by Dan McGirt
Jack looked up. “Sandpiper reported unusually low fish counts over the last two weeks.”
“Fish come and go, man. They’re fish.”
Jack rounded the map table. “The undercount was significant enough that Cassi conferenced with colleagues onshore almost daily, trying to make sense of it. The abrupt marine population decline was noted all across the Gulf.”
“You’ve lost me. What do missing fish have to do with a missing ship?”
“Maybe nothing. But one of the last transmissions from Sandpiper was Cassi’s voicemail for a colleague onshore. MARISA?”
“Here you are, Jack,” said the AI. A chime sounded over the speakers, then the recorded voice of Cassidy Settles filled the room: “Orin! It’s Cassi! We’ve found the fish. All of them, I think! It’s...well, I’ve never seen anything like it. Call me right away! As soon as you get this! We’ll upload video in a few minutes.”
“You have the video?” asked Galahad.
Jack pursed his lips. “It was never uploaded. Sandpiper posted regular mission update videos on their ViewTube channel. The last was posted the day before the ship went missing.”
“Fish disappeared. Fish came back. Maybe the ship went wherever the fish did,” said Galahad.
“Which is where we’re going,” said Jack. “San Marcos.”
“So you plan to slip into San Marcos waters and poke around without them catching on?”
“Plan to?” Jack laughed. “You know me better than that, Gal. We entered San Marcos waters fifteen minutes ago.”
4: Play Misty
“Jack, they’ll yank your passport again, you keep sneaking into countries like this!” said Galahad.
“That’s why I keep spares,” said Jack.
“Two fast patrol boats on approach, range seventeen miles,” said MARISA.
“I see them,” said Jack.
The undersea topo map on the table morphed into a tactical bird’s eye view of the Gulf of Mexico for fifty miles in all directions around the Marisa, represented in bright red. A pair of green icons stood for the approaching vessels.
“I make as Type 022 fast attack craft, registered to the San Marcos coast guard,” said MARISA.
Galahad whistled. “Chinese missile boats?” He brought the recliner upright.
“Houbei class is a great stocking stuffer,” said Jack.
“Missiles not included, I hope.”
“We shall see.”
Galahad jutted his chin at Jack. “I know what happened to our missing ship, man. And it’s about to happen to us.”
Jack grinned. “Always a gloomy Gus. MARISA, do they have radar lock?”
“Negative.”
Marisa’s angular design reduced its radar signature by 99 percent. Electromagnetic baffles and other advanced countermeasures of Jack’s invention further rendered the yacht nearly invisible to most electronic detection.
“Told you, Gal. They can’t even see us on radar.”
“Will that matter if they sail right up to us?”
Jack cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “Sail?”
“Sail, steam, paddle – whatever you want to call it, Cap’n Crunch. They’re coming in way fast.”
“Mr. Mister has it covered,” said Jack.
Galahad’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to ask.”
“This is new,” said Jack. He clasped his hands together and spoke rapidly. “Full envelopment aerated micromist as a projection medium for zero-observable holographic camouflage.”
“Uh-huh,” said Galahad. “MARISA, what the hell is he babbling about?”
“Jack’s new defensive countermeasure surrounds the ship in a fine water mist cloud against which is projected a hologram of empty sea.”
“So it looks like we’re not here?”
“Precisely.”
Galahad scowled at Jack. “And you call it Mr. Mister?”
“Because the mist...”
“I get it.”
“The idea came to me in the shower,” said Jack.
“Whose shower?”
“Never mind that.”
“Does it erase our wake too?”
Jack winced. “I haven’t solved the wake problem. A viable fluid-flow cloak would require a scaffold of porous metamaterial with an anisotropic structure exhibiting variable flow resistance at different points on the hull.”
“Obviously.”
“Plus I’d need piezoelectric micropumps.”
Galahad nodded in mock sympathy. “Piezoelectric micropumps. They trip you up every time.”
“Haven't gotten to it,” said Jack.
“Slacker.” Galahad drained the last of the tea and returned the cup to the Rolling Butler. “You’re sure they won’t see us?”
“Mr. Mister fools the human eye and most machine vision unless they approach within one hundred yards.”
“Or notice the wake.”
“So negative.”
“Skeptical.”
“I don’t know why.”
Galahad gave Jack an are you kidding me look. “Two hostile missile boats coming at us and our primary defense is a glorified fog machine. Yet you wonder at my concern?”
“All the simulations say—”
“Simulations!” Galahad rose halfway out of the recliner. “You haven’t field-tested this?”
“Sea trials.”
“What?”
“It’s a shipboard system, Gal. Sea trials, not field tests.”
“Answer the question!”
“I haven’t the time to personally test everything I invent,” said Jack defensively. “RISA ran the sims. They’re good.”
“I peer reviewed RISA’s work and performed my own tests,” added MARISA.
“Well...if you checked Jack’s math, O Giver-of-Tea, I will relax,” said Galahad. He tilted the recliner back down, closed his eyes and took a theatrical deep breath.
“We outgun them anyway,” said Jack.
“Even if the PLA threw in a pod of C-802s with every purchase?”
“Please,” said Jack. “I have lasers.”
“Solid-state ruby quartz, at one hundred thirty kilowatts,” said MARISA.
“Flirt.” Galahad mimed a kiss. To Jack, he said, “Don’t start a war. I still haven’t found my sea legs.”
“I never shoot first,” said Jack. “Unless I have to. MARISA, do they have missiles?”
“I’m accessing ISA intel on the arms purchase. Confirming: the four Type 022 vessels purchased by San Marcos were configured with a standard CIWS package, but lacked missile pods.”
Jack nodded. “Makes sense. Chicom ship-to-ship missiles in the Gulf of Mexico would be a bridge too far, I think, even for this administration.”
“Who knows, these days?” said Galahad. He brought the chair upright again. “Doesn’t mean San Marcos didn’t pick up some aftermarket missiles from Pakistan.”
“We’ll see,” said Jack.
Galahad joined Jack at the table. He pointed at the green icons representing the patrol boats, which continued toward Marisa on an intercept heading. “If they can’t ping us on radar and they don’t have visual thanks to your fog and light show, then why are they coming right at us?”
“Luck of the draw. Could be their regular patrol pattern.”
Galahad’s eyes narrowed. “Kamenay. That is exactly the kind of intel your little supercomputers would snatch from NRO when they aren’t looking.”
“The sky spooks don’t pay that much attention to San Marcos,” said Jack.
Galahad’s hard stare did not waver. “MARISA?”
“Office of Naval Intelligence, Mr. TwoHawks.”
“You put us in their way to test your little toy!” accused Galahad.
“Weren’t you just complaining about me not testing it?”
“This isn’t what I had...uh, not good.” Galahad staggered back from the table and scrambled for the sick bag. “Urghk!”
“You gonna live, Gal?”
“Depends...how we
ll...your fog box works.” Galahad fell heavily into the recliner. “Should have stayed in the chair.”
“Range five miles.”
“Or in Idaho,” Galahad added.
“Funny guy. More tea?”
“No thanks.”
“Then sit tight. They won’t see us.”
“Aren’t you at least going to warm up the lasers?”
“Warm them up?” Jack gave a pained look. “We’re talking state-of-the-art lasers, Gal, not a seventies color television.”
“Range four point two miles.”
“I hate suspense,” said Galahad. “Especially the about to die kind.”
“We’re not about to die,” said Jack.
“That’s what you always say.”
“And I’m always right.”
Galahad’s response was a reproving scowl.
“You were only technically dead that time in Sudan,” said Jack.
“Technically dead is still dead.”
“I restarted your heart, didn’t I?”
“So you admit you are not always right,” said Galahad.
Jack grinned. “I admit nothing.”
“Range three point nine miles. Targets changing course, heading three-aught-three.”
“See? They’re turning east. Away from us.” Jack threw Galahad a double pistol fingers gesture. “Totally mist-ified them.”
“Sweet spirit in the sky. You were waiting to say that this whole time, weren’t you? This whole time.”
“Good one. Admit it.”
“I’m about to be sick again.”
“Range four point one miles.”
“Keep Mr. Mister engaged until the patrol is out of visual range,” said Jack. The bathymetric map returned to the display table.
“So what are we looking at?” asked Galahad. “If Sandpiper got crosswise of those Houbei, case closed.”
Jack paced around the table. “I do think Cassi’s ship went down. I’m not convinced the San Marcans did it.”
“That research trawler didn’t have your magic mist to hide it,” said Galahad.
“True. But I’m running full spectrographic and electromagnetic field scans. I’m not finding a hint of flotsam consistent with a missile strike. Sandpiper was only 1,100 tons, but there would be something to find.”
“So what happened?”
“That, I don’t know. But it happened fast or they would have called for help.”
“Unless the toy navy jammed them.”
“Go on,” said Jack.
“I bet they’ve got top-notch ECM on those tugs, even if they didn’t spring for the missile and racing stripes package. They meet an unarmed boat – jam ’em, board ’em, tow ’em in. None the wiser.”
“I’ve considered that scenario,” said Jack.
“Of course you have.” Galahad shifted in his chair. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. I simply think it less likely.”
“Less likely than what?”
“Sandpiper is not the first vessel to go missing in these waters under mysterious circumstances.”
“It’s the Gulf of Mexico, man. Lots of ships go missing for lots of reasons.” Galahad scowled. “Wait a minute. I know that tone of voice.”
“What tone?”
“Spill it,” growled Galahad.
“There is a underwater formation not far from here that has unusual electromagnetic properties,” said Jack.
“Unusual how?” said Galahad. “When you use those words, I get nervous.”
“What words?”
“You know what I mean: unusual, interesting, unexplained, curious. You start talking like that, it means we’re about to get in deep hoyat. So what is it this time?”
“Reports of anomalous electromagnetic spikes in this sector go back decades.”
“Anomalous how? Weird lightning? The old spinning compass?”
“Both. Atmospheric events and instrument malfunctions. Radio interference. Optical distortions. Possible vortex phenomena.”
Galahad wrinkled his face in disgust. “Bermuda Triangle stuff.”
“This isn’t the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Same neighborhood.”
“A few hundred miles off, Gal.”
“How does your underwater formation figure with the missing ship?”
“I don’t know that it does.”
“But you think it might.”
“Here’s what we know. There is something here.” A holographic red pushpin appeared on the bathymetric map. “Could be a natural formation. A large deposit of magnetic ore. Low level volcanic activity. Hard to say. Satellite imagery of the location is...fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy? Is that a technical term?”
“Nothing RISA can grab from KEYHOLE surveillance, and nothing from REDEYE,” – ScarletTech’s private satellite grid – “gives a clear look.” Jack frowned. “Images typically come in cloudy, blurred. IR, radar, everything is off.”
“A hot spot of weirdness,” said Galahad.
“You got it.”
“I assume that’s where we’re headed next.”
“Of course.”
“And the catch? There is always a catch.”
“LiquiOil has an offshore drilling platform at those exact coordinates.”
“LiquiOil? Chod!” Galahad made the three-finger gesture the Monoga used to ward off evil. “That’s never good.”
5: Last Look
One hour earlier, the SARAs took flight.
The twin Search And Rescue Autodrones launched from the aft deck of Marisa while the vessel was still in international waters. SARA-1 and SARA-2 were identical 15-foot quadcopter heliwings. With lightweight carbonfiber and plastisteel hulls colored bright orange. As an emergency search and rescue tool, the SARA was meant to be highly visible, easily spotted by stranded climbers, lost hikers, marooned sailors, injured disaster victims, and other rescuees. Though Jack had designed a stealth version for military and covert operations use, he hadn’t built it yet. Bright orange rescue drones were what he had, so that was what he sent out.
The SARAs operated autonomously while streaming real-time video and telemetry to MARISA on an encrypted satellite link. Equipped with infrared cameras, digitally enhanced zoom, facial recognition, omnidirectional acoustic pickup, radar, laser range-finding, high-powered LED searchlights, and other sensor packages, a SARA could pinpoint human targets with a high degree of accuracy in even the most difficult terrain. The SARA-1 unit had saved Jack’s life in his recent Grand Canyon incident.
Once a target was located, the SARA had a full tool kit of responses. The autodrone could drop food, water, and supplies. It carried a defibrillator, oxygen masks, and a first aid kit. SARA could loiter in the area to guide a full rescue team to the location. If necessary it was capable of airlifting up to four ambulatory adults with its cable and harness unit, or one immobilized or injured passenger in a flying gurney. For water rescues, SARA could splashdown and serve as a floatation device, complete with a pop-up sun canopy and anti-shark netting.
MARISA had the SARAs running a parallel search pattern along a major axis defined by Sandpiper’s last known course and position, probability-adjusted for recorded wind and currents since the ship disappeared.
At thirty-eight minutes past the hour, SARA-1 got a hit.
***
In the dive room, Jack stripped down to his red swim trunks. His well-muscled six-foot-three frame bore faint and fading scars as reminders of past adventures. Burns, bites, bullets, and beatings had all left their mark. Fortunately, Jack had access to the world’s best surgeons, physical therapists, and advanced medical treatments, including techniques that were experimental to the point of being speculative – and not even close to being FDA-approved.
“You’re determined to drown me,” said Galahad.
Jack glanced up at his friend, who had just peeled off his turquoise blue t-shirt. Galahad had been shot, stabbed, and scorched every bit as much as Jack. And it was not always
Jack’s fault, though Gal would loudly insist otherwise. The powerfully built Monoga had pulled multiple tours in the Middle East and Central Asia as an Army Ranger, plus more than a few black curtain missions that never happened in places he never was.
Unlike Jack, Galahad was content to wear all but the worst damage without resort to reconstructive surgery. The puckered remnants of old bullet wounds and the angry purplish tracings left by blades and claws told their tales across the coppery expanse of Gal’s muscled chest and broad rock climber’s back.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jack.
“Only a madman decides to go for a swim in the middle of the damn Gulf of Mexico, man. And I am twice the fool for going with you.”
“We’re not swimming,” said Jack. “We’re taking the PUPs.”
Galahad slid out of his loose cotton pants. “We’re getting in the water, that’s swimming. What’s the point?”
“This is our best means of finding out what happened to Sandpiper,” said Jack. He pulled a midnight blue dural monofiber dive suit out of his locker.
Jack had full faith in the Coast Guard’s search capabilities, but it was a big Gulf. In addition to launching the SARAs, he had ordered the ground techs at Scarlet Aerospace to reprocess every REDEYE image from the Gulf sector taken in the last one hundred hours, via both computer-assisted pattern recognition and human eyes-on, feeding all results to MARISA. He also had every Scarlet-owned vessel in Gulf waters or the northern Caribbean diverted to join the official search, seconded to the Coast Guard’s Admiral Reese.
“We gonna question the fish?”
“Maybe,” said Jack. He stepped into the dive suit. “There are plenty of eyes, boats, and bodies on the official search. This is what we can do that no one else can do.”
“Always with the we, when we’re about to do something nuts, kemo sabe. And swimming up to a LiquiOil platform in hostile waters with zero intel is certifiably nuts.”
Jack grinned. “Would I do something nuts and leave you out?”
“I should be so lucky.”
“Get dressed, Gal. I want to be in the water by dusk.”
“Prime shark feeding time.”
“Yeah, you’re the bait so they don’t eat me.”
