The Rising Sea

14

paul stared straight ahead. Clad in a black wetsuit and a full-face helmet, he gripped the frame of the Remora and held tight. It felt like he was riding a toboggan down a snow-covered mountain in a stiff headwind. His hands were clenched around the two metal bars that extended from the body of the machine. His feet were wedged into a space just ahead of the propulsion duct. The propeller, shrouded by a circular fairing, lay just beyond.

“Keep the speed down,” Paul said, speaking into the microphone in his helmet. “One slip and I’ll be looking for new toes.”

The signal was relayed to the surface where a repeater sent it on to Gamay, who was controlling the ROV from a boat a hundred yards off. Her reply came over the intercom with a bit of interference. “You insisted on going down there.”

“Next time, I’ll let you win that argument.”

Keeping himself close to the body of the ROV, Paul risked a glance to the side. Off in the distance, through the murky waters of Osaka Bay, he could just make out the wake of Gamay’s boat: a white slash against a dark background.

Though he was only traveling at a depth of sixty feet, the surface was a dim shadow above him. Heavy ship traffic churned up sediment in the harbor, while runoff from the urban areas and industrial pollution caused algae to bloom and chased off the fish that ate it.

“I can barely see a thing,” he said. “How far out are we?”

“Quarter mile to go,” she said. “I’ll have to start veering away from the ferry in a moment. But I’ll lead you right toward the center of the hull. Let me know as soon as you catch sight of it. From that point on, I’ll adjust course based on your instructions.”

“You mean, I get to tell you how to drive?” Paul asked. “This is a first.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied. “Turning now. You should see the hull any minute.”

Braced against the buffeting force of the water and counting off the seconds, Paul kept his head up and eyes forward. While he saw nothing but a gray-green background, there was plenty to hear: the high-pitched electric whine of the Remora’s battery-powered propeller, the fading buzz of Gamay’s boat as it moved farther away and a low hum that came from directly in front of him.

“I can hear the ferry’s engines,” he said.

“Can you see it?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “But it’s suddenly obvious to me why dolphins developed sonar.”

“Sound works much better down there,” she replied. “Let me know when you see something. I’m dialing back your speed.”

Paul felt the ROV slow, and though they were doing only a couple of knots to begin with, it significantly reduced the strain on his arms.

He caught sight of a shape up ahead. “I see it,” he said. “Looks like they’re dumping bilgewater. Steer me ten degrees to the left, would you? I’d rather not go directly under that.”

The shrouded propeller deflected to the side and the tadpole-shaped ROV turned. “Perfect,” Paul said. “Straight ahead now for twenty seconds. Then bring me up to a depth of thirty feet and cut the throttle.”

The hull of the ferry came into focus. The ship was a twenty-year veteran of channel crossings. Its metal plating was painted red beneath the waterline, but the rust and a coating of marine growth gave it a mottled color. It drew sixteen feet of water and Paul passed beneath the outside edge with plenty of headroom above him.

“Cut the throttle,” he said.

The motor shut down right on cue and Paul and the Remora coasted to a stop, dead center beneath the keel of the ship.

Paul switched on a diving light. “And now for the manual portion of our endeavor.”

With a tether from the Remora attached to his ankle, Paul released his grip on the ROV and swam upward toward the overhanging hull. Diving beneath a large ship was an interesting experience, one Paul hadn’t had before. Reaching out to the hull felt as if he was touching the bottom of a cloud.

“Contact,” he said.

“How’s it feel to have thirty thousand tons floating over your head?” Gamay asked.

“Makes me thankful for the laws of buoyancy. I’d be very upset if they were repealed in the next ten minutes.”

Moving along the hull, Paul found the spot he was looking for. A section near the bow that the engineers at NUMA insisted would have the lowest amount of dynamic pressure once the ferry began to move. “I’ve found the attachment site.”

“How’s it look?” Gamay asked.

“It’s a full-on barnacle convention,” Paul said. “Apparently, the Shanghai Ferry Company doesn’t care to defoul their ships.”

This layer of marine life was the reason for Paul’s ride on the Remora. The ROV was designed to connect magnetically to the bottom of any steel-hulled vessel, but it couldn’t attach securely through a layer of hard-shelled barnacles. To ensure that it stayed in place until they were ready to use it, Paul would have to scrape a section of the hull clean.

To do so required a device known as a needle scaler. The electrically powered appliance was shaped like an assault rifle, complete with a shoulder stock, a vertical handgrip and a long barrel that ended in a titanium chisel. Once Paul activated the scaler, the chisel would vibrate back and forth at high speed. Paul would be the manpower behind it, pushing the blade through the barnacles, scraping them away and revealing smooth metal beneath.

“Here goes,” he said.

He switched the unit on and it shuddered to life. Making sure he had good contact, Paul pressed the blade against the hull and shoved it forward. He had to kick with his legs to keep from being pushed back, but the scaler worked like magic and the barnacles fell away one strip at a time.

Gamay began talking. “How thick are the layers?”

“At least four inches deep,” Paul said.

“It’s amazing how fast marine growth appears on a ship,” she told him. “Did you know that newly launched vessels have a film of microbes on them within twenty-four hours of going into the water?”

“Did not know that,” Paul said. “Trust me, these are not microbes.”

As Paul worked, Gamay launched into a soliloquy on the subject of barnacles. She spoke about the Romans using lead sheets to protect their boats from woodworms and the British putting copper on the hulls of their sailing fleet. She said something about tin being a great defense against marine growth, but, unfortunately, that was because it releases poison into the water at an alarming rate.

Paul wasn’t really paying attention. He was concentrating on keeping the chisel at the proper angle and forcing it through the colony of hard-shelled organisms. He cleared a two-foot-by-two-foot patch in one spot, a smaller section ten feet behind the first and, finally, a third spot just ahead of the main one.

By the time he finished, he was getting quite good at the task.

“…In fact, the process of marine fouling is really quite fascinating,” Gamay finished.

“I’m sure it is,” Paul said, certain that he couldn’t repeat a third of what she’d said. “And the defouling process is surprisingly gratifying. Like using a snowblower on the sidewalk back in Maine.”

“Are you finished already?”

“All set.” He clipped the scaler to his belt. “I’m going to maneuver the Remora into position. Stand by to activate magnets.”

Manually guiding the Remora in the still waters of the harbor was another athletic endeavor. The ROV was set to zero buoyancy, which meant it weighed nothing, but it still had enough inertia that Paul was breathing hard by the time he’d pushed, pulled and otherwise manhandled the ROV into place.

“Activate the main magnet.”

Holding the Remora steady, he felt a buzz, and then a solid clunk, as it pulled itself up a few inches and attached itself to the hull. The main magnet was a large circular patch on the top of the Remora’s head, just like the suction cup on the actual fish.

“Activate the other two,” Paul called out.

The fore and aft magnets powered up and connected, locking the ROV in place. Paul tested it by grabbing onto the rigging, placing his feet against the ship’s hull and pulling with all his might. The ROV didn’t budge.

Letting go, he drifted away from the hull. “One large metal barnacle attached where the others were scraped off,” he said. “Heading your way.”

“Fantastic,” Gamay said. “I’m two hundred yards off the port beam. Directly across from you. Swim perpendicular to the hull and you’ll find me without any problem. Better not dawdle, though, we still have a ferry to catch.”