Pi Day Doomsday

PI DAY

The alarm buzzed loudly at 12:01 a.m. Cross reached up, grabbed the clock and held it up to his face. It was after midnight. He switched it off and pinched himself. “Yep, I’m still alive,” he mumbled. Briscoe, across from him, still snored loudly. He had learned the best way to sleep with nearby snores was to synchronize his breathing with theirs. For some reason it worked, fooling his mind into thinking it was him doing the snoring. Ten slow breaths and he was again fast asleep.

Five a.m. Reveille caught the deck busy with crewmen, unaware of the day’s importance. Floodlights gleamed from deck towers, illuminating the activity below them. The sea, calm, rolled the ship with gentle swells; the air was heavy, still, clearing with the lifting fog. Aromas of breakfast cooking drifted down the hallways and up stairwells reminding crew members that the Mess would soon open.

The POD, distributed last night, showed dive launches starting at 0700. Exosuit techs had started early, preparing for the test dive. In the lights, the deck cover clack-clacked open, the large elevator platform rose in its place carrying the Exosuit, fully assembled and pressurized, standing alone, empty, a gargantuan Stormtrooper, waiting to be rolled to the side rails for the winching crane to hoist it over. To its harness, a thousand-foot reel of cable was connected, ready to drop the personal submarine to the depths and bring it back. Techs ran around the suit testing joints, reading handheld instruments, recording measurements. Final checkout would take another hour before the drop. Then the crane operator would take over, but he needed daylight to assure its safe winching. The scheduled seven a.m. test dive was right on time.

“Hey Chief, up and at ‘em. We’ve got a busy day ahead.” Cross, dressed in a hazmat yellow jumpsuit, blue and white Cowboy’s baseball cap, kicked Briscoe’s bunk, jolting him awake.

“Hey, take easy, Marker. I was having a dream. I was sitting in a beach chair, under a shading palm tree, sipping on a rum punch. It had a tiny pink paper umbrella in it. Then a bomb exploded. That was when you kicked the bunk. Paradise to nightmare in zero seconds, thanks.”

“If we don’t get started, your dream may come true. Now rise and shine. I’ll be having coffee. See you at Mess.” He closed the door behind him. Briscoe groaned, moving slowly, rolled out of bed, then dressed and left for the Mess Hall, minutes behind Cross.

A mood of tentative elation filled the Mess. Captain Broward seated at the Captain’s table with the XO and another officer talked, softly discussing plans. Cross heard occasional words: ‘San Diego’, ‘dry dock’, ‘Alaska’, and ‘next mission’. The optimism comforted him. He had less than twelve hours, his watch reminded him, until it was over, but his mind and the tasks ahead pulled him back to the present. He had to wait for the suit’s return to deck before they could dive.

Cross picked at his food, not feeling hungry.

“Not going to eat, Marker?” Briscoe asked, biting into a warm glazed donut.

“Well look at you. You’re only eating donuts with coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“Good luck meal. I always have this when my days are going to be busy. Sugar keeps me going.” He scowled, continuing, “Unless they’re radioactive. That slows me down a bit.”

Returning their trays to the wash window, with little else to do, they returned to the deck, checking the progress, wanting to dive.

The Exosuit had been moved to the side rail, ready for winching. Techs, surrounding the suit, yelled predive details, recording them in notebooks.

“Suit pressure: 14.7 PSI.”

“External pressure: 14.7 PSI.”

“Ballast weight: 800 pounds.”

“Batteries: 100 %.”

“Depth meter: Zero.”

The list went on.

They continually checked their watches, looking east, awaiting sunrise. A tiny orange sliver on the horizon finally brought daybreak. Their dive was go.

The 1MC startled Briscoe. “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.” Then, “An Exosuit test is in progress over the port side until eight bells. Do not disturb or distract the suit techs during this time.”

He looked at Cross, standing nearby, then up at the Exosuit rising over the deck, and muttered, “There goes my ride. Hope it holds up.”

Once winched over the side, the Exosuit, suspended from the crane, dropped slowly to the water’s surface. A tech, looking up at the crane operator, gave the drop signal; the huge reel began to spin on its axle, slowly at first, then like an accelerating locomotive, rumbled with increasing rotation, spitting out cable with lightning fast speed. Loudly whining, the steel rope raced over a notch in the side deck, beginning to throw smoke and sparks. Seeing it, a suit tech ran across the deck, grabbed a hose, then returned and sprayed the cooling water on the cable. Minutes passed before the reel slowed to a halt, still throwing out slack cable, as the suit hit bottom; a tech clicked a stopwatch and announced, “Testing started at 0710 hours.”

“Still on schedule for a noon release,” said Cross, hearing the tech’s echoing voice. “How fast can they button you up?”

“Last time took about twenty minutes. Could be faster this time. We should be able to dive by noon-thirty.”

“Yeah, that makes it sound bett--.”

Interrupting, the 1MC announced, “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.”

“We know, we know,” said Briscoe, irritated with the repetition.

The 1MC booming again, announced, “An Exosuit test is in progress over the port side until eight bells. Do not disturb or distract the suit techs during this time.”

Cross continued the conversation, shaking his head at the interruptions, “So if we have Eve back on deck, ready for pickup by Harper and his Osprey by two-thirty, that gives us two hours to go down, pick her up and get her topside. Not much time.”

“No room for errors,” said Briscoe.

“Gotta be perfect,” confirmed Cross.

Briscoe ended the interchange with a hand in the air, requesting a high-five. Cross slapped it down and said, “I’m pumped up now. It’s gonna happen. I can feel it.”

“Well, we have to do something to pass the time, make it go faster. I’m going down to Mess and watch TV. Get my mind off the wait.”

“I’m with you. Watching this test is like watching grass grow. Television has to be better. Let’s go.”

From below they felt and heard the crane winch up the suit. They knew it would soon be time for the test review and suit’s release. It was eleven-thirty, their dive should commence in an hour.

“Okay, let’s go wait on deck. I can pre-check the Glider. Can’t be too careful,” said Cross.

“Damn, this a long day. I feel like I could take a nap. Only problem is I’d never wake up.”

Below, in the Captain’s office, the intercom buzzed. “ComSec on line one. You have a shore call waiting.”

“Broward.”

“Hello Captain. Lieutenant Poole again.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I hope this isn’t another discovery call.”

“No, it’s not. Our office is getting a little nervous. We’re all biting our nails, watching the clock tick away the hours. No explosions, no news, nothing. Can you please tell us what’s happening out there?”

“Sure, Lieutenant, you’re not alone. We’re awaiting Cross’s dive to retrieve Eve and ship her out to sea. That should happen any time now. Nothing else we can do.”

“Well Jesus Christ, Captain, you’re really cutting it close. Gonna give us all heart attacks. Can you do anything to speed it up?”

“Already have. It’s moving like clockwork out here. Cross and Briscoe are chomping at the bit, ready to dive. Harper, our Osprey pilot, is already warming his engines. Everything is on track. They should dive within the next hour.”

“Speaking of the Osprey, I talked with Gruber about Eve’s relocation. He said to warn you about dropping her too close to Adam. That could reinforce his destructive power; double his impact. Twenty miles away from him would be a safer distance. Their effects should cancel each other between them, like explosive armor.”

“Good point, Lieutenant. I’ll get that to Harper so he can chart a new course: twenty miles north. Sounds reasonable to me, but we’re forging a new frontier here. Who knows what will really happen. We plan to document it from shipboard for future research. Unfortunately, Fogner ignored the nuclear test ban treaty; we might as well get some data from it.”

“Captain, I’ve got another call coming in. Have to go. May God be with you and your crew. Goodbye.”

Disconnecting, he raced topside to find Harper and redirect the drop.

Eleven-forty-five came, the techs were just opening the Exosuit looking for leaks, rotating the repaired foot joint. The Glider was in final preparations for the dive. After confirming the warhead harness had been properly placed, locked in the cable reel near the floods, Briscoe inspected the Glider’s hull, feeling the surface for nicks and gouges that could impede its motion. Finding none, he moved to the viewport looking for cracks and gasket wear, then grasped the hull’s Exosuit rack, pulled and tugged, testing its strength. Unseen by him, one of the bolts, holding it, jiggled free and dropped to the deck, rolling under the bow. The other bolts were loose as well, but he didn’t notice; it tested tight. Meanwhile Cross tested the controls from the cockpit.

From across the deck, a suit tech walked toward them.

Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding. The OOD struck eight bells. Briscoe looked up at the tech. “Need me?”

“Yes sir, suit’s ready. Passed all checks. Good as new, maybe better. Follow me.”

He motioned Cross. “Hey, Marker. I’m suiting up. Be back in a few, ready to dive. Get yourself ready, locked in; our time in the spotlight is here.”

Cross nodded, climbed over the hull, and dropped through the hatch, locking it behind him. Switching on the Glider’s power, Cross scanned the control panel, glowing with indicators, sonar screens; a spot of sunlight beamed down from the viewport.

“How does that feel?” came a question through the Glider’s intercom.

“A little tight.”

He recognized the voice from Briscoe being suited nearby.

“Intercom working,” he mumbled, checking it off his list.

He ran through the remainder of the checklist, ticking each item after confirming its operation. Ten minutes later, he placed the list by his seat and waited.

Hissing from heavy breathing, boots clomping on the deck preceded Briscoe’s appearance out the front viewport. “See me? Hear me, Marker?” He poked his helmeted head up to the port, scaring Cross with its suddenness.

“Yes, Chief, loud and clear. Go for dive?”

Briscoe stepped onto the suit’s special platform, backed into the rack, locked himself into place, then replied, “10-4, Marker. Hit the lights and siren. Let’s go.”

Cross smiled and keyed the radio, “Trident bridge, Glider ready for winching.” His watch reading twelve-thirty-two, told him he was right on schedule.

Umbilical pulled, winching hooks locked onto the rails, they lifted from the deck headed into the most important dive of their lives.

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.”

Floating from the rail dock, bobbing in short rolling waves, Briscoe’s amplified voice urged, “Dive, Marker, before I get sick.” His voice carried up to the deck, causing a round of laughter; they cheered him on.

“Diving now, Chief, hold on.” He recalled Eve’s coordinates into the GINS system, locked the maximum speed at one knot, and activated Auto. Ballasts filled, the mercury tanks rebalanced, the propulsion motors hummed, and they headed slowly downward.

“Not too fast. Don’t want to be blown off this rack.”

“Slow and steady, as they say, does it. Let me know when you see the pi-ball beacon flashing.”

“I’m watching, but let me know when our coordinates are close. I’ll watch harder.”

The Glider submerged at a rack-safe rate, placing them just above the floor, thirty minutes later.

“I’ve got the pi-ball in my sights!” yelled Briscoe.

“Where? Which way?” asked Cross, straining to see out the viewport. He felt his heart was about to pound out of his chest.

“Eleven o’clock, toward port, maybe twenty meters out. A dull flashing in the silt.”

He saw his suited arm, blocking the viewport, pointing off toward the left.

“Got it, Chief. Maneuvering over Eve. Hang on.”

Circling slowly onto the target, he adjusted the ballasts and motors to stop, level, five meters away, the Glider’s floods illuminating the scene. He tapped the side thrusters, centering Eve in the lights. A few meters off, the beacon blinked, confirming their location.

“There she is, Chief. Go get her. Same protocol as last time. Guide me in after you get her harnessed.”

Briscoe unlocked the warhead harness and started toward the warhead. His slow-motion bounding out toward Eve, kicking up silt, reminded Cross of vintage videos from moon landings, astronauts romping over its surface demonstrating the lessened gravity. For a moment, he was a child again, mesmerized by a vision of the first lunar landing.

Arriving at the warhead, Briscoe switched on the suit’s floods, bent over, and slid the harness smoothly over her, locking the bottom strap. “Looks like that’s got it Marker. Ease on up and grab the handle with both claws. Then I’ll climb back on and we’re off to home base.”

He edged the Glider closer, moving cautiously, avoiding Briscoe, then stopped; the claws drifting inches from Eve’s harness. Twisting and pushing the joysticks, he slid one claw through the handle then the other. He locked them closed with a final twist.

“Got It, Chief. Look all right to you?”

Briscoe moved slowly over the warhead inspecting it and the harness. “Yep. Looks just like Adam. Same eight-latch lid, same size, same quiet beeping. It’s another modified W-88. That Goddamned fruitcake was serious. Let’s get her the hell out of here and on her way out to sea.”

“Ready, Chief. Hop on. Watch out for the reef; don’t catch your foot again.”

He pulled himself back on the platform, locked his suit into the rack, and said. “Take us home, Marker. She’s got a date with destiny and she’s running late.”

Cross pulled up the rudder, pushed forward the throttles, blew the ballasts, and started upward. The Glider moved sluggishly, Eve’s extra weight slowing it down. He mumbled, “Gotta get more lift. We’re not going to make it back in time at this rate.” The Glider had been struggling upward for twenty minutes and was still far from the ship.

“I can help, Marker. Let me blow my suit’s ballast, I can see the instructions now; that will lessen my weight, pull us up faster.”

“Can you do that?”

“Yep, according to my head’s up display, I just toggle my Surface button. Air will fill my ballast tank, giving me positive buoyancy. The suit should lift us up after that.”

“Sure you want to try it?”

“Marker, I have to. We’re moving too slowly. She’ll blow before we get back. All I have to do is--. Oops.”

The Glider jolted with his action. A loud whoosh followed by a jarring clank alerted Cross. The ‘oops’ punctuated the danger.

“Chief? Are you all right? Hold out your left arm so I can see you.”

His voice returned, weaker, further away, “I am holding it out, Marker. The ballast blast popped me off the hull. I’m floating upward. Can’t tell where I am. Can’t see the Glider. Rising, drifting up.”

Cross’s face flushed, his heart raced; he began to panic. He had lost Briscoe. With tears forming in his eyes, he screamed, “My God, Chief. How can I help you? I’m coming to find you. Hang on.” He switched out of autopilot and dropped the outboard ballast weights, speeding his ascent. Spiraling the Glider upward after Briscoe, with blurred vision, he scanned the dark empty void. Minutes had passed. Nothing. Eve, in the grasp of the manipulators, began to vibrate, shudder with the increasing speed.

A whisper now, from a distance, the voice pleaded, “Don’t do it Marker. I’m okay. Just take Eve back. Do what I say.”

In a moment of prudence, reason overcoming his emotions, obeying Briscoe’s command, he reluctantly readjusted the controls, stabilizing the Glider. Sweat pouring from his brow, he pushed the Auto switch then said, “I’ll find you, Chief. I’ll come back to save you. Save your strength.”

True to course, the Glider popped to the surface, the Trident Tine gleaming in the afternoon sun, out the front viewport. Never had he seen such a welcoming sight. He sighed with relief. “Thank you God,” he murmured, slowing the motors. His part was done.

“Trident bridge, Glider and Eve off your port side. Drop the rail dock deep. Ready the winch and Osprey for handoff.”

“Copy that, Glider. Signal when you’re ready for winching.”

The crane seemed to take longer than usual to winch him up but it was probably his nerves. The mechanical delays were out of his control; he wanted to slow down time and live in fast-forward motion.

Finally, it came; the bump of the rail dock hitting the deck eased his anxiety. He sighed, twirled the hatch lock and threw it back, started to exit, then decided to wait inside until the chaos settled.

From the beehive of activity on his bow, he heard a shout. “Release the claws.” He clicked the joysticks, settling Eve onto a waiting dolly. The Osprey rumbled, spinning the rotors into motion. Crewmen quickly rolled Eve away to an open area of the deck. Rotors, now up to speed, turbines whining, the Osprey lifted from its pad.

Flying low over the deck, Harper carefully hovered above the warhead, motioning his lineman to drop the hook. It lowered slowly to within inches of the harness blowing wildly in the Osprey’s downdraft.

“Grab the damn hook,” screamed a crewman; a torrential wind swirled around him.

“Got it! Hook it in!”

“Signal the Osprey. She’s locked and loaded.”

A hand signal went up to Harper; the Osprey roared, rotors noisily chopping the air; Eve lifted slowly from the deck. As the rotors tilted forward, it sped out over the water, racing toward the horizon.

Nervous, Cross checked his watch. It was three o’clock. He knew the bomb would timeout in fifty-five minutes, taking the Osprey and Harper with it. He said a prayer, climbing slowly through the hatch, then off the hull. The deck under his feet splashed as he landed. Crewmen ran about, cleaning the Glider of seaweed, replacing the ballast weights, fitting a new cable loop into the cable rack; repairing damages from his emergency surface.

A suit tech approached, searching the hull. “Where’s Briscoe? The rack? The Exosuit?”

Eyes cast down, he answered, “His rack failed. He washed off the hull. Lost him. He told me to go on, return to the ship.”

“Oh my, God. Was he hurt?”

“Don’t know, but don’t think so. He sounded alone, confused, lost, but he did not sound injured.”

“That’s good. He can float, survive thirty hours in that suit. It’s got a surface GPS; he can even swim back if he figures out how to use it. And remembers the ship’s coordinates.”

“That’s a big if, but I’m hoping his old codger’s memory is still sharp. I’m praying it is. I’ll go back out in the sub in a few hours and search for him, after Harper returns.”

“Well, if he’s not injured, he should be fine for a while, just shook up; that suit’s pretty claustrophobic.”

“Give me a minute, seaman. I’ve had a really bad experience.” Cross said, sitting down on the deck.

“Yes, sir.” He moved to the bracket mounts where the Exosuit rack had been bolted. “Looks like the bolts just unscrewed themselves with the motion of the ocean. Someone didn’t tighten them correctly during the predive checklist. No signs of lock washers either.”

“It’s not on the checklist. Never made it there after you installed the rack. Simple human error. Hope it didn’t kill Briscoe.” He put his hands over his face, regretting the mistake.

“There he goes,” said the crewman, trying to ease his pain. They turned their attention west as the Osprey, rotor sounds fading, slipped out of sight over the horizon.

“Where’s he taking that?”

“No idea,” Cross answered. “I’m not privy to that.” He bit his tongue, wanting to tell him the truth, but would leave that for the Captain. The story onboard was still a missing dummy warhead retrieval mission. He had abided by that story his entire time on board, but he knew that was about to change. He wondered how the Captain would handle the explosions when they came; surely they would be visible from the deck.

“Trident bridge, Osprey One approaching drop point.” Harper’s voice, vibrating from the rotor’s shaking, roared from the bridge’s radio. Urgency filled his tone.

Broward, edgy, pacing the bridge, jammed the microphone button, “Just lay it down and get the hell out of there, Harper. You have twenty-five minutes before they blow. Your top speed will put you within seventy miles of the ship: a safe distance from them. Now drop her and hightail it, dammit. You don’t have a second to spare.”

“Dropping her now, Captain.” The rotors flared in the microphone’s background, increasing the vibrations.

Seconds passed. Broward waited for feedback. “Trident bridge, Osprey One. Eve deep-sixed, heading back.”

“Thank God,” he said. The officers on the bridge applauded Harper’s message.

Ten minutes later, he switched the microphone to the 1MC input and announced, “Now hear this. Now hear this. All hands report topside. All hands report topside. Bring binoculars with you. No cameras. You’re about to see something no man has seen before; the real reason we’ve been here for the past two weeks. Once topside, file orderly to the portside rail and look west, out at the horizon. Wait there until three fifty-five and remember what you see. A word of warning, though. You all have security clearances: required of you to staff this ship. Consider what you are about to witness at the top level of your clearance. Nothing leaves this ship except memories, locked away on your mind, not to be shared with anyone. Enjoy the display, and thank you for your courageous service. Broward signing off. I’ll be out on deck with you.”

His words captured the crew’s attention. They scattered through the ship, telling crewmen unable to hear the 1MC, grabbing binoculars, and speculating about the Captain’s message. Quietly, orderly. they flowed up from the stairwells toward the port railing. The ship listed slightly to port as they arrived, looking westward, chatting about their recent experiences. No one knew the real truth, except for a few officers Broward had let into his private world.

Less than two minutes before the pi digits lined up, the crew stared westward. The flat horizon remained featureless. Nothing was happening. Then a crewman, looking through high-powered glasses, pointed and shouted out, “I see the Osprey out there. Low over the ocean, heading our way.”

Everyone looked over to see which way he was pointing, then redirecting their gaze. The horizon continued to flat line. The Osprey came into view, just over the water.

Barely perceivable at first, behind the Osprey, the ocean rose silently, gently in two massive mounds of frothing seawater, miles apart, then shuddered, collapsed and reformed into two towering fiery bubbles shooting black clouds laced with swirling fire high into the sky. Twin hellish columns rose from the shimmering bubbles into the tropopause, then mushroomed out into a flat top, connected through fiery clouds, forming an anachronistic pi symbol in the distant sky.

The crew stood speechless, hypnotized by the spectacle. A few turned away, others zoomed their binoculars to get better views. Aside from the crowd, Broward stood watching. talking with Cross.

“You did it, son. With Briscoe’s help, God rest his soul. Saved us, and most of California. Unfortunately, they will never know what really happened. Higher-ups have directed that we cover up the story with disinformation. I’m reluctant to do that, but they fear copycats. Funny how Washington wasn’t interested until we started moving warheads around. Then their ears perked up and they took over. You’ll read about it in the paper, tomorrow.”

Cross’s eyes darkened, reminded of the Chief and all they had been through. He had lost a father when the rack broke loose. He was trying to be brave but his heart was broken. He smiled, “I was planning to return and search for the Chief. Think that’s a good idea?”

“No. The shock waves from those explosions could arrive at any time. Don’t want to get caught in them. We’ll send out some UAVs, Bluefins, tomorrow to search for him. They’ll find him one way or another.”

Cross dropped his head. He was hurting inside. Wanting to share this moment with his old buddy; he never expected this to happen.

Broward looked out at the Osprey approaching, not far away, and nodded to it. “I’m sending you home on the Osprey tonight to be with your family. Your work here is done. Mighty fine job, I might add. Pack your bag you’ll be leaving within the hour.”

“Wh… what about the Glider? How is it going back?”

“We’re heading to San Diego tomorrow for a few days in dry dock, then heading north, up the coast to Alaska. We’ll be passing right by Monterey. We’ll anchor at sea for a day, bring you in on the Osprey and you can take the Glider back home. Simple. You need a week off anyway, after what you just did. Take a break from diving.”

“Well thank you, Captain. I’d love to get home. The faster, the better, now. I’ve got a vacation picked out in Big Bear, as far from the ocean as I can get. Perfect time for it.”

They paused as the Osprey landed, blocking their conversation. Harper waved through the window, then smiled with a thumb’s up. As the rotors slowed, then stopped, he quick-stepped down the stairs, dropped to his knees and kissed the landing pad.

Laughing they continued their conversation. “Well, I want to thank you for your exemplary work on our ship. Oh, that all our sailors were like you. Sure you don’t want to re-up? I can find you a place on a sub, much larger than the Glider. I can get you a captain’s rank, too. Commanding it would be a snap for you.”

“Captain, thanks for the offer, but I don’t want a ship larger than the Glider. It’s like an old pair of shoes to me. I enjoy the solitude when I dive. I could never get that on a big ship. This mission has proven that to me. I’m where I belong in the Glider. Not everyone can pilot a DSV, you know.”

As they continued, a tinny thin voice came over the port side, “Hey! Can anyone up there hear me? Look down here. I need a dock.”

The few crewmen remaining at the rail, watching the mushrooms dissipate, looked down at the voice. Below them, a white Exosuit, floating in the waves, making snow angels in the water, flailed wildly trying to get anyone’s attention. One waved back and screamed, “Man overboard! It’s Briscoe!”

The suit’s intercom answered, “Yes, that’s me. Drop the damn rail dock for me. I’m worn out from swimming. I need some coffee before I freeze to death.” They could hear his teeth chattering as he spoke.

Cross, hearing the commotion brightened, laughing, he ran to the rail and stared down. “My God, it is Briscoe! You’re alive!”

“Hell yes, it’s me. Can’t lose me that easily. Now send the dock down and get me.”

Cross bounded over the deck to the rail dock, screaming. “Man the crane. Drop me down. Somebody help.”

Above, a crane operator scurried up a ladder and into the crane’s control room. Seconds later, the dock lifted, carrying the Glider, Cross standing beside it, down to the water.

Crewmen still watching over the side, saw Cross, fighting the waves, standing on the dock, floating inches down in the water, pull Briscoe onto it. Then he signaled to raise the dock. “Thank you, Marker. You did good.” Briscoe said, breathing heavily through the speaker.

Solid ground had never felt so good to him. He pulled himself up from the dock, stood looking around to get his bearings, and plodded toward the Exosuit rack. Cross followed alongside, assisting his balance in his weakened state.

A voice from the 1MC echoed, “Exosuit suit techs report topside. Exosuit suit techs report topside. Your suit is back. Report immediately.”

Four seamen shot from the stairs to the suit rack, grabbed Briscoe and helped him shed the suit. Another carried a blanket and wrapped it around him, bringing him warmth. Still shivering he said, “That’s damn cold water out there. Thought I wasn’t going to make it, until I saw the Osprey fly over. That renewed my energy, brought me home.”

Cross put his arm over his shoulder and pointed west, the pi formation still lingered. “See those clouds out there?”

“Uh-huh.”

That’s Adam and Eve, reunited. They blew together right on schedule. We saved everyone; maybe lost a few fish, but we’re safe. No more Fogner. No more threat. It’s over. We’re going home.”

Briscoe showed a feeble smile, still shaking. “I’m gonna need a lot of coffee first, Marker. Maybe a donut.”

Chuckling he answered, “Let’s get you down to Mess. See what we can round up.”

Warming up, sitting with his hands around a steaming mug, he watched the Captain approach. Cross stood at his entrance.

“We got him back, Captain. He’s gonna be okay.”

“Great. Welcome back, Briscoe,” he said, seating himself at the table.

Biting into a morning’s donut, he answered, “Wonderful to be aboard again, Captain. I don’t think I like that one-man submarine; not enough heat. Everything else worked perfectly, though. Amazing where technology has taken diving.”

Nodding, Broward went to the serving line, poured himself a coffee, then returned.

“Now, I have Harper on alert for your departure. He’ll take you both back when you’re ready. Cross, I assume your car is at your workplace, where the Glider resides.”

He nodded.

“Do you have a landing place there where the Osprey can set down?”

“Yes sir. There’s a big grassy field nearby we use for sports, play lunchtime football. It’ll fit there.”

“Good. How about you, Briscoe? Your car still at Tustin, by the big hangars?”

“Unless somebody stole it, should be waiting.”

Cross smiled at his sense of humor finally returning. “So, how about an hour, Captain? We’ll pack, clear our quarters, and head to the pad. Meet Harper there for liftoff. We’ll be out of your hair, just memories of a nightmare actualized. Okay?”

“Perfect. I’ll be there too, to see you off.”

Together they packed their duffel bags, cleared the room, and stood at the door, looking back in before closing it.

“It’s been fun, but not real fun. This room is going to be in my memories forever,” said Cross.

“Yeah, mine too,” Briscoe added, wiping his eyes.

Topping the stairs, heading over the deck to the helipad, they saw two rows of four sideboys again, used only for presidential visits, standing at attention, saluting, lining the path to the pad’s ramp. As they neared the sideboys, the boatswain’s mate piped them through, up the ramp to the Osprey. Four ruffles and flourishes played from the 1MC saluting their exit from the ship. The Captain stood on the deck below, looking up, saluting them.

Cross aside, whispered to Briscoe, “Never forget this moment, Chief. You taught me well. Made it happen. Thank you, Chief.”

They sharply returned the Captain’s salute, turned and boarded the Osprey. Harper looked back through the open cockpit door.

“Welcome back aboard, gentlemen. It’s time to take you home. You did a great job. Thank you for your punctuality out there. Thought we were cutting it close, but the schedule worked. Still sitting here, enjoying life.”

With that, the crewman pulled up the stairs, slammed the door and signaled him. The turbines fired up, slowly rumbling to a high pitch, the rotors spun up to speed, the Osprey lifted from the pad, leaving the Trident Tine’s crew still saluting from the deck.

They sat privately thinking, not talking, on the short trip to Tustin. As the Osprey touched down, Briscoe grabbed his bag and stood, turning to Cross. His eyes, moist with tears, showed his emotions. “It’s been great, Marker. I’m gonna miss you. Never in my life did I think I’d be at the mercy of one of my old students. Thank God, it was my best: you learned well.” He turned to leave, the stairs dropped behind him.

“Hey, Chief don’t forget Big Bear. See you and Barb their soon. Call me.” His eyes, too, were reddening with tears.

Then Briscoe was gone. The crewman waved out, lifted the stairs and slammed the door. The Osprey, roaring again, lifted from the pad heading north.

One short hour later, it touched down in the grassy football field. The MBORC parking area was empty, having cleared hours before. Several lights shone through the building’s windows: people working late, rushing to complete projects.

Harper left the cockpit to see him off. “We’ll Mr. Cross, this is the end of the line. It’s been a real kick working with you. Not often do I get to work with such expertise. I’ll see you again in a week or so. Pick you up from this field. The Captain will let you know when.” He shook Cross’s hand and returned to the cabin as the door opened, stairs dropped.

He looked back, remembering his first encounter with the Osprey, only weeks before. It seemed like years, now. Returning the crewman’s salute, he headed to his SUV, started it and drove home, eager to see Lindy again, hold her in his arms, ravish her with love.

Knock, Knock.

The door opened, thrown back as she recognized him in the porch lights. “Matt, you’re home!’ she screamed, giggling, hugging him tightly. “I wasn’t sure when you’d return, but I expected tomorrow. I’m so glad you’re home early.” She hugged him, kissing his lips tenderly.

He threw his bag over a chair and spent minutes standing, kissing, hugging, speaking sweet nothings into her ear. Three weeks apart during their young marriage, only three months past, reminded him how much he loved her. He tugged her, not resisting, into the bedroom.

Ten minutes passed and they returned to the living room, sat, smiling, staring at each other for a long time.

Lindy broke the pleasant silence, “So how was your trip? Save the world again?” She laughed, giggling, as she always did on his return. The man she adored had returned. She had him all to herself for a while.

“Nah,” he said. “Just fixed an undersea cable. Same old, same old.”

She cocked her head. “They paid you two million dollars to repair a cable?”

Improvising, he replied, “Yeah, it carries monetary data between the U.S. and China. Ten billion dollar’s worth every day. My part was a drop in the bucket compared to what they could have lost. Plus it involved some danger; parts of it were below the Glider’s test depth. Almost killed me.” He choked up, thinking of Briscoe, and continued, “Fortunately, once again I prevailed against the unforgiving ocean. Here I am.” He was pouring it on, leading her on with his believable fabrication.

Almost in tears, she hugged him again. “Oh, honey, you’re so brave. Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah, there was no alcohol on the ship. I’d love a cold beer. Been thinking of one the whole time.”

“Well you just sit right there, I’ll get you one.”

Returning with two, she handed him one and popped open the other.

After tapping bottles, he sat back on the couch, put his feet on the coffee table, sighed and asked, “So what’s been happening here? Anything interesting?”

“Well you got something in the mail from the U.S. Treasury, looks like a check. I wanted to open it, but I saved it for you.”

“Yeah, we know what that is. Anything else?”

No, not much, until today. I really got worried about you. A Special News Report interrupted our newscast at four, reporting on two underwater volcanoes that were erupting far off the coast of Los Angeles. It was quite spectacular. Navy officials said they were harmless deep-sea fissures erupting from the ring of fire. It happens every hundred years or so. They even felt some small tremors from it in L.A. No one was hurt or injured, as far as they know.” She paused, “I was afraid you might be working near there and be injured or even killed.”

“No, I missed that. Must have been exciting, though. My work is always boring. Always underwater. Miss everything.”

He sipped from his beer, grabbed the remote and switched on the TV, expecting to see live coverage of the volcanoes. Instead the NCAA March Madness tournament had started; the Golden Bears were winning. He smiled, anyway. Life was good.