A Triple Thriller Fest (93 page)

The tension in the Benthic Ranger was palpable; no one spoke a word as the mercury vapor floodlight was electrically swung toward the object that Mike thought he saw.  As the object came into view, a collective expletive was uttered in the Benthic Ranger.  The light now brilliantly illuminated the crushed shell of
Benthic Ranger One
, lying quietly on the bottom, as a newly slain deer might lie in the forest on soft pine needles in freshly fallen snow.

Graham started to move forward when Mike stopped him.  “We should run a radiation scan first, Jeff.”

“John, run a profile.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Bell as he switched on the detection instrumentation.  “Negative scan.”

Graham pushed the throttle forward and the Benthic Ranger slowly moved toward the hulk of
Benthic Ranger One
.

“Alex, get Jason ready for deployment.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”  Broward turned on the electric motors of Jason, ran through the operational sequences for the flood lamp, the video camera, the video recorder, and Jason’s instrumentation package.

“Captain, Jason is ready for deployment.”  Regardless of his actual rank, Chief Warrant Officer Jeff Graham was the captain of the Benthic Ranger and was thusly referred to in communications with crew.

“Deploy.”

“Jason deployed.”

The small robot left its cradle on a bracket in front of the Benthic Ranger, its small propellers whirring noisily.  As it left the cradle, it dragged its control cable like an umbilical cord.  Mike and Mannington gathered around Broward as the seaman operated the toggle control stick like an arcade game.  The black and white television monitor flickered perceptibly as the images were relayed back through the control cable.

As Jason snaked its way through the broken front window into the hulk of the disabled Benthic Ranger, the bodies of Dirks and O’Shaunnessy came into view.  The results of the sudden compression were evident in the contorted features of the two deceased men.  The results were not pretty.  The sudden compression had crushed any structure that had contained air at atmospheric pressure, including lungs and bony structures such as nasal passages.  The scavengers of the deep had already started their work.  Mike often wondered how these creatures gathered so quickly.

“Okay, we’ve seen enough.”  Dr. Fleming had joined the viewers when Mike said that the crew of
Benthic Ranger One
was on the television screen.

Broward retracted Jason from the wreckage and returned it to its cradle.  Graham backed the Benthic Ranger off the wreckage and turned toward the Watch Station.

Within minutes the Benthic Ranger was hovering over the entrance lock of the transfer module of Watch Station Three.  Repeatedly, Graham pushed the hailing button in an attempt to turn on the homing beacon that would enable him to lock on to the station.  There was no response.

“Shit.” muttered Graham.  “Mr. Bell, activate the standby on-board homing beacon.”

The standby on-board homing beacon was an active sonar with a narrowly focused beam.  It was designed to find a small parabolic echo enhancing receiver located on the center of the hatchway on the transfer lock.  A clumsy, Stone Age means of finding the target, it was the Benthic Ranger’s last chance to lock on to the station.

Bell also turned on the television camera and mercury vapor lamp located in the Benthic Ranger’s transfer lock.  As Bell switched on the television camera, the video monitor located on the instrument panel of the Benthic Ranger came to life.  Graham used the combination of the video and the locking sonar to position the Benthic Ranger over the entrance lock.

Listening to the increasingly accelerating pings of the locking sonar, Graham was able to slowly lower the Benthic Ranger on to the lock.  The soft metallic clang of Benthic Ranger’s landing echoed through the deserted interior of Watch Station Three.  He engaged the latching dogs and seated the O-ring seals with a soft hissing of the seals’ pressure mounting system.  Afterward, Graham blew out the sea water in the transfer lock and adjusted the pressure inside the lock to atmospheric.

Bell hurried over to the hatchway and opened the hatch to the transfer lock.  He lowered himself into the lock and started to manually unlock the hatch to the Watch Station.

“Hold on a minute,” said Dr. Fleming.  “We don’t know what’s down there.  Is there any way to check the atmosphere in the Watch Station before we open the hatch?”

Graham came over to the hatchway.  “Wait a minute, John.  Let me get the gas analyzer and some wrenches.  One of the through hull-instrumentation ports might serve that purpose.”

In a second, Graham was back with a socket wrench, a crescent wrench, a small handheld gas analyzer, and an emergency oxygen mask.  He handed the apparatus to Bell and then closed the Benthic Ranger’s hatch, sealing Bell in the entrance lock, which was roughly the height of a 55-gallon barrel and about one and one-half times the diameter.

With the mercury vapor lamp of the Benthic Ranger still on, Bell had ample light to work with in the cramped space.  Bell put on the emergency oxygen breathing unit and went to work loosening one of the through hull penetration lines with the crescent wrench.  He then used the socket wrench to remove the actual through hull penetration nut.

Once he had gained access to the atmosphere of the Watch Station, he inserted the gas analyzer probe, a thin stainless steel needle into the port.  He tested for carbon monoxide, oxygen, carbon dioxide, poisonous gases, neurotoxins, and radioactivity.  The instrument indicated no radioactivity and an otherwise normal atmosphere.  Bell removed the probe and replaced the through-hull penetration nut.  He did not bother to reconnect the instrumentation wires.

“Captain, everything seems normal,” said Bell as he emerged from the transfer lock.

“Okay.”

“I think that Captain Mannington and I should go first,” Mike said.  “Then Dr. Fleming and Seaman Broward can follow.  I think that Graham and Bell should remain on board the Benthic Ranger and keep everything operating in case we have to get out of here in a hurry.”  He checked his Walther and then re-holstered it.  Mannington and Broward also carried firearms, although actually firing any gun at this depth could have catastrophic results.

Mike crawled into the transfer lock and opened the hatch to the station.  The rush of air from the station was foul, a mixture of metallic and rubber smells intermingled with lubricating oil smells, epoxy resin smell, staleness, reeking excrement smells and rotting organic matter.  Mike gagged, but continued to climb down into the dark interior of the transfer module, the sound of his boots on the metal ladder echoed through the darkness.

The only light in the darkened interior was the beam from Mike’s flashlight.  Mannington was the next member of the team to reach the deck of the transfer module.

“We should try to get the electricity on, Mike.”

“I’m not sure we should do that.  If Messinger followed procedures, this station could be rigged to explode.”

“Let me get some light from the Benthic Ranger then,” said Mannington.

Calling up to the Benthic Ranger, Mannington shouted, “Hey, John could you toss down some electric cord and a light?”  The sound of Mannington’s voice bounced around the still chamber and echoed throughout the Watch Station.

The added light helped Mike and Mannington make a thorough inspection of the transfer module, firearms at the ready.  Completing that inspection, Mike and Mannington found enough electric cord to extend their range to the command module and to several other modules as well.  Dr. Fleming and Broward joined Mike and Mannington after the two CSAC staffers had cleared the transfer module.

The station had been abruptly abandoned.  It looked as if the crew had just gotten up and walked away to come back again after lunch.  In one of the crew quarters, magazines sat open to the last page viewed.  In the wet analysis laboratory, a chemical titration stood in mid-experiment.  A mortar and pestle silently sat waiting for the chemist’s mate to continue his grinding.  A laboratory scale waited for a final adjustment.  There just weren’t any people.

And through it all was the silence that bore witness to some unknown tragedy.

The four-person boarding party gathered in the command module.

“What do you make of it, Mike?” said Dr. Fleming.

“It looks as if Messinger gave the orders to abandon the station in quick order,” said Mike as he looked around the command module, itself as orderly as if waiting for Captain Messinger to return momentarily.

“Mike, here’s something of interest,” said Mannington holding the station log.  “The last log entry was a day ago, but it’s in code.”

“Well, guys, there isn’t anything more we can do here.  Let’s get back to the Ranger.  Don’t forget the log, Joe,” said Mike.

The team climbed up the ladder through the transfer lock and into the Benthic Ranger.  Bell secured the Watch Station and locked the hatch for the Benthic Ranger.  As Graham flooded the transfer lock, the crew of the Benthic Ranger could hear the hissing sound of the escaping air.

Inside the Watch Station, the stillness was broken by the soft metallic clang as the Benthic Ranger broke free of the locking plate.  The echoes of the clang hung for an eternity in the stillness of the station, interrupted only by a strange scraping sound.

1993: Martha

1700 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

“Herb, we should get the data today,” said Martha into the telephone.  There was a knock on Martha’s door.  “Can you hold for a minute, Herb?”

“Ms. Thomas?”

“Yes, Janey,” said Martha.  “Herb, can I call you back?”  Martha returned the handset to its cradle.  “What’s up, Janey?”

“We got that report on Grayson’s family, Ms. Thomas,” said Janey Smith, the computer analyst in Information Services, who had been helping Martha run the background checks.

“It seems your hunch was right.  Grayson’s mother is a native of the United States, okay.  But his father turned up with the same false identification as I’ve seen with the others,” said Janey as she handed the computer printout to Martha.

Martha took the sheet, read it, and then sank into her office chair.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.  Thanks, Janey.  Could you let me have a few minutes, please?”

“Sure, Ms. Thomas.”

Janey left Martha in her small, windowless office on the third floor of the Herbert Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C.  Martha’s office was small and cramped, stuffed with computer paraphernalia, monitors, a Gateway 2000, an older IBM AT, a HP Laserjet II printer, 3.5 inch diskettes, and computer software manuals scattered on her desk and credenza.  Martha called it controlled chaos.

Over the credenza was a framed graduation certificate from the Federal Bureau of Investigation Academy at Quantico, Virginia.  On her credenza was a gold statue of a woman firing a revolver standing on a wooden pedestal.  The bronze plaque at the foot of the wooden pedestal said, “Third Place, Martha Ann Thomas, National Shootist Competition, Nashville, Tennessee, 1991.”

Martha picked up the slip of paper that had been brought in by Janey and stared intently at the information contained on that paper.  She put down the paper, held her head in her hands.  Her forehead furrowed as she read the report one more time.

Finally, Martha got up and put the sheet of paper on her desk.  Martha reached into her right hand desk drawer for her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol in its leather holster, and put the holstered pistol in her handbag.  Putting on her suit jacket, she took one final look at the slip of paper on her desk, and opened the door to her office.

“Shit.”

Martha turned off the light and closed the door.

0900 Hours: Monday, February 12, 1981: Cambridge High School, Cambridge, Massachusetts

“Good morning class, I’m Arthur George Morrison.  I’ll be your teacher this semester.  The name of the class is Introduction to Computing.  I’m sure we will have lots of fun learning the wonderful world of computer science.”

With a flourish Arthur Morrison raised his arms in jubilation.  In a startling display of technology, all the computers and printers in the classroom burst into life.

One computer played an electronic simulation of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Another computer started drawing a convoluted, intricately intertwined, constantly changing, multicolored line drawing.

A third computer started flashing a sequence of rainbow colors accompanied by different musical tones as the colors changed and then blossomed into a computer generated rainbow.

A fourth computer displayed a Pong game.

A fifth computer drew a chessboard and then challenged the students to play.

A human like synthesized voice on the sixth computer started asking personal questions of the students and asked them to stay and talk awhile.

The seventh computer loaded the screen full of numerical data using Lotus 123.

One printer started printing out a line by line drawing of Snoopy flying the Sopwith Camel.

Reams of computer paper literally flew out of another printer in a glorious fountain of white paper.

A third printer started drawing the Mona Lisa in color.

A fourth printer drew a large banner-like message saying, “WELCOME TO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF COMPUTERS.”

Fourteen-year-old freshman Martha Ann Thomas was dumb struck and utterly captivated.  Having signed up for this class out of curiosity rather than from some deep-seated desire to understand computers, Martha Ann had come to the class with some fear and trepidation.

Martha Ann and her classmates exploded in thunderous laughter and applause.

0900 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Hyatt Regency, Bethesda

“Mildred?”

“Yes.”