The legs were similar to the arms, all connecting to a white, hard-sh.e.l.led torso, as did the bulbous helmet. A boxy red backpack housed the oxygen supply and CO2 scrubber, which could give the diver up to forty-eight hours of life support. An ADS rig was one of the few things that could make a s.p.a.ce suit look dainty by comparison.
The suit was far too bulky to fit through any of the Los Angeles’s external hatches. Cutting directly into the nose cone might put the alien artifact at risk. The diver would use an underwater torch to cut through the hull of the torpedo room, then move through that wider s.p.a.ce into the nose cone.
The bright light faded from the screen.
“Diver One, cut complete. Removing hull.”
Clarence saw a large, oval piece of metal drop away from the submarine’s curved hull and thump into the lake bottom, kicking up a slow-motion cloud of flotsam.
“Diver One, proceed into the torpedo room.”
“Roger that, Topside. Moving into the torpedo room.”
Clarence inched closer to the screen.
Almost immediately, the diver’s light revealed three uniformed corpses that hung motionless in the water. Rigor held arms away from bodies, as if the dead were waiting to give someone a hug. There was at least some animal life at this depth — even though no fish were visible, the ripped flesh of hands and faces betrayed their presence.
“Topside,” the diver said, “you seeing this?” His voice sounded tinny. Clarence could hear the man’s breathing increase.
“Roger that, Diver One,” the dive master said. “n.o.body said it was going to be pretty. You’re almost there. Just get the job done.”
“Roger,” the diver said. “Moving in.”
Clarence could imagine the diver’s stress. Nine hundred feet below the surface — a depth that would kill him without the suit — he was surrounded by corpses while violence and uncertainty swept across the s.h.i.+p above him. The diver, Tom, he had to have giant b.a.l.l.s of steel.
Technically, Clarence was the current representative of the scientific team. If needed, he had an override b.u.t.ton he could hit and speak directly to the diver. If any major issues popped up, Clarence could route the diver-cam view to Margaret’s heads-up display, let her decide what needed to be done.
The dive master’s voice sounded loud and clear in the speakers. “Diver One, move forward through the torpedo room to the nose-cone airlock.”
“Roger that, Topside.”
“Diver Two,” the dive master said, “position yourself at the entrance point and maintain safety of Diver One’s umbilical.”
“Diver Two, confirmed,” came a third voice, the voice of a woman.
Of course they were using a safety diver. Oddly, that made Clarence nervous — the Brashear only had two ADS 2000 rigs. If something went very wrong on this dive, there was no way to get another person down to the wreck without flying in additional suits. Even on a rush order, that might take a day or more.
“Topside, Diver Two,” the woman said. “Feeding Diver One’s umbilical.”
The ADs...o...b..ard air meant the divers didn’t need air tubes. What they did need, however, was a communication cable a thousand feet long — if Tom cut his on some jagged piece of wreckage, the Brashear would lose his visual and audio signals.
On the screen, Clarence saw racks of long, gray torpedoes. A body sat there, a.s.s on the deck, back against one of the racks, chin hanging to chest as if the man was only taking a catnap.
“Topside, Diver One,” the diver said. “I have reached the nose-cone airlock. It’s open.”
Clarence looked at the sub’s schematics. The nose cone had a small external airlock, for loading material from the outside directly into the negatively pressurized minilab, and it also had an internal airlock, allowing the science crew to enter the lab from the s.h.i.+p proper.
“We see it, Diver One,” the dive master said. “Proceed.”
The images on the screen blurred: the diver turning, slowly pulling in the slack on his umbilical cord. He turned again, then stepped through the airlock door into the small area beyond.
The room looked tilted, of course, about a thirty-degree slant down and to the right. Every wall had racks. Most of the racks were empty — they had been meant to hold small, airtight cases, cases that now bobbed against the ceiling. The cases held various scientific equipment: microscopes, voltage meters, hardness-testing kits and a dozen other devices that might help in identifying alien material.
“Topside, no bodies here, room is empty,” the diver said. “Moving toward the objective.”
He turned to the right, his light moving past the empty racks.
Clarence saw something. He slapped at his “override” b.u.t.ton.
“Wait! Look left again!”
The dive master’s voice came back angry and impatient. “Who’s on this G.o.dd.a.m.n channel?”
“This is Agent Clarence Otto. Sorry. Listen, Tom … I mean, Diver One … can you turn to the left again?”
The dive master spoke again. “Diver One, stand by! Agent Otto, this is dangerous work. We finish the recovery first. Diver, stay with the mission par—”
A no-bulls.h.i.+t female voice cut in. “This is Captain Yasaka. Facilitate any and all requests of Agent Otto, as long as those requests do not compromise diver safety.”
Clarence waited through a short but uncomfortable pause.
“Aye-aye, Captain,” the dive master said. “Diver One, do as Agent Otto asked.”
