Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“Leave it to Doc to get in a plug for the lab,” said a gray-haired man seated to Lois’s right.

Kane continued. “We are in Bermudan waters, where we’re about to re-create the historical half-mile Beebe-Barton bathysphere dive made in 1934. This is the third bathysphere, so we’ve shortened its name to B3. The bathysphere’s pilot is Joe Zavala, a submersible pilot and marine engineer with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Joe is responsible for designing the bathysphere replica.”

Zavala had rigged voice-activated controls that allowed the divers to switch camera views. His face replaced Kane’s on the screen, and he began to describe the B3’s technical innovations. Lois was only half listening, more interested in the NUMA engineer’s dark good looks than his shoptalk.

“I envy Doc,” she said without removing her gaze from Zavala’s face.

“Me too,” said the gray-haired man, a marine biologist named Frank Logan. “What a great scientific opportunity!”

Lois smiled slightly as if enjoying a private joke. Her desire to spend time in the close confines of the bathysphere with the handsome Zavala had nothing to do with science. Well, maybe biology.

The camera went back to Kane.

“Great job, Joe,” Kane said. “At this time, I’d like to say a hello and offer personal thanks to everyone who has helped make this project possible. National Geographic, the New York Zoological Society, the government of Bermuda . . . and NUMA, of course.” He put his face closer to the camera, a move that made him look like a grinning grouper. “I’d also like to give my best to all the denizens at Davy Jones’s Locker.”

The room echoed with loud whoops and applause.

Logan was a soft-spoken Midwesterner and was normally reserved, but he slapped his thigh in his excitement. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “Nice of Doc to recognize us denizens still slaving away down here in the Locker. Too bad we can’t return the favor.”

Lois said, “Technically, it’s possible but not advisable. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this undersea lab doesn’t even exist! We’re probably just a line item in a congressional budget cleverly disguised as an order of five-hundred-dollar toilet seats for the Navy.”

A smile came to Logan’s face. “Yes, I know, but it’s still too bad we can’t offer Doc our congratulations. I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more, after all he’s done.” He sensed from the blank expression on Lois’s face that he had made a verbal gaffe, and said, “You deserve a great deal of credit, Lois. After all, your work bringing the medusa project to its near conclusion allowed Max to get away for the bathysphere dive.”

“Thanks, Frank. We all gave up our normal lives to be here.”

A soft gong echoed throughout the room, and a green light blinked over a television monitor that showed what looked like a diamond diadem against dark velvet.

“Speaking of administrative duties,” Logan said with a wry grin, “your company is about to arrive.”

Lois wrinkled her nose. “Damn. I wanted to watch the rest of Doc’s dive.”

“Bring your guest back here to watch the show,” Logan suggested.

“Oh, no! I’m getting rid of him as quickly as I can,” Lois said, rising from her chair.

Lois Mitchell was nearly six feet tall, and in her late forties she had packed a few more pounds on her frame than she would have preferred. The voluptuous figure under the baggy sweat suit didn’t live up to contemporary ideals of beauty, but artists of a bygone day would have drooled over her curves and creamy skin, and the way her thick raven hair fell to her shoulders.

She bustled from the room and descended a spiral staircase to a brightly lit passageway. The tubelike corridor connected to a small chamber occupied by two men who stood at an instrument panel facing a heavy-duty double door.

One man said, “Hi, Lois. Touchdown is in forty-five seconds.” He pointed to a television screen set into the instrument panel.

The cluster of sparkling lights displayed on the control-room monitor had materialized into a submersible vehicle slowly descending through the murk. It resembled a large utility helicopter that had been stripped of its main rotor and was powered by variable-thrust turbines on the fuselage. Two figures were silhouetted in the bubble cockpit.

The room reverberated with the hum of motors. A diagram of the lab on the control panel began to blink, indicating that the airlock doors were open. After a few moments, the display stopped blinking, signifying that the doors had closed. The floor vibrated with the thrash of powerful pumps. When the water had been expelled from the airlock, the pumps went silent, and a green light flashed over the doors. At the push of a button on the control panel, the doors opened, and a briny smell rushed out. The submersible rested in a circular domed chamber. Curtains of seawater rolled off the fuselage and swirled down gurgling drains.

A hatch slid open in the s

ide of the submersible, and the pilot got out. The men at the control panel went to help unload cartons of supplies from a cargo space behind the cockpit.

Lois strode over and greeted the man emerging from the passenger’s side. He was a couple of inches taller than she was and wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a windbreaker and baseball cap both emblazoned with the logo of the company that provided security for the lab.

She extended her hand. “Welcome to Davy Jones’s Locker. I’m Dr. Lois Mitchell, assistant director of the lab while Dr. Kane is away.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the man said in a deep-voiced Southern drawl. “My name is Phelps.”

Lois had expected to see a quasi-military type like the tough-looking guards she had glimpsed on trips to the surface ship, where lab staff could take a break from the seafloor, but Phelps looked as if he had been assembled from spare parts. His arms were too long for his body, his hands too big for his arms, his head too big for his shoulders. With his sad-looking dark eyes and large mouth accented by drooping mustache, he had a hound-dog quality about him. He wore his dark brown hair in unfashionably long sideburns.

“Did you have a pleasant shuttle ride, Mr. Phelps?”