Medusa (NUMA Files 8)
She sat back, folded her arms, and focused on the oblong shape that was barely visible at the edge of the searchlight beam.
“Might be a fish or whale,” she said, “but something about it isn’t quite right.”
Austin asked the operator to enlarge the image. It broke apart as it was blown up, but Austin nonetheless detected a vague manta-ray shape to the shadow. He asked her to print the image, and to play back the final transmission from the bathysphere.
The operator ran off a printout, then reduced the shadow image and tucked it in the upper-right-hand corner of the screen, which now displayed a picture of Kane. He was rattling off an excited description of the luminescent fish swimming around the bathysphere when suddenly he stopped short and pressed his face against the window.
“What was that?” Kane said.
The voice-activated camera switched to Zavala.
“You see a mermaid, Doc?”
Back to Kane.
“I’m not sure what I saw, but I know one thing: it was big!”
Austin snatched up the printout and headed for the aft deck. The big double doors on the garage were wide open, and the Hardsuit had been wheeled out under the crane that would lift it off the deck.
Austin showed Gannon the ROV printout.
“This object was nosing around the B3 when both cables were cut,” he said.
The captain shook his head. “What is that thing?”
“Got me,” Austin said. He glanced at his watch. “What I do know is that the B3 will soon run short of power and air.”
“We’ll be ready in a few minutes,” the captain said. “Did you contact the Navy?”
“A Navy engineer told me that, theoretically, Bubbles could dive to five thousand feet.”
“Wow!” the captain said. “Did you get an okay to use the ADS?”
“I’ll work on it later,” Austin said with a quick smile.
“Why did I even ask?” the captain said. “Hope you realize that you’re making me your accomplice in hijacking Navy property.”
“Look on the bright side. We can be cell mates at a federal country-club prison. Where do things stand?”
Gannon turned to the head machinist, who was standing by.
“Hank and his crew did a hell of a job,” the captain said.
Austin inspected the machine shop’s work and gave Hank a pat on the back.
“Good enough for government work,” he said.
The severed end of the bathysphere’s cable had been looped through a hook and then laid back along itself in a classic sailor’s eye splice and wound dozens of times with thin steel wire. Austin thanked the rest of the shop crew for their good work, then asked them to attach the hook to the ADS frame.
While the crew tended to his request, Austin hurried to his cabin and exchanged his shorts and T-shirt for thermal underwear, a wool sweater, and wool socks. He zipped himself into a crew coverall and pulled a knit cap down over his thick mane of hair. Although the Hardsuit had a heating system, the temperature inside could drop to forty degrees or less at depth.
Back up on deck, Austin quickly explained the rescue plan. Making a silent plea to the gods of dumb luck to look approvingly on this venture, he climbed up a stepladder and eased his muscular body into the lower half of the Hardsuit, which separated into two parts at the waist. Once the top half of the suit was on, he tested the power, communications link, and air supply. Then he gave the order to launch.
The frame and Hardsuit were lifted from the deck and lowered into the water. Austin called for a halt at thirty feet down to retest the systems. While everything was in working order, he was sobered by the fact that the Navy’s record-breaking two-thousand-foot dive had taken years of planning and teams of specialists to pull off. It was a far cry from the mad dash to the bottom he was about to undertake.
The Hardsuit helmet’s digital time display told him that the bathysphere had less than an hour’s supply of air left.
He reached out with his hand-pod clamp and detached the hook from the frame. First making sure the hook was clamped tightly, he gave the order to send him to the bottom of the sea.