The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

“Didn’t you say the wreck is at a depth of eight hundred feet?”

“That I did.”

“How can you do that? It’s way too deep for scuba gear, isn’t it?”

“Four hundred feet is the limit for scuba; and to get down that far, you need to breathe a helium-oxygen mixture.”

Gretchen put on a fake thoughtful expression. “Don’t tell me. You’re Aquaman.”

Juan got up. “More like the Michelin Man.”

She followed him out the door. “Now, this I have to see.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Juan and Gretchen arrived at the moon pool to find Nomad already lowered into the water. Because the pool was even with sea level outside, opening the keel doors didn’t cause the ocean to rush into the chamber. The salty tang of seawater filled the cavernous space, which bustled with noise and activity from techs getting their gear in order. Max’s head poked out of the sixty-five-foot-long sub’s hatch. Linda was visible inside the transparent nose, doing a last pre-dive check. Each of the manipulator arms reached out momentarily and clasped air like a crab snapping its claws. She would operate them while Max piloted the craft.

Although Nomad could function untethered, when necessary, radio frequencies didn’t work underwater, and the backup acoustic communication was slow and unreliable. For this operation, the submersible was to be attached to the Oregon by an umbilical that allowed it to communicate with the ship.

“How are you getting down there?” Gretchen asked.

Juan pointed above her head, where what looked like a giant metal spacesuit hung from the gantry. A clear helmet sat on top of a stout orange torso that sprouted bulbous limbs with articulated joints. The arms ended in silver pincers for grasping objects. A huge backpack was mounted on the body, and twin thrusters were attached to each side that let it maneuver in the water just like a submarine.

“Allow me to introduce you to Jim,” he said.

Gretchen laughed. “He looks more like Waldo, if you ask me.”

Juan waved for the technicians to begin lowering Jim to the deck. “It’s called an atmospheric diving suit. The first one was named Jim, after the inventor’s chief diver, back in the sixties. This model has been updated significantly since then, but I liked the name, so we kept it.”

“It looks like the offspring of the Michelin Man and a pumpkin.”

“The traffic cone coloring is for both visibility and style. This kind of rig is used by ocean drilling operations for maintenance, and most of the world’s biggest navies have them in their inventories.”

“How do you walk in that thing? It looks like it weighs a ton.”

“Only about six hundred pounds, since it’s made of wrought aluminum. But I don’t intend to be walking in Jim. There’s a pedal, which I operate with my good foot, for lateral and vertical movements, using thrusters.”

When Jim was steady on the deck, technicians swung the backpack away from the suit on hinges.

“This is where I get in,” Juan said.

“I hope you and Jim have a fun time together. Good—”

Juan interrupted her with his hand. He could tell she was about to say Good luck, which they never said aboard the Oregon before a dangerous mission. Although Juan wasn’t superstitious, the rest of the crew considered the phrase bad luck.

“We don’t say that here. How about ‘I’ll see you when you get back’?”

Gretchen grinned at the request. “My horoscope today said that’s acceptable. See you when you get back.”

Juan climbed into his suit and went through the pre-dive check. Once everything was in order and Nomad had launched, Juan was sealed inside the Jim suit and lowered into the moon pool.

“Do you copy, Max?” he said as water lapped at his helmet. Jim was tethered to the Oregon like Nomad was, so they could speak to each other directly.

“Loud and clear, Juan,” Max replied. “Linda’s got the cable and we’re ready to dive.”

He was talking about the thick steel cable from the deck crane that would be used to haul the container aboard.

“I’m coming down.”