by C. F. WALLER
With that, he exits the room and can be heard moving down the metal stairs.
“Sophie?” Todd asks.
“Retrieval unit,” Cam clarifies. “Hey, is there’s any leftover pizza.”
John shrugs. With the question left unanswered, Cam unplugs his laptop causing both screens to flash blue and stay that way. John looks like he’s going to protest, but Cam is out the door in search of a snack, laptop under his arm. John leans into Todd’s ear and they have a whispered conversation. This goes on for several minutes, then Todd notices me over John’s shoulder.
“You’re not going to help them?” John asks, craning his neck around.
“Not my area,” I shrug, pulling out a cigarette and slipping it in the corner of my mouth.
“What is your area?” Todd presses.
“Public relations,” I improvise, unsure what to say. “Don’t let me interrupt. Just pretend I’m not here.”
“I need to make a few calls,” John announces, pulling out his phone and pausing by the door on the way out. “You want to grab a beer later?”
“Since you have the keys to the cooler, I am strongly inclined to accept that offer.”
“Give me an hour,” he bobs his head, bouncing down the stairs in a hurry.
Left in the room with Todd, I observe him rolling the tipsy monitor stand back to the corner. Stepping up to the map table, I pull out my phone and take a half dozen pictures of the side-scan data. When he notices me, I assume he will protest, but he just stands there.
“This won’t be a problem, will it?”
“You guys have live video and your buddy indicated that he was going to delete it. There are no cell towers out here and we’re going to hand all this over when we leave anyway.”
“So, that’s a no?”
He nods, returning to his clean up.
“Thanks,” I offer, leaving him behind, then head out to the deck.
I light a smoke and lean over the rail watching the blue ocean slap the side of the boat. Flipping the phone open, I forward the pictures to Hal. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he sees these. I’m blowing a stream of smoke over my head, but notice Cam emerge from the dining area in the center of the ship. He pauses, possibly disoriented, then turns abruptly and heads to the stern. He’s stuffing an oversized slice of pizza in his mouth as he walks. Although warned to stay off the decks alone, I tag along at a discrete distance. He scurries along Hobbit like, wiping his greasy hand on his cargo shorts several times.
A wooden lifeboat hangs from arched supports just before the ship rounds off at the stern. I lean there, blowing my smoke to the rear, staying just out of sight. The Hobbit stumbles up to Dexter, who is on one knee using a key to open a rectangular box the size of an end table. The two of them stand the box up, then Dexter punches some buttons on a lighted keypad. The front opens like an old steamer trunk, the inside covered in some sort of black velour. Cam steps back and then a tiny silver figure walks right out of the box.
“Interesting toys,” I whisper, squinting to get a better look.
No more than two feet tall, the tiny metal man, or maybe woman given they called it Sophie, stands in front of the kneeling Dexter. Red eyes glow brightly in the dying sun of late afternoon. A yellow glow dots its chest as it turns in place, then gestures to the two nerds.
“Did you download the file,” Cam asks the tiny soldier.
He receives a brisk nod from the metal figure.
“There’s tools and nitro canisters on the sled,” Dexter lectures, getting to his feet. “Find Echo, cut this thing out and send it up.”
The tiny figure nods again.
“Then get your butt back on the sled and come home,” he continues, grabbing the robot by the middle section with both hands, which is more of a framework, than a solid.
“Aren’t you going to wait for the sled,” Cam complains.
Dexter shakes his head, spins in a circle as a wind up, then tosses the robot over the side.
I lean around the lifeboat, but other than a small splash, the retrieval device is gone. My pretend friends just throw their stuff overboard like it’s nothing. Aren’t we thousands of feet front the bottom? Memories of cranes lowering sensitive diving equipment off the back of ships during Jacque Cousteau specials play across my mind. Who are these guys?
“Was your view okay from here?” Dexter startles me as he passes by heading forward.
“Yeah,” I stammer, spinning around awkwardly. “That robot going to bring the case back?”
“That’s not the question your boss sent you out here to answer,” he shakes his head, pausing as his partner passes, shooting me the stink eye.
“What question might that be?” I sigh, flicking by butt over the side.
“He wants to know what’s in the case. We find it, you tell him what’s inside.”
“That what you think?”
“Yup,” he frowns, walking away. “Why else would you be tagging along. If he just wanted the case, the real Lydia would be here.”
“And you’d prefer her to me?”
“Tell your boss we should know something by morning,” he informs me, pausing in the hatchway that Cam previously disappeared into. “And yes, I’d prefer the actual Lydia.”
“Maybe you just need to get to know me better?”
Dexter pauses, as if he might reply, then slips into the hatch and out of sight. I place another smoke in the corner of my mouth, but don’t light it. The ocean rolls the boat up and down causing me to ponder how alone I am on this ship. Those two sure aren’t watching my back. Out here, I really am working without a net. John pops out onto the deck where the stairs come down, then starts my way wearing a big grin.
“Ah-ha,” I sigh, waving. “One net, coming right up.”
Chapter Eight
A half dozen men sit at cafeteria style tables eating powdered eggs, and what passes for bacon. I had the impression from overhearing them yesterday that most were Russian, but today the crowd has more of a Latin flavor. I run a hand down the wall to keep my balance on the way to the coffee. It takes several minutes to arrange the cup and lid correctly, but when I turn around, all eyes are on me. John’s directive to stay near my cabin echoes in my mind. Was this a bad idea? Before I can answer my own query, the smell of toast wafts past my nose. On a forward-facing wall is a station that contains bread and toasters. It’s similar to a continental breakfast at a hotel.
Ignoring the stares, I make my way to the toasters. I put my coffee down, keeping a hand close enough to catch it if the ship tips. The leering eyes of the crew cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. Is this just an uncomfortable situation or a prelude to molestation? Before I have an opportunity to find out, John bursts in.
“Lydia, there you are. I went by your cabin but—.”
“Well, you found me,” I announce, relieved to see a friendly face.
John leans on the wall facing the room as I stand with my back to it. He scans over the crew, their reflection dancing in his eyes. My toast pops up, barely hot. Since I am unlikely to get another chance, I spread strawberry jam on one piece, then make it into a sandwich.
“Let’s get back up top,” he whispers, grabbing my upper arm. “Before you put me in an awkward position.”
“How is this more awkward than what you got going on already,” I whisper back, grabbing my coffee cup in my free hand as he leads me out the door.
“I told you not to wander about by yourself?” he lectures, releasing me once we are headed up the deck. “Wait, what awkward situation do I have going on already?”
He glances over as we walk, but my mouth is chewing on a huge bite of dry toast sandwich. There are so many answers to that question. I stop chewing and run them over in my mind as we walk. The most obvious is that I had to toss him out of my room last night after a polite goodnight kiss turned into a wrestling match. It’s not that I don’t like John, but a guy usually has to buy me more than one round of drinks to sleep over. Sin
ce I married my high school sweetheart, I never had a chance to experiment with casual sex. Suffice it to say last night was not John’s lucky night. Is tonight looking any better for him?
“Are you alright?” John pauses at the stairs, a hand on the railing. “Is this weird?”
I shake my head, mouth full from the unchewed bite. He lets me pass and go up first. The poor guy looks really sorry for the sloppy booze induced grouping that preceded his being ejected from my room. Do I really want this to be uncomfortable the entire time? I can hear Todd’s voice even before we reach the hatch. I slow and swallow, pausing outside the door for a brief moment.
“You were saying?” I choke down the dry toast.
“What awkward thing do I have going on? Is this about last night?”
“No silly,” I swallow hard, wiping the corner of my mouth with my forearm. “The awkward thing you have going on, is that you know where eighteen missing airliners are and you can’t tell anyone.”
“Very funny.”
His question answered, or possibly avoided, I slip around the corner and into the room. On the table is a platter of bagels and some glazed doughnuts. A bottle of orange juice and some plastic glasses sit dripping condensation on the table. So, this is where the five-star dinning happens.
Cam has half a bagel shoved in his mouth, while Dexter and Todd are chatting and drinking coffee from fancy plastic mugs. They all turn when I enter holding a paper cup and a crust filled napkin.
“Oh yeah,” John whispers as he slides past me toward the spread. “Have some breakfast.”
…
I split time between watching the tiny robot carry tools from the sled to the Gulfstream and smoking on the deck. They dropped the sled away from the plane graveyard to keep from it landing on anything. It would appear that tossing a steel barge into the ocean and letting it drift to the bottom has a plus or minus accuracy of a mile or two. It’s a forty-five-minute roundtrip from the sled to the Gulfstream, but by noon the tiny robot has dragged all they need to the site. I lean on the doorframe watching the large flat-screen on the rolling dolly. John bumps me with his elbow as he hustles in from smoking.
“What did I miss?”
“Not a thing, but it’s about to get interesting.”
On the screen, the robot carries what looks like a tiny cordless drill along the seabed, leaving a groove in the sand behind it. The tool is small for a full-size person, but still nearly half the size of the robot. The yellow light in the center of the torso pulses, it’s glowing red eyes moving up and down every few seconds. A three-fingered claw has to grip, then regrip the tool to keep it from slipping away. John startles me, whispering into my ear.
“I have never seen anything like this.”
I nod, without looking away from the screen, having no truthful answer to offer. It’s also the first time I have seen any of this, but I attempt to look nonchalant.
Using what must be magnetic force, the robot scales the fuselage to an oval window. Can magnets stick to aluminum, if that’s what the Gulfstream is made of? The entire scene is lighted by the swimming box that hovers nearby, although shadows often play across the action as the current buffets everything down there. The picture is actually very clear given we are watching from the box’s camera.
“Wowza,” John utters, when the end of the drill turns out to be a torch, fire shooting out in controlled bursts.
The tiny robot slowly cuts a square around the Lexan window. Air bubbles burst forth from the glowing metal as the cut moves along. A tiny bit of air from inside the Gulfstream also slips out, one time nearly toppling the metal workman. When the fire meets up with the scorched starting point he, or possibly she, uses a tiny foot to stomp the glass. The entire section buckles, then a second kick breaks it off, the cut-out from around the window disappearing into the plane. After leaning over to peek inside, the robot is nearly run over by the swimming box whizzing past.
The picture moves frantically now, making it hard to keep up with. The box is searching the cabin for the brief case. I turn my head away when the picture passes by what looks like a face. A simultaneous groan fills the room as Cam slows the frame rate down. Three bodies sit in their seats, trapped by seatbelts. I’d half expect their arms to float, but they don’t move. The bloated corpses are a pasty eggshell color in the stark light, eyes open but fogged over.
“They are just sitting there like nothing happened?” Todd mumbles, arms crossed, picking at his chin.
“Maybe they had assumed the position?” John remarks.
“Maybe,” Dexter mutters, shaking his head slightly in contradiction to his words.
The box eventually locates a silver case, but it’s handcuffed by the handle to the framework of a seat. Before anyone can comment, the robot stomps into view with the torch and goes to work on the chain. It takes several minutes to chew through and at some point Cam fast forwards the recording. I almost forgot we aren’t seeing this live.
Once free, the robot begins dragging the case to the hole, but it’s awkward. It requires a half-hour and a dozen tries to push the case up to the seat under the hole. On the first attempt to maneuver it out of the hole, the robot slips, winding up on his back. The case then lands on top of him, reminding me of the ACME anvil landing on Wylie Coyote. After an hour, and a dozen epic fails, the screen goes blank, leaving flickering cobalt blue in its place.
“Looks like they can’t do it?” Todd accuses, eyeing Dexter.
“That’s just the end of the recording. By now they probably have it out,” Cam argues defensively.
“Hold it right there,” John announces. “They can’t send it up until we have a chance to look it over.”
“When did you say that?” Dexter frowns. “We seem to have missed the memo.”
“Slipped my mind,” John admits. “But we’d like to make sure the case is undamaged before you send it up. Just to be safe.”
“Why?” Cam asks in a suspicious tone. “What’s inside that you don’t want getting out?”
All eyes focus on John, but he shrugs.
“I honestly don’t know, but they told me to check.”
“This feels oddly familiar,” Cam mutters, locking eyes with Dexter. “The mushroom treatment all over again.”
“We can’t communicate with them at that depth, so you should probably take the receiver we gave you out on deck and wait for a delivery,” Dexter lectures, seemingly unconcerned about the arrival of the uninspected case. You wanted it topside, so figure it out.”
“Great,” John groans, pushing past me. “I better get Lee.”
Dexter and Cam pull the plug and file past. Todd watches them go, then I nod and follow along. I trail them, albeit at a distance, all the way to their cabin. Once they disappear inside, I lean on the railing overlooking the sea. It’s overcast today, waves rocking the boat. In the distance, the dim lights of a second ship blink on and off as it drags a sonar device along the ocean floor. Finding Lord knows what. I take a moment to tap out a text to Hal.
ME: They found the case today. It’s possible they will have it topside soon.
I wait, watching three tiny circles pulse as a reply is typed.
DADDY: Is the case damaged?
ME: Why is everyone asking this question?
DADDY: ?
ME: Looked good in the video I saw, why?
DADDY: Just curious. Let me know the minute they retrieve it, send pictures if you can.
I reply with a thumb up emoji.
The door behind me opens and Dexter steps out, one hand holding the door. After looking both ways, as if he was George Smiley from a le Carre novel, he waves me over.
“What’s up?
“I have something you should see,” he whispers, holding the door open for me.
I slip inside and find their room larger than mine. It’s still bunk beds and a desk, but also a table and two chairs. A trash can near the bunks is overflowing with paper plates and napkins, a pizza crust stuck to one of the plates
by dried tomato sauce. No doubt the Slob’s handiwork, as Dexter seems to be a very tidy. What an odd duo. The laptop’s open on the table with Cam scratching his head, his glasses stuck in his hair like a headband.
“This is unbelievable,” he exclaims.
Peering over his shoulder, a video shot from the box illuminates a window on a much larger plane. The clear oval is partially obstructed by filth, possibly algae that has crept in on the edges. As the shot pans in, rows of corpses belted into their seats fill the screen. The view moves down the fuselage, shining the light in a series of windows. When it hits the last window, the shot pulls away illuminating the rear of the plane, the massive tail fin virtually un-damaged. Our view pans around the tail, which looks surreal standing tall in deep water.
“This can’t have been down here long,” Cam remarks, tilting his head as he stares.
“That would depend on your definition of long,” Dexter mumbles, eyes glued to the screen.
“Where did you get this video?”
“We only showed them one of the flash drives,” he explains. “Experience has taught us that—.”
“We shot this while we were waiting for Sophie to get down there,” Cam remarks casually.
“Sophie is the robot?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re selectively cooperative?” I accuse.
“They didn’t ask about the other planes, just their precious case,” Dexter points out. “We thought your bosses might want to know what’s really out here.”
I sigh, giving him my best appreciative look. After nearly five minutes roving over the wreck, the shot plows into darkness, still moving. Moments later, we pass over the front of another huge airliner. There’s quite a bit of damage to the nose and a ripple down the outer skin. It must have hit a lot harder than the last one. Was it hitting the water, or the bottom, that caused it?
The view zooms up to the cockpit window, which is foggy and cracked. An orange and blue fish obscures the picture when it passes by, entering via a large crack. The swimming box tags along, stopping outside the crack, but the pilots are missing. The light glints off a shiny object, then the pilot’s chair moves. Cam slows the frame rate down, allowing more comprehensible picture. Once the camera steadies, the shiny object turns out to be some decorative embellishment on the pilot’s uniform. A small fish darts out of the sleeve, explaining the movement.
