| Subject: Waiting...Fourteen & Fifteen |
Author:
Enjoue`
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Date Posted: 08:15:08 03/05/01 Mon
In reply to:
Enjoue`
's message, "Waiting...by Enjoue`" on 07:14:24 03/05/01 Mon
FOURTEEN
The wet, heaving sea rolled hugely beneath Tucker’s salvage ship, it’s flat gray surface a mirror reflection of the sullen sky overhead. On the deck, amidst racks of orderly equipment, Lukos and Tucker were assembling apparatus for the dive. Michael watched silently.
Lukos glanced over his shoulder at Michael, judging his efforts to counteract the roll of the ship. With his unruly head of dark hair and the near-nudity of his brown, wiry body, the Greek looked more than anything like a grossly misplaced Tarzan. “You dive much, mate?” he inquired.
“A little.”
Lukos pulled out a bulky canvas and rubber suit and heaved it in Michael’s direction. “Here you go, mate.” He followed it with a pair of heavy rubber bands, gloves and various cables. Michael looked at the pile, then back at Lukos.
Observing this, Tucker sucked his breath in between clenched teeth. “Tell me,” he said to Michael, “how many deep dives you’ve done.”
“None.”
“Not one.”
“No.” Michael was unperturbed. He looked at Tucker and waited.
“Christ,” Tucker hissed to himself. Then, “Strip off. I’m going to check on my navigator, then you’re going to get the crash course before we get to the site. Pay attention,” he enunciated, adding a poking finger for emphasis. “If you don’t, you will die.”
Michael surveyed the growing pile of gear that Lukos was rooting out of his storage lockers, then turned his expressionless gaze back to Tucker.
“I think I can do that.”
- - -
Birkoff sat enthroned at Comm, his senses hyperalert to the several sources of input arrayed before him. Madeline, Operations and Huber flanked him, watching silently as the young expert worked his way through the steps necessary to acquire and control the satellite. If he noticed their presence, it seemed not to concern him.
At length he leaned back and blew out a breath. “Got it. I can’t test further or we’ll risk showing up on German government monitoring, but I think we’re there.”
“How long until they are on site?” Madeline asked.
Birkoff consulted a counter that ran continuously in one window. “Nikita hooked up with Poole’s guy in Dakar about an hour ago. Michael will be on site in another thirty minutes. We have a scheduled communication in 10 minutes, or I can contact them now.”
Operations shook his head. “Stay on plan.” He turned to Huber and eyed him speculatively. “Tell me again what happens when Birkoff transmits your best guess at a password.”
“If I have guessed correctly,” Huber replied, “the database access screen will appear. If I have not, then the satellite will self-destruct and physical retrieval of the data will be necessary.”
His tone lacked something in finality, and Operations watched suspiciously as Huber’s gaze roved uncomfortably around the area.
“What else?”
The older man hesitated. Operations stepped closer, violating Huber’s personal space, then belligerently repeated the question.
It had little impact. Huber had seen his share of professional intimidation and was not impressed. He raised his head slightly, creating the effect of literally looking down his nose at Operations. “You will need to have your man onsite as soon as we transmit the password.”
“Why?”
“Because if the satellite destructs, the platform will begin its own self-destruct sequence five minutes later.”
Operation and Madeline exchanged a look. Five minutes would seriously compromise withdrawal.
“Tell Michael to go ahead now with the retrieval,” he said to Birkoff, whose head had been swiveling unabashedly between them during the exchange. “We’ll simply eliminate the satellite communication attempt.”
“You cannot,” Huber said quietly. “If the platform hatch is breached while the satellite is still functioning the system will assume unauthorized entry and self-destruct immediately.”
“What is the destruct mechanism?” Madeline snapped.
“Introduction of a corrosive to melt down the disc. Then a five minute countdown to explosive destruction of the platform.”
Operations’ pale eyes glowed with fury. “That means that if you’re wrong on the password, they will have only five minutes to get into the platform and retrieve the data. And then only another five to exit the concussion area.” He paused. “They’ll be over 200 feet down, Huber. They can’t get back from that depth in five minutes.”
The long silence was electric.
“I’m sorry,” Huber offered stiffly.
* * *
FIFTEEN
Tucker slammed down the Iridium phone with a loud and vulgar profanity.
Lukos looked up. “Not up to your usual creative standards,” he commented. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got a big problem and only a little time.”
Michael, now outfitted similarly to Lukos in the bulky deep-dive suit, moved closer as Tucker continued. “It seems your German buddy neglected to mention that there’s a fail-safe destruct mechanism in this thing. If they can’t open it via the satellite, you’ll have five minutes to get in before the disc melts down. But here’s the big rub: Even if you do get in and get the disc, you’ll only have five minutes to get clear before the platform detonates. If you don’t ascend faster the concussion wave will kill you. If you do ascend faster, DCS can kill you.”
“DCS?” Michael probed for clarification.
“Decompression sickness,” said Tucker. “During deep dives the body absorbs nitrogen. During ascent, excess nitrogen leaves the tissues. If you come up slowly, the nitrogen dissolves, enters your bloodstream and you eventually exhale it. If you come up too fast the nitrogen forms bubbles…and that’s very bad,” he finished.
“How bad?”
“Well, besides more pain than you’ll see outside of childbirth, the bubbles block circulation, compress nerves and cause harmful chemical reactions in the blood. You’d be likely to end up permanently paralyzed.”
“Treatment?”
“Hyperbaric chamber,” said Tucker. “It recompresses, breaks down the bubbles, lets everything pass safely. We have one on board. Only one of you can go and come back safely.”
Lukos spoke then. “I’ll go down, you can talk me through what needs to be done. I’ll get in the chamber as soon as I come up.”
“No,” Michael said immediately. “You can’t remove the disc in the time available. I have to go.”
“No way,” Tucker said curtly. “You could no sooner do this on your own than you could go fly the space shuttle.”
Michael appeared unmoved by this argument.
“Look, I can guarantee your death if you go alone,” Tucker said, then shrugged slightly, as if it were all the same to him. “And then you won’t get what you came for.”
Tucker waited while Michael studied him impassively. The powerful diesels rumbled below deck, sending thrumming vibrations which resonated familiarly in his bones. Overhead, a brisk sea breeze keened through the winch cabling. Good Lord, Tucker realized suddenly. He’s actually weighing the consequences.
Michael reached for the 40-pound ankle weights they would wear to pull them down. “We will both go. Lukos will get in the chamber when we return.”
- - -
Poole’s contact in Dakar was a small, swarthy Senegalese. He made an almost comical contrast with the blonde Amazon who paced the office, shrinking its already meager space by her larger-than-life presence. She spoke rapidly into the small telephone in her hand and he strained to follow her accented English.
Finally she swung toward him. “Cédric. We need a hyperbaric chamber and a helicopter.”
He nodded, turning promptly to his computer. Nikita towered over him, radiating barely supressed impatience.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting the phone number for the Divers Alert Network.” His fingers skittered over the keyboard at blinding speed. “They maintain a database of every functioning hyperbaric chamber.”
He scrolled even as the website was loading. Nikita wondered if his eyes could actually focus that fast or if he used some sort of peripheral vision absorption technique. She made a mental note to ask Birkoff.
“Here,” he grunted, indicating a number. “Start dialing.”
- - -
It was getting old having everyone look over his shoulder. Birkoff squelched his irritation, waiting for Madeline and Huber to rehash their decision one last time.
“Our chances of success will be slim if this password is incorrect,” Madeline was saying. “If you have any other information to add to our analysis of Ms. Albrecht, now would be the time.”
Huber shook his head tiredly, looking his age as the tension wore on him. “I knew her for many years, but we were not…close. I have told you everything that I can think of. I have made my best guess and all we can do is try. Whatever happens then… will happen.”
Madeline’s eyes were flat as she stared at the old man. While she was accustomed to making her own best guesses, she was not comfortable with having so little hard data, nor so much fatalism from its source. There was, however, nothing to be done.
She glanced at Operations and nodded slightly.
“Send the password, Mr. Birkoff,” he ordered quietly.
Birkoff began to type.
A – U – F – W – A – R – T – U – N – G
- - -
They had been sinking downward forever. It was dark. A deep, threatening, endless black unlike anything Michael had ever encountered.
He looked over at Lukos, who drifted down beside him, cocooned in the insignificant sphere of illumination cast by their suit lights. Behind the heavy glass plate of the helmet, he could just make out the flash of the Greek diver’s black eyes. Above them both, air and communication cables sprouted from their helmets and trailed off into the emptiness to where the ship hung, so far above them.
“Michael? You OK?”
He replied with the universal thumbs up, adding, “OK,” aloud so that Lukos would know their communications were operational.
Lukos pointed. “There.” He switched on a powerful beam and played it below them and to their right. They were coming to the bottom only a few dozen feet from the platform. “Tucker put us down right on top of it. Don’t tell him we were this close or he’ll get a big head.”
Michael reached down for his own light, disliking the unaccustomed feeling of unease and unfamiliarity in these circumstances. In all his experiences with Section, nothing as yet had ever taken him to the bottom of the ocean.
The platform was not large. It sat on four thick legs which were anchored into the seabed. The heavy columns were nearly obscured by an artificial seaweed installed as special protection again erosion by the current. Walking clumsily, they made their way across the dusty-looking ocean bottom to the platform and located the entry hatch.
Around them, those creatures which belonged here lurked silently beyond their lights. The two men, aliens from the surface world, instinctively took up a back-to-back position.
They waited.
- - -
“It’s not working.”
Birkoff reported this quietly and unecessarily as they all watched the response sent by the satellite. It flashed on the screen in virulent red.
Access Denied. Self destruct in five minutes.
Huber turned away and lowered himself heavily into an empty chair. His face was blank with defeat.
Sparing him only one disdainful glance, Operations swiftly gave orders. “Call Tucker. Send them in.”
Birkoff’s fingers were already flying, setting the five minute timer and initiating contact with Tucker even before Operations had completed the sentence.
- - -
“That’s an unacceptable answer,” Nikita said coldly. Again she was pacing the confines of the modest office, kicking aside a trash basket to clear a wider path.
“I’m sorry,” Cédric replied. “There are five chambers listed in Dakar. One is in use for a commercial diving accident that occurred this morning. Another is apart for repairs. Two others are on vessels presently at sea far beyond range of your needs.”
“And the fifth?” she prompted irritably.
“On Tucker’s ship.” Poole’s man looked at her with some feeling, but could offer no alternatives.
She knew what was at stake. She knew with certainty that Michael would go after the disc. With equal certainty she knew that he would put Tucker’s diver into the on-board chamber instead of himself. All these resources between us, she thought in despair, and I can’t save the one life that matters.
- - -
Together they wrenched at the hatch of the drill platform, hampered by the cumbersome suits and the dead weight of the water pressing relentlessly on every inch of their bodies. Ever so slowly, as the precious seconds ticked away, the dogs began to loosen and the hatch at last came free. Quickly they maneuvered into the small lock and went through the entry process.
Inside the cramped cabin space Michael went immediately to the computer setup, stripping his heavy gloves and rapidly inspecting the equipment. He would have to work with the helmet still in place. There simply was not time to get more comfortable, and the wide glass plates allowed a generous enough field of vision.
“Watch the time,” he reminded Lukos.
The Greek waited close by the exit. “I am watching my friend. Trust me, I am watching.”
Deftly Michael maneuvered through the standard components before him. Within seconds the disc drive was free, and he packed it securely in the waterproof container brought for the purpose.
Then, the routine in reverse.
Gloves.
Exit the inner hatch.
The excruciating wait for equalization. Then out.
Lukos triggered the signal and far above, Tucker began reeling them in.
The lifelines tightened and they began to rise.
- - -
“He’s got the disc.” Birkoff reported this then listened further on the Iridium phone, the most effective communication they had been able to arrange on such short notice.
He turned his eyes back to Operations. “They’ll be up in approximately 6 minutes. He thinks they’ll make it far enough out of the concussion area before the platform detonates.
“Did Nikita find a chamber in Dakar?”
Birkoff’s eyes dropped. “Nothing within range.”
“Give me that,” Operations snapped, reaching for the phone.
“Danny?”
After a beat the answer came back. “I’m here Paul. Your man is coming up. Fast.”
“Danny I need you to put him in your chamber.”
A longer silence, having nothing to do with communication delays. Then, “I’m sorry Paul. I can’t do that.”
“Daniel…”
“Tucker…goddammit, answer me.”
There was no reply but the hiss of an unconnected line.
* * *
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