Deep Fire Rising - v4 (18 page)

From the air, the
Sea Surveyor
looked like any other scientific vessel, with her superstructure hunched over her bows, a long open deck at the rear and an A-frame derrick hanging from her stern. Two boxes the size of shipping containers ate some of her deck space. Mercer figured these housed science labs and the topside support facilities for the bright yellow submersible that sat below the crane. The ship’s helipad jutted awkwardly from the back of the superstructure two levels above the main deck and required all the pilot’s concentration to land. He held the chopper just long enough for Mercer to dodge out of the aircraft and catch his bag and some other gear from a crewman.

Gale-force rotor wash whipped Mercer as the long-range chopper eased away from the pad and thundered off to rejoin the
Reagan
. A moment later a man in his late forties appeared from a nearby door. He wore a white tropical-weight uniform with short sleeves and gold epaulets at the shoulder. He had a slender build and wasn’t more than five feet seven, but his graying hair and the steadiness of his gaze gave him a strong physical presence.

“Philip Mercer?” he called a bit suspiciously, as if he was expecting someone else choppering out to the middle of the ocean. “I’m Jon Carlyle, third officer. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you.” They shook hands and Carlyle led him into the superstructure. The air-conditioning beat back the humidity and heat.

“We were startled by the radio message this morning from the navy that they were flying you out. I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting a civilian. You are a civilian, right?”

Mercer was still getting comfortable with using his title and the startled looks it invoked, but he needed to establish his credentials early. “Actually, I’m special science advisor to the president.”

“Of the United States?” Carlyle was suitably impressed.

“That’s the man. I’m here under the authority of Admiral Ira Lasko, the deputy national security advisor. Not only were you at the right place and time to monitor the sinking of the USS
Smithback
, but until the navy can get a salvage ship from San Diego, you’re also the only one with the proper equipment to investigate the wreckage.”

“Ah, we weren’t told you’d commandeer our sub for a survey.”

“Your captain — Jacobi, I think his name is — should be on the ship-to-shore right now getting orders to assist me in any way. And in case you’re wondering, the government’s picking up the tab.”

“What exactly are we supposed to do?”

“You know the circumstances surrounding the
Smithback
’s sinking?”

“I was on watch when her distress call came through,” Carlyle replied. “She said she hit an iceberg. At first I thought it was a crank, but now, well, I have a theory.”

Mercer waited.

“It was the last words, about the sea catching fire. I think she hit a container that fell off a freighter and whatever was in it caused the blaze.”

“That’s our assumption too.” Mercer had decided not to mention anything about Tisa Nguyen and her predictions and would have proposed the container theory had the third officer not thought of it already. He’d also created a plausible cover for the urgency of his mission. “However, the navy needs confirmation. There have been unspecified terrorist threats against our ships in the Pacific, and if this turns out to be something other than an accident…”

“They have to know right away so they can take appropriate steps,” Carlyle finished for him. “I was in the navy for twenty-one years. I know how it goes and personally I’m glad we’re here to help.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carlyle.”

“Jon.”

“Jon. People just call me Mercer.”

“Let’s get you settled, Mercer, and come up with a plan to survey the wreck.”

Mercer stowed his meager luggage in the cabin assigned to him and took a brief shower. He stepped from the tiny bathroom wearing only a towel and was about to toss that on the bed when he saw a raven-haired woman standing in his doorway. He recalled closing the door minutes earlier. She wore sandals, tight shorts, and a T-shirt that sweat kept plastered to her skin. It was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She radiated an earthy sexuality that Mercer imagined would captivate most men.

She appraised him for a moment. “That was quite an entrance.”

“The helicopter?”

“That, too.” The flirtation went from her voice. Her eyes hardened. “I’m Spirit Williams, one of the scientists who’s losing their opportunity to work because of you.”

“I—”

“There’s nothing you can say, so don’t. I’ve spent a lifetime to get aboard this ship, and I wanted to say thanks for screwing it up for me.” She wheeled away and was down the hall before Mercer fully grasped what she’d said.

He didn’t go after her. It would be a waste of time. He knew the type. A scientist, probably still working toward her doctorate, so dedicated to her work that anything, no matter how serious or important, was a distraction she refused to tolerate. Such narrow-minded focus served scientists well in their own world, yet made many insufferable to the rest of society. He expected the rest of the science staff on the
Sea Surveyor
would treat him in a similar fashion. With any luck he’d complete his mission before seeing her or any of the others.

Ten minutes later, Mercer found the mess hall and saw his luck had already run out. Spirit Williams was in the mess hall with Jon Carlyle and a young blond man in diving trunks and a garish Hawaiian shirt. Her leg was pressed against his, and she was drinking orange juice from a glass in front of him. Noticing the ring on his hand, he assumed they were married, although she wore no jewelry.

“Ah, Mercer.” Carlyle stood. “Let me introduce one of our sub drivers, Charlie Williams.”

The tanned surfer stood. “Call me C.W. This is my wife, Spirit.”

“I’ve had the pleasure.” Mercer took the fourth chair at the table. A mess steward asked if he wanted anything. Mercer took coffee.

“I met Mr. Mercer earlier and told him I didn’t appreciate his presence on the
Surveyor
,” Spirit said acidly. “I suspect he’s here as part of a government cover-up. The navy was probably doing some illegal research, killing whales with sonar like they did a few years ago off Long Beach, and something went wrong. Now he’s going to hide the truth.”

“He’s here to find out why a lot of brave sailors died two nights ago,” Jon retorted. He’d had his fill of Spirit’s rancor. The vessel’s crew had no real interest in what the ship did once she was at sea, but the researchers had tight funding and guarded their time on board jealously. Even a few days’ delay was a colossal waste of their time and resources. They hadn’t stopped griping since getting the news, and C.W.’s wife had been the most vocal.

“Their souls have crossed,” Spirit replied. “They should be left to rest. Sending people down there to gloat over their remains is ghoulish.”

“Mr. Mercer isn’t here to gloat. He’s here to get answers so more sailors aren’t lost.”

“They knew the risks when they joined the navy. Dying’s part of their job.”

Carlyle’s face grew red. “Defending our country is their job.”

“Oh, I see.” She became even more sarcastic. “Dying is just a fringe benefit.”

Mercer caught C.W.’s eye. The submersible operator showed no interest in restraining his wife. He’d heard her in action before and knew to stay out of the line of fire.

“Now, see here,” the normally unflappable officer thundered. Since the loss of the
Smithback
, his admiration for the navy and its men had been rekindled. Before he could continue, four other men entered the mess room.

Carlyle glared at an unrepentant Spirit, wiped his brow with a handkerchief and made the introductions. One of the newcomers was a second sub pilot. The other three headed the support staff.

“You’ll have to go, sweet,” C.W. told his wife.

Like flipping a switch, her temperament did a complete reversal. She smiled at the assembled men and gave C.W. a long kiss on the mouth. “Come get me at the lab if you’re diving today. I want to be in the van. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

If Jon expected C.W. to apologize for his wife’s behavior, he had a long wait coming. The seconds grew.

Mercer realized no one would cut the silence, so he cleared his throat. “Okay, down to business. Jon may have told you I’ve been sent here to discover what happened to the
Smithback
. It seems we’re all under the same impression that she struck a container that split and whatever was inside burned. The navy wants me to verify this hypothesis by physically inspecting the wreck. Have you pinpointed it on the seafloor?”

Jim McKenzie, who headed the team, spoke up. “We found her on side-scan sonar about ten hours after reaching the area. She’s directly below us now in nine hundred eighty-eight feet of water.”

“That seems kind of shallow,” Mercer said. “We’re in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

“We’re atop a subsea plateau that rises from the abyssal plane. Had the
Smithback
sunk fifty miles to the north, she’d be two miles down and unreachable by anything we have on board.
Bob
’s rated for two thousand feet, and our two ADSes can safely operate at one thousand. Just so you know,
Bob
is the name of our submersible. It’s what she does when she resurfaces. Just bobs in the ocean.”

Mercer smiled. “I have a friend who named his dog Drag because that’s how he takes his walks. What’s an ADS?”

“Atmospheric Diving Suit. Also called a NewtSuit. Think of it as a one-man submarine with arms and legs. It keeps the operator at sea-level pressure so we don’t have to bother with decompression but gives a freedom of movement we can’t get from a larger sub or even an ROV. C.W. helped in their development and is about the best operator in the world.”

“Jim’s exaggerating,” C.W. said to Mercer. “In college I worked part-time in the factory watching a computer-controlled lathe form the suits’ torsos out of aluminum blanks.” He gave a lopsided grin. “But I am the best.”

“How many men can
Bob
carry?”

“Three,” McKenzie answered. “Pilot and two observers. We do have a problem. We fried one of
Bob
’s banks of lights doing a test a week ago. At this depth you can’t see an inch beyond the porthole, and our ROVs operate with low-light cameras so they can’t provide enough backup illumination.”

“The solution,” C.W. interrupted, “is that I go down with you in an ADS and use it as a mobile lighting platform.”

“Are the ADSes autonomous?”

“They’re tethered to the
Surveyor
by a lifting cable and communications lines but don’t rely on the ship for air. Don’t worry,” C.W. added, “we’ve run the NewtSuit and sub together quite a few times.”

Mercer turned to McKenzie. “How long before we can dive on the wreck?”

“Weather isn’t a problem. No storms predicted for days. Batteries are all fully charged and we just replaced the CO
₂
scrubbers. We need to fit new ballast plates and charge the O
₂
tanks, then run a few tests. Say, five hours.”

“Are you going to want to see the tower too?”

This was the first Mercer had heard of any tower. “What are you talking about?” he asked Carlyle.

“The underwater tower about a mile to the west of us. We found it on sonar when we were searching for the
Smithback
.”

“What is it?”

“We’re not sure,” McKenzie answered. “It appears to be some kind of underwater oil- or gas-drilling platform. From its sonar image, it stands about eight hundred feet tall and is about a hundred wide at the base. It tapers as it rises. The top is about forty feet square.”

“And it’s completely underwater?”

McKenzie nodded. “The bottom there is deeper than here, about thirteen hundred feet. The top of the tower rests five hundred feet down.”

Mercer had never heard of such a structure. He was familiar with deep-sea drilling even though he wasn’t an oil geologist. An eight-hundred-foot platform wasn’t all that unusual anymore. Some in the North Sea stood over a thousand feet, but all of them were serviced by modules constructed above sea level. What McKenzie and Carlyle were talking about was something entirely new. And as he thought about it further, something else came to mind. As far as he knew, there weren’t any oil deposits within two thousand miles of their current position. One mystery at a time, Mercer decided. He was sure there was a connection between the enigmatic structure and the
Smithback
accident, but he wanted to see the ship before investigating the tower.

“Let’s check the ship first. What’s
Bob
’s range?”

“She can stay down for thirty hours or more, but at a top speed of three knots she isn’t exactly mobile.” This came from Alan Jervis, the submersible operator who would actually take Mercer down to the wreck. Jervis was about Mercer’s age, with dark receding hair and gold-framed glasses. “If you want to remain on the bottom and reach the tower, it’ll take us an hour or more because we’ll be bucking a two-knot current the whole way.”

“We’d have to move the
Surveyor
,” Carlyle said. “C.W. will be tethered to us. To get him over there, we have to reel him up, steam over to the tower, then lower him down again.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. And with your slow speed, he’d be in position before you.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Mercer announced. No one questioned his authority. “We’ll drop down to the ship first and then check out this tower of yours.”

Mercer tried to catch a nap after the meeting, but the strong coffee and a rattling air-conditioning fan kept him awake. After the first hour of staring at the ceiling, he admitted his insomnia had nothing to do with caffeine or noise. The image of Tisa Nguyen kept sleep out of his grasp. It was her eyes he kept seeing, their depth and their pain. He didn’t believe it was personal trauma. That was something people kept better hidden, at least from strangers.

She reminded him of the subject of a religious painting, a Madonna and Child perhaps, where the beatific Mary looks lovingly at her infant yet in her eyes is the knowledge he would have to die for the world’s sins. Did Tisa know of such sin? Was that why she was convinced the world was ending?