Patriotism could drive people to sacrifice themselves. That, too, was d.a.m.n annoying, because it flew in the face of survival of the fittest. Stupid people could be convinced to die for the greater good. The greater good was always someone who would live on because of — and long after — that sacrifice. Soldiers die, generals retire.
On the screen, the wrongly angled sail of the Los Angeles loomed into view. Lights played off more flotsam. Tim knew a lot of that detritus was composed of sailor bits, bodies either torn apart by the torpedo strike or picked at by scavengers.
The number 688 glowed a bright white.
The PA system clicked on: a too-loud, mechanical voice that broke the moment’s magic.
“Doctor Feely, line one for Captain Yasaka. Doctor Feely, line one for Captain Yasaka.”
Tim glanced at the wet-haired Margaret Montoya, felt like he’d been caught at something — did Yasaka know he was ogling his fellow scientist? He stood and strode to a phone mounted on the wall. He lifted the handset, as always marveling a little at the archaic cord that ran from it to the wall unit.
He pushed the number “1.”
“This is Doctor Feely.”
“This is the captain.” Yasaka’s voice. Not the voice that on some nights said take me, or on extraspecial nights said please, Daddy. This was her command voice.
“Captain, how can I be of service?”
“Are you with Doctor Montoya?”
“I am.”
“A petty officer just killed two of my crew,” the captain said. “He tested positive, as did two other men who were bunking near him. We have a total of three positives.”
Tim’s body went ice cold.
“Three … positives?”
“So far,” Yasaka said. “Security will deliver these men to cells in your lab. I suspect they won’t be the last.”
DIVER DOWN
Clarence sat in the lab’s control room module, looking down at Tim and Margaret who were working away in their big-helmeted suits.
They’d rushed out of the extravagant theater, desperate to get back to work. Clarence had watched them both pop some pills — apparently, now wasn’t the time to let fatigue get the better of them.
As for himself, he’d suited up and overseen delivery of the new prisoners: Orin Nagy, the killer, as well as Conroy Austin and Lionel Chappas, both of whom had tested positive. Cantrell now had company.
The deck crane had lowered the men down to the Brashear’s big side airlock, accompanied by six biosafety-suited guards. Clarence had watched everyone go through the bleach-wash decon process, watched the infected men be placed in clear cells, watched the guards reenter the airlock for their final decon.
The side airlock was the only safe way to bring the infected into the holding area, but it was also needed for the submersion tests on Clark’s and Cantrell’s suits. The first test, the pressurized fall test, hadn’t detected any leaks; if the suits had holes, those holes were microscopic. Margaret didn’t seem that concerned about it, but Clarence would still push Captain Yasaka to do the submersion test. With Yasaka’s crew redoubling efforts to find any infected, the best Clarence could hope for was to see the test run tomorrow night, or, at the very latest, the following morning.
The mood had changed, to say the least. In the extravagant briefing room, he’d sensed Margaret’s subdued elation — she thought they had the infection beat. Not today, of course, but so soon that a few more weeks would make no difference. Now, however, the infection had spread to the general crew. Three positives would quickly multiply. Yasaka’s best efforts couldn’t stop the spread, not with so many people packed on the Brashear and nowhere to send them. The captain could only hope to slow the contagion, give Margaret and Tim time to come up with a solution.
And if they didn’t find that solution? This would end with an F-27 Eagle dropping a firebomb on the entire task force. Carl Brashear would join the Forrest Sherman, the Stratton and the Los Angeles at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Would Clarence and Margaret still be aboard if that happened? Maybe. If Murray Longworth wasn’t sure that he and Margaret were clean, he’d torch them without a second thought.
Clarence couldn’t do anything to help Tim and Margaret. What he could do was pay attention to the diver entering the wreck of the Los Angeles.
On the counter in front of him, Clarence had diagrams of the Los Angeles’s layout. He watched the diver’s progress on the console’s small screens. It was quite different from the deep-water dives he’d seen on the Discovery Channel: no rust, no colorful cl.u.s.ters of barnacles and anemones, no schools of bright fish. The LA had sunk only three days earlier — just a broken, gray hull sitting on a lifeless lake bottom.
The control room’s speakers carried the chatter between the diver and the Brashear’s crew.
“Diver One, status? How you doing, Tom?”
“Diver is okay,” came back the answer. “G.o.dd.a.m.n cold down here, feeling it in my joints right through the suit. Request permission to start cutting.”
“Permission granted, Diver One.”
Seconds later, the screen blared brightly. Clarence looked away.
The diver’s awkward high-pressure diving suit made him look like a cross between a morbidly obese man and a heavily armored beetle. Five round, blue segments made up each arm, connected together by oscillating rings that allowed limited movement. There weren’t even hands, just blue spheres tipped by black pincers.
