Splashdown

by David Wood

  Bones interrupted his thoughts. “In the briefing I was actually awake for, they said the target was ‘at lower depth than where the canyon wall convergence narrows to less than three meters.’ I did some checking and found that the target usually lives on a flat area. So we go down from here and look for a rocky shelf, I guess.”

  In response, Dane shot Bones a grudging look of respect and tilted their craft downward, activating the forward thrusters. For all his boisterousness, Bones somehow also found a way to pay attention, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. And theirs was definitely a line of work where not paying attention could get you killed.

  They dropped down through the narrow crevice, Dane tweaking the sub’s controls to make sure they didn’t scrape the walls while Bones directed a movable spotlight to their surroundings while also monitoring their depth and sonar readouts.

  “Coming up on something,” Dane said, easing back on the thrusters.

  “Rocky shelf. This could be it. Look for the… There it is!” Bones adjusted the angle of his high intensity beam until it illuminated a whitish stalk towering perhaps ten feet, its red tip a few feet below their submersible’s belly. “Take us down a few feet; then we curve with the wall to the right.”

  Dane executed the delicate maneuver until they hovered over a flat expanse of rock that reminded him of a stairway landing—a brief interruption of the vertical plunge the canyon took for yet another mile. There, in the center of the platform, grew a massive tubeworm. Pale crabs scuttled out of reach of the craft’s floodlights, pouring off the rocky shelf into the water column beneath them like lemmings from a cliff.

  “Are we sure this is the right tubeworm?” Dane’s careful attention to the controls didn’t allow him the luxury of taking in the details of their surroundings to the degree that Bones could.

  “Surer than you were about that dude in a dress who hit on you last weekend. I’m looking at the marker right next to it.”

  Dane took his co-pilot’s word that the small cement block that had been previously placed there by their sub instructors lay at the foot of the towering invertebrate.

  “Roger that. The marker; not the guy in the dress. And, for the record, it was a girl, she was just…”

  “A big, hairy dude?”

  Ignoring Bones’ jibe, Dane brought their submersible closer to the base of the creature, which swayed slightly with the vehicle’s prop-wash.

  Bones leaned forward, pressing his head against the sub’s acrylic dome as he stared intently at their target. “Okay, stop. I’m within range of the manipulator arm.”

  Dane let up on the thrusters. “Do your thing.”

  Clutched in the metal claw at the end of an extensible arm outside the sub was a tubular metal object. Bones delicately pressed buttons that rotated the claw as well as the arm itself in different directions. “I wish we were placing some C4 explosives instead of this boring contraption,” he said, referring to the scientific instrumentation package they were supposed to deploy. “That would be much more awesome.” He deftly placed the device on the ledge next to the cement marker and released it from the sub’s grab arm.

  “That’s why this is practice, Bones. We screw up with this thing and some eggheads don’t find out what the temperature variations are down here when that worm farts. Make a mistake with C4 and maybe these canyon walls come…”

  A gruff, all-business voice issuing from their communications channel interrupted him. “Topside to Deep Surveyor III, you are ordered to report immediately to Base Command. Proceed to support ship at once, do you copy?”

  Dane looked over at Bones, who was still retracting the now empty manipulator arm back to the sub. When Bones completed that task he looked over at Dane, raising his eyebrows.

  Dane said to Bones, “What’d you do, drop the science package over the cliff?”

  Bones shook his head and pointed down at the metal cylinder, where a green LED glowed next to the worm. “It’s all good.”

  Dane responded over the radio that he acknowledged the order, then put his hands to work on the sub’s controls.

  “Let’s go find out what they want.”

  An hour later Dane and Bones strode into the lobby of SEAL Base Command, Monterey Station. Dane addressed a female receptionist in uniform seated behind a horseshoe shaped desk. He started to explain who they were when she waved him down.

  “In here now, gentlemen!” a male voice pre-empted from the office, the door to which was open but the man out of sight. The young woman raised an eyebrow and tilted her head in the direction of the office, her meaning clear. You’d better go.

  Bones gave her his most lascivious smile which she returned before swiveling in her chair to answer a phone call. Dane reached the doorway to Senior Commander Douglas Lawhorne’s private office first, where he gave a salute.

  “Close the door behind you, and at ease.”

  As soon as Bones stepped inside, Dane shut the door and then the two of them took seats in front of the commander’s desk, which was set off to the left of the well-appointed room. Scale model ships and submarines decorated the walls behind the desk, while the fourth floor floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a magnificent view of Monterey Bay and the waters from which they had just returned. But it wasn’t often a newly minted SEAL was summoned directly to a commander’s office in the middle of a training exercise, so for the moment Dane refrained from absorbing the atmosphere. He noticed that even Bones, whom he considered a good ADHD candidate, was so far affording the commander his undivided attention.

  “Congratulations on earning your Deep Manned Submersible Rating, you two. Well done.” Lawhorne’s smile did not reach his eyes.

  Dane and Bones exchanged quizzical looks that said, we passed? But then the commander, a balding man in his early fifties with a chest full of medals, spoke again.

  “Your instructor tells me that you both scored highly throughout the exercises. I’m sorry that I don’t yet have your detailed evaluations ready for review, or your new pins, but you’ll receive them as soon as you get back.”

  Dane let the obvious question go unspoken, as he felt it was not his place to question a man of the commander’s rank unprompted.

  “Get back from where?” Bones asked.

  Dane did his best to suppress an involuntary cringe. He looked over at his partner in war, who sat casually in his jeans and wool pullover—the same outfit he’d had on in the sub to ward off the chill. A small abalone shell hung around his neck, a nod to the native tribes who once lived in California for whom the shiny-shelled mollusk was an important food source. Dane expected Lawhorne might rebuke Bones for speaking out of turn, but if the officer was irritated he didn’t let it show.

  “The two of you have been placed on special assignment to the east coast of Florida, effective immediately. That’s all I know at this point.”

  Lawhorne paused to look at his two SEALs as if he expected questions, so Dane ventured, “Pardon me, Sir, but are you going to brief us?”

  The man on the other side of the desk shook his head emphatically. “Negative. I am not privy to the details of your assignment because I do not have sufficient clearance.”

  Dane’s mouth started to drop open before he pulled it together. Bones also said nothing, an indicator that he too was stunned by the implications of their superior officer’s words.

  If he didn’t have clearance, then how high-level must this assignment be?

  The commander checked his watch. “You board a plane in fifty-three minutes. I’m told you’ll be briefed en route. Get back to your quarters. Pack your bags, wait for ground transport. Dismissed.”

  Dane shot to his feet and saluted. Bones ambled up from his chair, saluting with a confused look on his face. Then he said, “Excuse me, Sir, but does this mean we’re going to miss the submersible class graduation party that was supposed to be tonight, or will it be rescheduled?”

  Dane rolled his eyes and rubbed his temples.

  “Son, you’re
going to miss that party but from the way it seems, if you have success on this mission I expect you’ll be coming home to the biggest damn bash you’ve ever had in your life.”

  Lawhorne saw the grin forming on Bones’ face and held up a hand before continuing. “Listen to me. Like I said, I don’t have the details. But this much I do know: your country needs you. Do not let her down.”

  Chapter 2

  Dane cracked a smile as he watched Bones duck under the doorway to the Learjet 35. The private plane was by far the nicest mode of transportation they’d taken thus far in their military careers, though certainly not the largest. Accommodating six passengers plus a crew of three, it made up in style what it lacked in size. An attractive flight attendant with strawberry blonde hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her button nose led Dane and Bones away from the cockpit, the mahogany door to which was closed, to two leather recliners, one each on opposite sides of a plush carpeted aisle. Behind these two seats, a drawn curtain divided the cabin; murmurs of soft conversation drifted in from the other side.

  Dane sank into his chair while Bones stood there in the aisle, mouth agape, taking in the splendor. “One time I flew first class commercial because I got bumped from standby, but this makes that look like a cattle car,” he said, slipping into his seat like a man sitting down in his La-Z-Boy to watch TV after dinner, a leg flopped over one of the chair arms. “This rocks. I never fit an airline seat.”

  “Please sit upright and buckle up for takeoff, sir. As soon as we’re at cruising altitude you’re free to do what you wish.” The flight attendant’s sharp tone belied her farm girl looks.

  Bones turn his attention to the flight attendant, his gaze lingering over her crisply pressed uniform, and grinned. Dane tensed, wondering what might come out of the big Indian’s mouth next, but Bones complied, giving the young woman a wink as he clicked his seatbelt closed.

  “Sure beats the heck out of trying to sleep in the cargo net of a C-130 transport next to everybody’s crap bouncing around, right?” Dane asked.

  “Bro, you got that right! Remember that time on the way out to Honolulu…”

  Bones was in the middle of recounting an anecdote about a loose surfboard waking him up in the cargo hold when the Lear pilot’s voice came over the intercom letting them know that they would be flying non-stop from Monterey to Cape Canaveral.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes to see if you gentlemen would like anything to eat or drink,” the flight attendant told them before retreating to the front of the plane.

  Dane and Bones settled back and allowed the takeoff forces to pin them to their cushy seats. In short order they said goodbye to the Pacific, where the sun was already sinking lower in the sky as the aircraft banked into a turn toward the east.

  True to her word, when the aircraft leveled off, the flight attendant returned with menus. Both men ordered three-course meals of spicy Mexican food along with bottles of Dos Equis. It had been a long day in the submersible and their sudden orders had left them with no time to eat until now. They feasted, saying little while they enjoyed the tang of cilantro and marinated beef, lost in thought about what might lay ahead.

  No sooner had they cleared their plates than they heard the curtain behind them slide open.

  “If you two gentlemen would be so kind as to join us in the conference room for your briefing, we’ll tell you what you’re doing aboard this flying luxury suite. This way please.”

  Dane and Bones sat up and turned around. A naval officer they had never seen before stood behind them. Dane hastily wiped his mouth with a napkin before standing straight and saluting. Bones did the same and the officer briefly returned their salutes. The pair of SEALs followed him into the middle section of the jet, which had been sectioned off into a nicely appointed yet highly functional work area. A hardwood conference table occupied the center of the space, with leather office chairs fixed in place around it. A large LCD monitor was mounted on one wall. Paper nautical charts were spread out on the table itself, along with a bevy of open laptops. In addition to the officer who had escorted them back here, Dane and Bones were greeted by three other men, all of whom appeared to be in their late fifties. Two of them wore military uniforms while a third was dressed in a suit and tie.

  Dane was stunned to recognize the insignia of a Navy admiral on one of their lapels. He did not recognize the other uniform and was correct in his assumption that it was not Navy. The admiral nodded to the naval officer, who promptly stepped around Dane and Bones to draw the curtain across the cabin.

  “Gentlemen, please be seated,” the Admiral began. Dane and Bones followed the order, sitting next to one another in the only two available chairs. The admiral continued.

  “I am Admiral Jeffrey Whitburn, based at the Pentagon, where I’ll be returning after we let you two off at Canaveral. Let me begin by saying that both of you come very highly recommended and it’s a pleasure to have you here.”

  “Thanks. We think you’re pretty cool too!” Bones blurted. Dane kicked him in the shin under the table.

  The admiral seemed unsurprised by the comment. If he’d done his homework, he probably knew at least a little bit about Bones’ eccentricities.

  “By way of introductions, the gentleman who brought you back here is Captain James Epson. Seated across from me is U.S. Air Force General Marcus Holloway, who sits on the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  Dane felt a strange numbness come over him as the sheer magnitude of whatever assignment they were about to be asked to do hit home. Joint Chiefs of Staff? He shot a quick glance over at Bones, whose puzzled expression clearly said, What the…?

  “Gentlemen: I’ll get right to the point. We’ll tell you what you need to know, nothing more. Don’t ask questions. We’re telling you everything we can. A lot of very smart people, smarter than us, have developed the plan of action we’re about to brief you on.”

  Bones raised his hand like a kid in a classroom. The admiral scowled at him but waited for him to speak. Bones said, “Sir, are these smart people in the military?”

  “Bonebrake, you do realize you just asked a question after I said not to? I can answer this one, but don’t let it happen again, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s clear.”

  Dane couldn’t help but notice that Bones had not apologized. The guy was ballsy.

  “Most of those who developed this mission are not in the military per se, but work for U.S. intelligence agencies that advise the military branches, including Mr. Sardowski, here, who is an analyst with the CIA based out of Langley.”

  The guy in the suit gave Dane and Bones a curt nod. Dane and Bones sat still and mute as they processed this revelation. Central Intelligence Agency?

  The admiral continued while the naval officer presented Dane and Bones with a paper form and a pen.

  “We know that as SEALs you’re sworn to secrecy on every mission. But before we begin let me stress that this goes far beyond that. In order to participate in this assignment, you’ll need to be given Top Secret clearance. We’ve already taken the necessary steps to expedite the process. All you need to do is to sign the papers in front of you. But a word of caution. Not a single syllable of what you’re about to hear in this airplane ever comes out of your lips, is that understood? No matter how drunk you get at a party,” he said, staring at Bones for emphasis, who nodded his agreement while signing the document. Dane took a bit more time to read his, but also signed. While the officer snatched away the papers, the admiral resumed his talk.

  “Our goal is to deliver your briefing with time left over for you to get as much sleep as possible. You’re about to embark on one hell of an assignment. So listen up, here we go.”

  He nodded to Captain Epson, who promptly pressed a key on a remote control, activating a PowerPoint presentation on the wall-mounted screen. A photo of what looked to Dane and Bones like some kind of early diving bell sitting on a wheeled platform appeared on the screen.

  Epson directed a laser poi
nter in a circular motion around the object on the monitor.

  “This is NASA space capsule Liberty Bell 7.” He let that sink in for a moment on the bemused Dane and Bones as he advanced to the next slide. It also depicted the capsule on a wheeled platform, but in this shot a spacesuited astronaut stood next to the craft.

  Epson went on. “This photo was taken in 1961, shortly before the capsule splashed down in the Atlantic Ocean, three hundred miles off Cape Canaveral, not far from the Bahamas, and was lost in a retrieval accident. Gus Grissom, the lone occupier of the capsule, was rescued, while the capsule sank to the seafloor. It has remained there for the last thirty-eight years undisturbed, at a depth of almost three miles, or 15,000 feet.”

  The admiral’s gaze shifted to the marine chart laid out on the table, and Dane and Bones followed suit. “We believe it to be a flat, featureless bottom,” he noted, dragging a pointer finger across the chart. Then he looked up at the Air Force General, who stared right at Dane and Bones while he spoke.

  “The Mercury-Redstone 4 mission, so-named for the rocket that carried the Liberty Bell crew capsule as part of the Mercury manned space program that preceded the more famous Apollo series, had two agendas.” The General looked around the table at his colleagues as if to see if any of them would object to where he was going. None of them indicated as such, so the Joint Chiefs of Staff representative resumed his delivery to a mystified Dane and Bones.

  “The official, publicly known agenda was a short suborbital flight to demonstrate America’s space prowess to the Russians. You boys weren’t even born yet, but at the time the Cold War was heating up with Russia having launched their Sputnik satellite a few years earlier, and from there the space race was on.”