by Bob Finley
The "Surrey," short for "submarine ferry," was a small four-client craft requiring only one pilot, though the cockpit also contained an observer's seat, as Marcus Justin occasionally showed up unannounced to accompany his pilots on a routine job. He required high standards of his pilots and kept a close watch on their performance, all for the safety and benefit of his company's paying passengers. It wasn't unusual for a pilot, even on a night dive, to board his craft and find the boss waiting unobtrusively in the cockpit. The "Surreys", of acriliglass construction as were all Justin Expeditions' vehicles, were designed for general duty including anything from sightseeing to scientific and survey work. They had a working depth of 600 feet, the average depth of the continental shelf. Carrying four paying passengers at speeds of up to 50 knots, they were extremely versatile and quite profitable. The inside cabin resembled the richly appointed interior of a small executive jet aircraft. Justin Enterprises maintained a fleet of 76 such craft around the world and Marc Justin himself used one for his own personal taxi.
Kim ran due north for a couple of minutes, skirting the eastern edge of two charted shipwrecks, before coming to 342 degrees for the four minute approach to Government Cut. When the bottom abruptly shoaled up to 60 feet, the directional arrow on the GPS did a quick one-eighty to tell him he’d passed the programmed way point. Kim came left to put the Surrey on a heading of 252 degrees and began watching the HolarScope. The channel entrance to the bay was easily discernible as a gash in the shoal’s knife-edge and he steered toward it. Two-and-a-quarter miles off South Miami Beach he eased the stick back, bringing the craft up to a depth of 20 feet. He kept an eye on the depth compensator for verification against the HolarScope and the GPS. Suddenly the digital numbers on the face of the compensator flicked briefly, too quickly to read, and came to an uncertain rest at 52 feet and rising. Glancing quickly out and down through the clear water, Marc glimpsed the 45 foot high cliff as it leaped out of the depths at them thirty feet below. He experienced the same fleeting thrill that an airplane pilot feels when flying low and fast over rough terrain.
Fine-tuning to a heading of 250 degrees, Kim divided his attention between scanning the bottom 25 feet below them and watching the compensator. When it reached a depth of 35 feet he knew that within a few seconds he should be able to see the Outer Bar Cut channel, if his sense of direction had been right. Recognizing an up-jutting boulder here and a coral head there, he knew he was right on course. Abruptly, just ahead, he spotted the dredged-out vertical walls of the channel and, slowing his speed to ten knots, glided in between the walls of the "canyon," as it was familiarly known to them, and dropping down, came to a hover six feet off the rocky bottom. This lessened the danger of collision with an outbound surface ship while they received clearance from the Coast Guard Controller on Causeway Island just inside the Bay. Kim punched in the Controller's frequency on the radio and push the hands-free button on the dash. "`Surrey Blue' to BB Controller." He paused, then repeated the call into the two-way speaker. In a few seconds the Controller's voice came from the speaker.
"This is Biscayne Bay Controller, Surrey Blue, go ahead."
"Caught you napping, did we?" Kim's eyes twinkled. He heard a chuckle at the Controller's end.
"No, I was in the other room getting a cup of coffee. Have some?" came the reply.
"`Fraid we're short on time this morning, but keep the pot hot. How's the channel?" Kim queried.
"Channel is clear, no departures, one arrival standing an hour out," the Controller informed him.
"Very well, Control. Surrey Blue requests clearance to enter the channel."
"Roger, Surrey Blue. Stand in submerged at ten knots. Report when clear of the channel."
"Roger, Control. Surrey Blue is inbound at ten knots. Out."
Kim pushed the hands-free button again, kicked in the ventral thrusters and the small craft rose to fifteen feet. He eased the throttle forward and the sub glided into the 30 foot deep channel. Nine-tenths of a mile from its entrance, the channel abruptly turned 45 degrees to starboard and Kim banked slightly to adjust to the new heading.
It was now a 2.75 mile arrow-straight corridor to the "ramp," the nickname Marc and Kim had assigned the point at which they made a left turn out of the main channel called Gout-Cut, to enter the private channel constructed and owned by Justin Expeditions. They routinely covered the distance, as they had many times.
"BB Controller, this is Surrey Blue, clearing "The ‘Cut’."
"Roger, Surrey Blue. Any planned departures today?"
Kim looked at Marc for instructions. Marc nodded his head affirmatively. Kim replied, "Roger, Control, the Viking will be outbound as soon as her passengers are on board."
"Think it'll be anytime soon?"
Kim paused, puzzled at this unusual question and glanced at Marc. Marc raised one finger .
"This is Marcus Justin. The Viking's departure time is a matter of routine security. Why do you want to know?"
There was a short silence from the Controller's end followed by an embarrassed and apologetic reply.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to pry. I just thought if the Viking were going out in the next hour or so I'd stay, off-duty, and watch her clear the channel."
"Why?" Marc Justin shot back.
"Well, sir, I . . ." he floundered for words, "well, the truth is, I think she's a beautiful ship!" The tone of his voice indicated to Marc that the young sailor half-expected to be ridiculed for his admission. It also convinced Marc that he was telling the truth.
"You'd stay up after having had duty all night just to see my ship pass by?" Marc asked quietly.
"Yes sir." Encouraged by Marc's tone, he added, "Like I said, she's a beautiful ship."
"You boys get a 96-hour pass every two weeks don't you?" Marc asked him.
"Yes, sir, because of the long hours we have to work," he replied, wondering at the reason for the question.
"What's your name, son?"
"Powell, sir. Troy Powell," he replied hesitantly, fearful of being put on report for improper conduct while on duty.
"Well, Troy, the next time you have a 96, call the Marine Telephone Exchange and ask for me. I'll arrange a weekend cruise on the Viking for you."
"Sir?! I mean, really, sir?! I mean, well that would be great, Mr. Justin! Are you sure, sir?"
"I'm sure, Troy. But I'm not sure what time we'll clear the channel this morning so it would be better, I think, if you didn't wait."
"Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. And thank you!"
"Okay, Troy. Surrey Blue out."
Marcus Justin sat smiling to himself for a moment and gave a little shake of his head. Then he noticed that Kim, his face turned slightly away from him, was grinning. "Not a word, boy," Marc growled. "I just found a replacement for you."
Kim, still grinning, said, "Yes, sir, Mr. Justin, SIR!" and eased the sub into her slip at the dock of Justin Oceanographic Charter Expeditions.
Chapter 5
Marcus Justin and his assistant, Kim Matsumoto, walked briskly across the lawn toward the dome-shaped office of Justin Expeditions, gleaming whitely in the early morning Miami sunshine. Marc took a deep breath of the cool, refreshing breeze wafting in off Biscayne Bay and expelled it gustily. Kim gave a him a dirty look. Marc noted the dark pouches under his assistant's eyes.
"Sun feels great, doesn't it?" he asked innocently.
Kim gave no indication that he heard him.
"Yessir. Makes you wanta just stretch out on the grass over there by the water and let that ol' warm sun lull you right off to sleep," he sighed.
There was a low growl from Kim.
“By the way...you call y’ lady friend?”
“Yeah,” Kim accused. “She’s a journalist and she’s leaving on assignment tomorrow. There’s no telling when she’ll be back in town!”
“Sorry,” Justin allowed.
They reached the steps and Marc laid his hand on Kim's arm.
"Listen," he said, his voice drippin
g with sympathy, "I have an idea. You look like you could use a little sleep, and you’re obviously in mourning, so why don't you take the day off. I'll get that boy from the Coast Guard station to fill in for you. “
Kim's eyes blazed up and he jabbed a finger at Marc. "Tell you what, since you feel so great, and I look so bad, you can just take the first watch when we get underway and I'll go sack out!" He turned and walked away toward the Vehicle Maintenance building to check with Ben Cramer on the Viking's ready status.
Marc laughed, ran lightly up the steps and stepped through the private entrance that opened directly into his personal office. A petite, suntanned figure, most definitely female, was standing by his desk, pouring a smoking hot cup of coffee. "Trish!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here at seven in the morning?" His secretary flashed a quick smile.
"Why shouldn't I be? You're here," she said brightly. He went to his desk and took a cautious sip of the hot brew.
"Umm," he sounded appreciatively, "How about giving your coffee making secret to Kim? I can't tell the difference between his coffee and his tea."
She grinned and poured one for herself. Patricia McLain…"Trish" to her boss…was not only an excellent office manager but also smart and witty. At his request, they started off each day with a cup of coffee and a brief but pleasant conversation. She sat down across from his desk.
"An S and R mission," she said, using the military abbreviation for Search and Rescue," is rather unusual for us, Marc. What's the reason?" The attitude of unity, felt by all Justin employees, was obvious in her unconscious use of the word "us."
"Yes, it is, Trish," Justin mused. He paused, his face became a blank. Then he quietly continued, "We're going after Bill Layton. He's `presumed lost' on The Ridge."
The shock on her face quickly changed to sympathy. With unmistakable sincerity in her voice, she said quietly, "I'm sorry, Marc." For a moment there was silence. Then a fleeting expression of hope appeared on her face. "But you said `presumed' lost. Is it not for sure?"
"No," he said slowly. "He missed two security transmissions though, and he knows…knew…the importance of those signals. He wouldn't have missed transmitting without a good reason."
"What do you think it could be?" Trish asked.
"I don't know. The Navy suspects either sabotage or crushing from structural collapse, I think."
"Did they say that?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what do you think?" she insisted.
He stared at his coffee for several long moments before answering. "I think," he said finally, with a flat edge to his voice, "that it's very dark, very cold, and very, very dangerous a mile under the gray Atlantic." He lifted his gaze to hers and in his eyes she sensed a great sadness and perhaps even a degree of resignation to the tragedy that, deep within himself, he fully expected to confront him when he arrived on the scene. She realized that he was secretly giving odds of a hundred to one against his friend's survival. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing. Her boss seemed lost in thought. Then, quite abruptly, he drew a deep breath and seemed to draw a curtain between himself and his emotions. Throwing down the last of the coffee, he set his mug down on the desk with a thump.
"Has the Navy team arrived yet?" he asked briskly.
"Yes. Security said they arrived by military chopper about an hour ago and were escorted to the cafeteria to get some breakfast."
"Run 'em down, would you? " Mark asked.
"Ben Masters, a structural engineer from Chicago and Frank Sheppard, a submarine geologist from Woods Hole, Massachusetts. WHOI."
Marc glanced up. "Only two? There were to have been three. Where's the other one?"
"I don't know. Wait, though, a message came in on Secure E-Mail a few minutes ago. Maybe it'll say." She tapped a code pad on the wall at an adjoining office but momentarily popped her head out the door.
"It's encrypted. 'FOR YOUR EYES ONLY'. You want to run it through the box?”
"No, you go ahead." He had no secrets that Trish didn't know about.
He heard a high pitched whine followed by printer noises from the Secure Room. Trish emerged from the room, tugging the door closed behind her and listening for it to click shut.
He accepted the sheet of paper from her and quickly scanned the message:
TO: MARCUS JUSTIN
DR. J. CRAMERTON UNABLE TO MEET YOU MIAMI. STOP.
PROCEED TO 3251' NORTH LONGITUDE, 6317' WEST LATITUDE, 18:45 HOURS, 6-3-2023, DEPTH 11 FATHOMS. STOP. MAINTAIN STATION. STOP. DR. CRAMERTON WILL INTERCEPT THERE. STOP. MAINTAIN COMMUNICATIONS SILENCE. FINAL COMMUNICATION. STOP.
H. C.
"H. C.," Marc Justin noted. Harold Cardigan, Secretary of the Navy.
"Tell you anything?" Trish interrupted his thoughts.
"Oh," he said, realizing she was still there, "Yeah, this is it alright. Dr. . . ." he glanced back at the paper, "...Cramerton can't get here before we sail. We're to rendezvous this side of Bermuda at a quarter to seven this evening and pick him up."
"How will he meet you, seaplane?" she queried.
"I don't know," he replied. "We're to remain submerged until contacted, so he might arrive by military sub."
"What's his field?" Trish inquired.
"Telegram doesn't say. Maybe a spook. I guess I won't know until I meet him this evening. Trish, see if those men have finished breakfast, would you? I'd like to meet them before we go aboard."
She nodded and started from the room.
"Oh, and Trish…" he called after her, "…get hold of Kim and ask him to come over as soon as he's finished inspecting the Viking, okay?"
"Okay, boss," she called over her shoulder as she left and shut the door.
Marcus Justin crossed the room and opened a door. Inside the dressing room-closet hung several one-piece uniforms of an ultra-lightweight, white material. He stepped into the small room, stripped to his underwear, slipped into one and zipped it up the front. Emblazoned in dark blue on the left chest was the company emblem…a capital "J" with the world globe impaled halfway up its straight shaft. Immediately to the right, in small letters, were the words "Justin Oceanographic Chartered Expeditions," one under the other, with the world-piercing J forming the first letter of "Justin" and the "O" shape of the globe forming the first letter of "Oceanographic."
As he stepped from the tiny cubicle, Trish peeked through the adjoining office door.
"Mr. Masters and Mr. Sheppard are here, boss," she informed him.
"Good, bring `em in, Trish," Marc replied as he shut the closet door and returned to his desk.
In a moment, Trish re-entered the room, trailed by two men. One was six-three, Marc estimated, thin, with large bony features and dark-rimmed glasses. The other was shorter, about Marc's own height. From the salt-and-pepper appearance of his wiry hair, Marc judged him to be in his early fifties. A medium-heavy mustache lent his features a gruff but pleasantly professorial image. His complexion had the weathered look of an experienced seaman.
"Come in, gentlemen," Marc called, reaching to shake the hand of the older man, who was closest. "I'm Marcus Justin."
"A pleasure, indeed, Mr. Justin. Frank Sheppard," he identified himself and added, "I'm an old but ardent admirer of yours."
"Oh?" Mark was surprised. "Why is that, sir?"
"For the advanced tools you've created and made available for exploring the seas," he smiled. "You've done more for the ocean sciences than a dozen so-called scientists like myself."
"I wish I deserved your praise, Mr. Sheppard, but my motives were probably more mercenary than scientific."
"As well they might be, Mr. Justin. You certainly deserve a reward," he replied with warm sincerity.
Marc turned his attention to the other man who seemed preoccupied with a visual dissection of his office.
"Forgive me, Mr. Masters," he regained the man's attention, "I was rather rudely basking in Mr. Sheppard's praise."
"Quite alright, Mr. Justin," he replied in an oddly detached way
, as though only part of him was engaged in talking to Marc, while the other part was occupied with private thoughts. It tagged him as distinctly absent-minded and gave one an uneasy sensation of talking ‘at’ rather than ‘to’ Ben Masters.
"I was just admiring your office. Most attractive."
"Thank you." Marc gazed directly into the man's face, but had the unsettling feeling that Masters, though he gave the illusion of attentiveness, was actually looking past him at something only Masters could see. Vaguely discomfited, he turned away from the man and walked behind his desk.
"Have a seat, gentlemen," he indicated two chairs facing his desk. “I'm going to have one more cup of coffee before we leave. May I offer you one?"
"Please," the older man smiled.
He glanced at Masters who seemed not to have heard him.
"Mr. Masters?" he asked. The man looked quizzically at him. "Coffee?" Marc repeated.
"Oh, no thanks," he replied quickly with a polite smile and then relapsed into his semi-trance.
Marc stood looking at him for a moment, hoping the entire mission wouldn't turn out to be a series of repeated questions and half-answers.
Marc accepted one of the cups which Trish brought in and eased back into the leather chair he'd had built by an orthopedic furniture manufacturer. The overalls, replacing his street clothes, felt extremely lightweight and very comfortable. He quickly established how much the two men had been told about the mission and filled in a few gaps, making sure that all details were mutually clear.
