, called orders over the 1MC, steered the wheel and directed movement topside. He knew the six-mile trip was too brief to build up full steam; fearing a target overrun, he kept the ship’s speed to a crawl.

He worried that he left without the full crew: the remainder were scheduled back from leave today. His only resort was to notify the tenders with their new position: tendering was paused during their movement. They would board later. Conveniently, the sixteen crew members still ashore were not critical to the ship’s movement; their duties would rest for the day. The heads could remain dirty.

“Full astern,” Broward yelled. It had been three hours since their departure, and they were approaching Eve. The ship vibrated violently, reacting to the reversed screw motion. He turned to the right, watching out the starboard window until he saw the screws’ backwash reach amidships. “All stop!” he shouted. A quick glance at the GPS told him he was nearly on target, only a hundred meters off. That will do. “Drop anchor. Resume the Mess.” He announced, his voice echoing over the 1MC. “Drop the tender platform. Drop the crew ladder.” he announced next, then radioed the tenders to resume service to the new location. He ran down his landing list, and satisfied that he had not missed anything, turned the helm over to the XO and left the bridge. He was running the ship with a distracted mind. Afraid he would forget some crucial procedure; he needed to be alone, clearing his head of the repeating visions of Eve exploding under them.

In time, the ship’s operations returned to normal, the officer of the deck had approached the Captain, requesting permission to ring the midday eight-bell announcement, starting the afternoon watch. A rather curious tradition, asking for the Captain’s permission to ring eight bells, it stemmed back to days of twelve-hour hourglasses. It was once the captain’s daily prerogative to reset the hourglass based on the sun’s position. At the proper time, determined by the celestial navigator, the captain would say, “Turn the glass; make it twelve and strike eight bells.” Now, even using digital, radio-controlled clocks, the tradition persists, often used for sailing through time zones, the captain decides which zone they’re observing.

The bell struck noon: ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding. Mid-day Mess was open; the Captain sat at his table eyeing Cross and Briscoe, starting a meal. He motioned them over and offered them a seat.

“Permission to join you sir,” Briscoe asked.

“Sit,” he commanded.

They brought their trays and sat with him at the Captain’s table.

“I just checked with the fellows down in maintenance. The clone is ready for your use but the Exosuit’s still in repair. The sun sets at 1735 hours today, a little over five hours from now. Do you have time to make a dive? Possibly find Eve?”

“We have to go today. Not enough time tomorrow, Captain. We won’t need the suit today though, so that’s okay.”

“Briscoe going with you?”

“Yes, I like the extra eyes. He found Adam last time. Maybe a good luck charm. Besides, I like to give the old man an exciting ride once in a while, although he’d probably feel more comfortable if I mounted red and blue flashing lights over the viewport. Maybe added a siren or two.”

Briscoe punched Cross’s shoulder. “Hey, kiddo, I was diving deep waters when you were still in diapers. I just like to breathe air more than water. That’s why I took the dry route.”

Holding out his arms, Broward separated them. “Break it up, guys,” he said, laughing. Then, fading to serious, he asked, “If I can drop your sub by 1330 hours can you get back in time, before dark? We don’t really have the lighting for night dives.”

Cross nodded. “That will give us a little over four hours. We found Adam in less time. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Well chow down. I expect you to be ready for winching in an hour and a half.”

“Yes sir,” said Cross.

“Well, that was a relaxing lunch,” said Briscoe, snickering, climbing the stairs to the deck.

“Yeah, I’ve already forgotten what we ate.” He topped the stairs behind Briscoe, pointing. “Hey, we’ve got the scintillator probe back. They attached it to one manipulator, the pi-ball the other. Cool. Saves up a trip. Looks like we’re set to go.”

The crane towered over the rail dock with the hooks already attached. Below it, criss-crossing the deck, shadows from the afternoon sun tracked the ship’s motion. A lazy breeze chilled the afternoon air.

“Ready to go?” asked Cross.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They slid into the cockpit, closed the hatch over them, and said a brief prayer.

“Trident bridge, this is Glider. Copy?” said Cross.

“Loud and clear, Glider.”

“Winch us up,” he said.

The voice returned, “You’re on your way. Best of luck.”

The Glider floated freely for minutes, bobbing in the waves, while he caught a baseline GPS reading for the GINS system. Then he programmed in the new coordinates, hit the Auto switch and sat back awaiting their arrival over Eve.

Only minutes later, the target alarm sounded, red light flashing in sync, over the imaginary bulls-eye. “Boy, he stopped the ship right over her,” he said, adjusting the controls for the dive.

“Ready, Chief? Here’s your favorite part.”

“Let’s go find her.”

Grasping the arms’ joysticks, Cross chuckled, “Gotta make sure I drop the right thing. I’d hate to chase the scintillator probe to the bottom, still holding the pi-ball.”

Laughing, Briscoe said, “Yeah, Marker, get it right. No time for errors, now.”

Hydraulic pumps whined, the starboard claw opened, the Glider jerked, sending the flashing clone, beeping loudly, to the depths. Ten seconds later, Cross’s hands flashed over the controls dropping the Glider into a nosedive behind it. They were dropping just as before, the depth gauge spinning wildly.

Briscoe, held tightly, groaned and said, “Some day I’m going to get used to this.”

Cross laughed. “Don’t count on it, Chief. I never have.”

They raced toward the ocean floor, sea life forms zipped by the forward floods, glittering briefly as they passed. The pi-ball, flashing, leading them downward, held the distance.

Cross eased back the descent early this time, ready for the floor’s approach. It still came quickly. Then they were spiraling outward, searching for Eve.

The scintillator remained dark the first two hours. Its first flash jolted them, a blinding light in the darkness of their surroundings. They awaited the next orbit. It again flashed brightly, faster than last time.

“We’ve got a doozy, here. Eve’s pissed,” Cross said, switching off the autopilot.

“Where is she? Can’t see her.” His neck was extended, almost blocking the viewport.

Cross circled back around until the scintillator flashed rapidly.

Briscoe pointed forward. “There she is! Two o’clock, about five meters off starboard. In the silt. Big coral behind her.”

“Got her,” Cross said, turning the Glider toward the big coral blossom.

Shortly, they moved over her, gliding ten feet above the floor. The currents from the propellers caused her to roll in a small circle, leaving a trail in the mud.

He captured a GINS fix, then headed back to retrieve the pi-ball.

Grasping the clone’s handle precisely, firmly in the remaining manipulator arm, the Glider headed back to Eve, dropped it a few meters away; he relaxed when it hit. He backed off to stop the scintillator’s flashes, then hovered, looking down on her, watching the nearby beacon’s strobe light the ocean floor at regular intervals. Eve sparkled with each flash.

“Good job, Marker,” said Briscoe, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Think we should take her back with us?” asked Cross.

He checked his watch. “No too late. Besides, I have to cable her to the claw, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cross said. “Let’s go home and get some rest. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“If there is a tomorrow,” Briscoe added, wistfully.

Readying the controls to surface, he accidentally bumped the arm’s release button for the scintillator claw. It teetered, then fell off to the floor below, flashing again as it neared Eve.

“Uh-oh,” Cross said, floundering with the controls as if could catch it. Instead, it fell quickly, throwing up a cloud of silt with its impact.

“Leave it, Marker. We won’t be needing it again. If that’s the only mistake you make, you still get an A.”

Laughing together at his mistake, they headed back to the ship.

“Trident bridge, this is Glider. Winch us up. We need some coffee.”

“I’ll open the Mess early for you, Glider,” Broward returned.

The hooks jolted on the rail dock, lifting them from below. Soon they were back on the deck, water draining from the rail dock, the Glider’s hull splashing the deck around them. The evening sun reflected in dabbles from the pooling water. Through the viewport, they saw a uniformed man standing, waiting for them.

Opening the hatch, Cross heard Broward’s voice. “Welcome back, boys. Did you find her?”

Briscoe poked his head through. “Does a bear shit in the woods, Captain? I told you I trained him well.”

“Any problems?”

“We found Eve but lost the scintillator, Captain. Sorry. Take it out of his pay.”

“Well never mind, that. Come down here. I want to shake your hands.”

The Captain, elated again, congratulated them, and said, “You know, I’m going to have to get you guys back in my Navy. I’m not saying that you’re good, you’re excellent. Courageous, too. The best that I’ve seen in all my navy days. You’d serve your country well, as you’re doing now. Think about it.”

“Well, Captain, just remember we’re only a contract away. Much better pay.”

Briscoe added, “Better hours, too.”

Shaking his head, relenting to their refusals, he said, “Then you both should be happy that tomorrow, one way or another, your job is done.” He moved closer, lowered his voice, and asked, “I’ve been thinking. It worries me. We’ve had Adam, now Eve; do you think there might be a third? Maybe Cain? Could Fogner have been that vile?”

Cross prepared them, smiling, “We’ll if he did, then we’re just going to have to go raise Cain.”

Broward and Briscoe stared, emotionless, thinking on his double-entendre, then burst out in laughter, guffawing and cackling. “That’s a good one, Cross. You men go have some coffee and warm up. I’m buying.”

The Captain followed them into Mess, filled his mug, then theirs, and ushered them to his table. “Thought I’d update you on where we stand.” His voice was quiet, serious, tentative. His eyes stared through his cup. “Your Exosuit is repaired, Briscoe, but the techs won’t approve your use until they test it. At daybreak, 0700, they’re going to drop it overboard for four hours, tethered and weighted, to the ocean floor below us. They’ll bring it up, examine it, and if it passes, it’s yours to wear. They expect to have it approved by eight bells, noon.”

Briscoe flinched. “My God, Captain, that gives us just short of four hours to reach it, attach it to the Glider and bring it back. If Gruber and Poole are right, and that’s a big if. Harper still has to deliver it almost two-hundred miles out. How’s all that going to happen in four hours?”

“Very precisely and quickly. No room for errors. Realize that if your suit fails you Briscoe, we’ll be vaporized as you drown. This is the only way. I’ll see if I can push the techs a little. Break the suit away early. That’s the best I can do.” He sipped coffee and added, “As for Harper, he can pick Eve off the deck, fly out just short of international waters, drop her, and be back in the safety zone in an hour. That gives you almost three hours for your part.”

Cross coughed, cleared his throat, gulped, then coughed again. Though the plan sounded simple, allowing them plenty of time, something always went wrong, causing unforeseeable delays.

“You okay, Marker?” asked Briscoe, slapping him on the back.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I just threw up a little in my mouth. Coffee must be too strong.”

Briscoe, glanced at Broward, winked, then said to Cross, “You’ve just got the jitters, Marker. Navy up, man, and look forward to being back home, lounging wherever you lounge, having a cold beer, watching the Golden Bears win. You’re good enough; I’m good enough; we can do it, bomb or no bomb. Just control your mind. Make the bomb disappear from the equation. You’ll be fine.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Chief. You always have had the right words. Funny, they still affect me the same way.” Then he frowned. “But, I don’t like the Golden Bears. That part sucked.”

Cross stood and said, “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to go topside before dark and check the Glider.”

As he departed, Broward looked at Briscoe with a questioning stare. “Think he’s going to make it, Briscoe? I’d hate to see him choke in the bottom of the ninth inning.”

“He’s all right Captain, I’ve seen this happen many times before. He seems to go into a fight-or-flight mode at times like this. Fortunately, his fight always wins.”

“Good to know, Briscoe. Commander Norton and I are counting on you. As a matter of fact, all of California is counting on you, too… but don’t tell them. They’ll know soon enough.”

With that, the Captain finished his coffee and left the Mess. Briscoe sat alone at the Captain’s table rehearsing tomorrow’s dive. Suddenly he realized the tow cable they had used to tie Adam to the Glider was tossed aside during the Osprey’s airlift frenzy. The crew had replaced it with a harness fitting the drop hook. Wonder if there’s another one, he thought. It would save a step, not having to trade out the makeshift cabling mess before the Osprey’s liftoff. He never realized there might be a warhead harness.

In the maintenance shop, Briscoe called a crewman over to ask about another harness. Disappearing into a corner, he returned with three over his arm, nested like woven baskets. “How many would you like? We make these almost monthly. The Navy seems to lose a lot of warheads, these days. We stay prepared.”

“Just one. I’d like it latched into the Glider’s forward cable reel, right under the starboard flood. The old one’s gone, somewhere. Probably blew off the deck during the storm.”

“Oh, we have that, too. Would you like it back?”

“No, thank you. The halter will be perfect.”

Briscoe checked that worry off his mental list and went topside to join Cross. On the forward port deck, lit by the Glider’s floods, he saw the manipulator arms going through wild motions. The sun, falling over the horizon, threw brilliant red and yellow rays overhead. The scene was from a horror movie; a monster coming alive in the fading dusk, feeling for anything to grasp onto.

“Hey, Marker, what are you doing?”

A voice from the cabin echoed through the hatch, “Practicing. Practice makes perfect, you know.”

“You’re going to have plenty of time for that in the morning, you know? At least four hours.”

“Not enough time, Chief. Not enough time.”

Briscoe paused, thinking Cross was having predive anxiety panic: too much to do, too little time, undetermined consequences. He had repeatedly seen it teaching dive classes, particularly when the outcome involved life-threatening or indeterminate results. He knew he had to calm Cross down, bring him back to reality, assuage his fears. Not an easy task on the brink of extinction.

“Marker, stop! Come down here. I need to talk to you right now.”

The manipulators ceased movement, Cross climbed through the hatch, and jumped down to the deck; then he stepped over to him.

“What?” he asked, indignantly.

“I’m not diving with you in your shape. You need rest, meditation, a healthy meal, then a good night’s sleep. Can you do that for me, Marker?”

A scolded child, he nodded, “I can, Chief. I’m just worried that I’ll make another mistake, like dropping the probe. That was inexcusable.”

“Did everybody live? Can we return and find it using the pi-ball’s beacon? Is it replaceable?” He glared at Cross. “Huh?”

“Well, yes to everything, Chief. I guess you’re right. I have to put it all into perspective; my worries are insignificant compared to a nuclear blast under us.”

“Exactly. And we can’t let that happen. Now, let’s go to Mess, have a good meal and forget about tomorrow. It will come soon enough.”

Cross smiled, “That’s a good plan. I’m ready for some down time.”

Over piled-high trays of a savory beef stroganoff, the chef’s specialty, they chatted. “So what will you do when you return home, Marker?”

“First I’m going to give my wife, Lindy, a long, long kiss. Depending on where that goes, I’ll pop a beer. Then I’ll prop my feet up on the coffee table, turn on the TV and let my mind go blank. Next, I’ll call into work and ask for a few days off. I’ve been on this case nineteen days straight; I need a vacation with her on top of a mountain somewhere, maybe Big Bear Lake. We can stay in bed, under the covers, all day, every day. Hmmm. How about you, Chief? What are you going to do?”

“Let’s see. I’ll go home to Barb. She’ll be glad to see me, especially if I’m no longer radioactive. She’ll put up with me for a few days, then want me out of her hair. I’ll go back to my cruiser and patrol route keeping our roads safe. That’s about it. My life is fairly boring, unless I’m on a high-speed chase. I love those.”

“No vacation?”

“Unfortunately, we have a lot of bills. My Navy pension and my CHP salary barely pay them, with very little left over for fun times. We’re stuck in the middle class rat race. Just can’t catch a break.”

Cross rubbed his chin, saddened, thinking. He forked a bite of noodles into his mouth and, chewing, said, “Tell you what Chief. I’m going to give you and Barb the break you need. I want you both to be my guests at Big Bear. I’d like to pay for everything. Can you get a week off?”

“Wh… what are you talking about? You can’t do that. You’re still young. Must have a lot of bills, yourself.”

“I do, but my corporation, MBORC, is paying me a hefty sum for this contract. I want to share it with you and Barb since I really couldn’t have done it without your help. Can you get a week off?” He was more insistent with the question.

“I think… think I can. But wh… why would you do that for us?”

“Chief, I’ve told you before; I would never have been where I am if it weren’t for you. You gave me knowledge, confidence, self-worth. And you’re still doing it, today. You are truly a master diver, more importantly you have a kind heart. Don’t ever forget that.”

He tore a corner off his paper napkin, took a pen from his pocket, and wrote on it. As he passed it to Briscoe, tears welled in the Chief’s eyes; he looked back at Cross, trembling and asked, “Is this real, Marker? You can’t mean it.”

It was an IOU for $500,000.

“I mean it, Chief. As soon as I get paid, I’ll write you a check. I’m still keeping a huge chunk of change. You and the wife can stop worrying about bills for a while.”

“But this is ten-year’s salary for me, Marker. Hell, I can stop worrying about traffic for a while, too. How could I ever repay you? “

“You already have, Chief. Go live your dreams for a while. Make me smile with your letters from far-away places. I’ll be living mine, under the sea, as always.”

Briscoe, leaned over, hugged Cross, then sat up, trying to compose himself. ”You’ll never know how much this means to me. Wish I could tell Barb. She’ll remember you; I used to talk about you all the time when I was teaching. You were my star pupil in every class; always did everything perfectly. Still doing it, too.”

“Thank you, Chief. The blackout should be lifted about four tomorrow afternoon. Call her then. Or wait until you get home and surprise her with it. Maybe she’ll let you stay around more than a few days before you get in her hair.”

Briscoe finished dinner, then left for their quarters. He was exhausted from the day and knew tomorrow would be worse.

Cross smiled, watching him leave. Looking past the doomsday timeout had cheered him up, given him hope. His gift was something he wanted to do. He remembered, on separating from the service, shaking Briscoe’s hand. He had then asked the same question of him, “What can I ever do to repay you for your patience and the life-changing knowledge you’ve given me?” To his question Briscoe had answered, “You will, son, but only I will know when.”

Checking his watch, it was nine p.m. Taking Briscoe’s advice, he returned to the room, turned on the bunk’s reading light, and finished The Hunt for Red October. Briscoe was fast asleep, snoring.