Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

At any rate, she had a never flagging sense of urgency that had earned her several degrees, including a Doctorate in Marine Biology and a Master’s in Marine Archaeology.

Most men found her attractive, but not in a superficial way that faded over time. The more time they spent with her, the more impressed they were, partly because she put them at ease. It was a gift, one she was trying to summon as she approached the bridge with a directive that had just come in from Kurt Austin.

She smiled as she entered the bridge, spotting Ed Callahan, the Catalina’s captain, his executive officer—or XO—and her husband, Paul, conversing near the radar scope.

“Good evening,” Callahan said. “Sorry I’ve kept Paul up here for so long. We’re discussing the scuttlebutt surrounding our change of plans. The fact that we were ordered off a study we’d spent five months prepping for has a few people concerned.”

She raised a single eyebrow. “Gossiping around the watercooler and I wasn’t invited? Shame on both of you.”

“Inexcusable,” Callahan replied. “Consider this an official request to join our party.”

The captain made space in the group for her to join and she slid in next to her husband. Paul was a towering man of six foot eight who spoke seriously and quietly. Gamay had met him at Scripps Institute, where Paul was getting his own Ph.D. in Ocean Sciences. They’d married soon after and had been inseparable ever since. After joining NUMA together and becoming part of the Special Projects team on the same day, rumor had it working together had been written into their employment contracts.

“Any idea what’s going on?” Callahan asked.

“Not really, but . . .”

Ever the voice of reason, Paul spoke up. “I told everyone to expect the unexpected when Kurt’s involved. Though I’m sure it won’t be anything too crazy.”

Gamay took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t put money on that.”

Callahan noticed the dispatch in her hand. “What have you got for me?”

She handed Callahan the printed request and explained the order that had come in as calmly as possible.

His tone changed instantly. “They want us to do what?”

“To dump our best submersible overboard and leave it behind,” Gamay repeated.

Callahan looked at Paul for some assistance. Paul held up his hands as if to say it had nothing to do with him.

“But that’s absurd, on the face of it,” Callahan said. He was a two-year NUMA veteran, with stints in the Navy and Merchant Marine before that. He’d been on the receiving end of strange and questionable orders before, but this topped them all. “The Angler is a thirty-million-dollar machine,” he reminded everyone. “It’s not some old rust bucket you sacrifice to Poseidon.”

“Did anyone explain why?” Paul asked. “Are we getting a tax write-off?”

Gamay shook her head and read out the order word for word. “Per Kurt Austin, Director of Special Projects. Immediate directive. Under cover of darkness, submersible NSV-2 (Angler) is to be launched unmanned. Ensure all systems are fully charged and set depth to one hundred feet. Program the autopilot to surface the vessel in two hours. Immediately upon launch of Angler, Catalina is to change heading and proceed east, directly toward the Guaya river mouth, and await further orders. Be aware, Catalina is under surveillance. Make all efforts to conduct launch without drawing attention to your actions. Do not report launch of Angler to NUMA HQ. Do not reference this order on standard radio channels.”

“Are we sure this came from Kurt?” Callahan asked.

Gamay nodded. “When I double-checked, I was told to Make sure the lid was screwed on tight and don’t get the velour seat covers wet.”

Paul laughed. “That’s Kurt, all right.”

The XO chimed in. “Maybe we should check with Rudi Gunn anyway. Just to be safe.”

Gamay shook her head. “Trust me. You could call Rudi Gunn, Director Pitt or Vice President Sandecker himself and you’ll get the same answer from all three: If that’s what Kurt wants, that’s what Kurt gets.”

Callahan glanced at the navigation panel and the chronometer. It was after ten p.m. The Moon would be up in an hour.

“No time like the present,” he said, turning to the XO. “Issue the men night vision goggles and keep the deck lights off. Check the tech manuals and make sure dropping the Angler over the side at our current speed won’t damage her. Otherwise, we’ll slow down, make our turn and drop the penny then.”

“Yes, sir,” the XO said. “I can only imagine what they’ll ask for next.”

“I’m sure it won’t get any crazier than this,” Callahan insisted.

Neither Paul nor Gamay commented, but they shared a knowing look. If history was any guide, Callahan would probably be proven wrong.

While Gamay returned to the communications room, Paul went with the deckhands to oversee the launching—or perhaps discarding—of the submersible.