Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (14 page)

“Actually,” she said, “I wanted to say something and I thought this might be a better place than a restaurant. Jock, I want us to keep seeing each other and with all the traveling I plan to be doing, that
shouldn’t be difficult. I wanted you to see this little apartment so you would know how mobile I really am. I’ve got no strings. I think that’s going to define our relationship for a while. No strings. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You want to see other people?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and no, I don’t want to see other people. But I’m focusing on my work. If that involves a dinner out with someone, I’m not going to feel guilty about it. I don’t want you to either.”

“I don’t know what kind of relationship that’s going to be.”

“It’s going to be just about what it is now. How we feel about each other is going to be obvious within the first two minutes after we meet.”

“So each reunion will be a surprise. I don’t like surprises.”

“For me, that’s the way it is now.” She took his hand and kissed his fingers. “I have career plans. I have hopes for us. But . . .”

“What do they call this, ‘friendship with benefits’?”

She dropped his hand. “Don’t be callous, and don’t assume. If someone new comes along in either of our lives,
c’est la vie.
I hope, and honestly I believe, that the next time I see you, Jock, my heart will skip a beat as it always has. Till then, it’s not good-bye, but
au revoir.
Till the next time our eyes meet. Then perhaps we’ll know.”

“When this matter is finished,” he said, “I could come back here for a visit and you could show me your New York, you could come to the Quarter, or we can go wherever you like for as long as you like. Then we can—”

She put her finger to his lips. “We will talk then. Now you’ve got a flight to catch. Thanks for coming here. It was important to me.”

They embraced and he departed. The doorman hailed him a cab and he rushed to the airport. Her plan worked. All through the flight
to Norfolk he couldn’t get the image of Malika sitting in her apartment by the telephone out of his mind.

Boucher arrived by taxi at the main gate of the Norfolk Navy Yard, showed his ID, and asked directions to where the R/V
Beagle
was docked. He looked around him as his clearance was checked. There were few people in sight at this scene of massive power in shades of gray. The light gray of the concrete wharfs and docks led to berths where the slate-gray vessels were moored, sitting in relief against the dark gray clouds that promised rain. The silhouettes of the naval ships above their decks were like skylines of futuristic cities. The only departures from the dominant gray color were the blue-black submarines, which were like ominous balloons floating on the surface: design simple, purpose lethal.

He was given a pass to get him through the rest of the checkpoints and directions to the dock of the
Beagle.
The vessel was easy to spot. Much smaller than the Navy’s ships, it had a marine-blue hull and all above deck was white. On the stern was a large crane shaped like an A for lowering and retrieving the deep submergence manned vehicle
Lucy.
Boucher reached the gangplank and looked around for a familiar face. The one he saw was not one he expected. The woman he’d lied to trying to explain why Palmetto had been hauled off to jail waved to him from the ship. Mae, Mark’s wife, was on this voyage.

“Come aboard,” she yelled.

Boucher crossed the gangplank.

“Welcome,” Mae said. “We’re about to get under way. Bob is in the lab and asked that you meet him there.”

A young crew member took the travel bag containing jeans and sweaters that he had purchased on his way from the airport, and
led him belowdecks. Palmetto stood as Boucher entered the ship’s oceanography laboratory.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, pumping the judge’s hand. “Do you have any idea how much time it takes to schedule a mission like this? Months. We did it in twenty-four hours, thanks to the Russians. They are still the greatest spur to our competitive spirit on the planet. We’re going to take our sub down on an exploration mission. We bring samples back, we’ll make news, give the Russkies a run for their money, and we’ll ruin John Perry’s day big-time. We’ll also have an unimpeachable witness to our discovery, a United States district court judge. I’m going to let you figure out how we stop Perry if he’s planning on operating in international waters.”

“I’m not going down in any submarine.”

“Think of it, Judge,” Palmetto said, ignoring him, “it’s the chance of a lifetime. You will see things few have ever seen. You might even see something
no one
has ever seen. It happens all the time.”

As Boucher stood there trying to visualize the ocean depths, the ship began to move.

“We’re under way,” Palmetto said. “Let me show you your quarters and give you a tour of the ship.”

“I want to see that damned sub,” Boucher said.

They went back up to the main deck. Leaving port, they were passing the largest armada in the history of mankind, the U.S. Navy’s Atlantic Fleet. It was midmorning, late for such a departure. The wind was brisk and from the east, the clouds low and dark gray. They would see rain within the next hour or two, was Palmetto’s observation, but there were no storms forecast for the area. They were soon in open sea, still in sight of the coast. The change in heading from due
east to south-southeast was obvious. Boucher stopped at the railing amidships and gazed at the Virginia shore receding from sight. He breathed deeply of the bracing Atlantic air, comparing it to the muskiness of the Gulf Coast, preferring the latter. The deep submergence vehicle was moored in its hangar in the middle of the deck toward the stern. They went inside.

Lucy
looked somewhat like a snub-nosed guppy that had swallowed a marble. In fact, the sub was little more than a bathysphere—the optimal physical design for withstanding the enormous pressures at the ocean floor—encased in an outer shell. It had mechanical arms for picking up samples from the sea bottom that folded up like arms of a praying mantis under the “face” through which the pilot and two other scientists observed. The sub was secured to a carrier on tracks that permitted movement to the stern, and the A crane, which lowered and raised the sub to and from the ocean. Stairs and a platform permitted access and a peek into the spherical passenger compartment. They climbed up and Palmetto lifted the hatch.

“Come on, take a peek,” Palmetto said.

Boucher bent over and looked in. “It’s a good thing you watch your weight.” The diameter of the hatch as well as the closeness of the quarters required that all who journeyed to the depths in this transport be on the slim side.

“Is it safe?” the judge asked.

“It’s state-of-the-art,” Palmetto answered. “It has the most upto-date equipment, and its maintenance is impeccable.”

“Is it safe?” he repeated.

“It’s as safe as possible at forty-five hundred meters below the sea. That’s almost three miles. Let’s go see your quarters.”

They walked back toward the bridge. Mae was standing at the rail gazing over the open sea.

“Mae, what are you doing?” Palmetto asked. She turned and faced him with a frown.

“I was thinking about my experiments. I’m allowed time for that, aren’t I?”

He turned to Boucher and said, “Don’t let anyone catch you mooning over the ocean. That’s not done here.”

“An oceanographer can’t look at the ocean?” Boucher asked.

“Depends how and why,” Mae said. “It all started on this ship after dinner one night. We got into an argument—no, a discussion—of Robert Frost’s poem ‘Neither Out Far Nor In Deep.’ We feel our mission is to avoid the mediocrity that the poem criticizes. We look both far and deep in our research and try to avoid the seduction of the shallow glance. It’s tempting to stand here and get lost in the sea’s mystique. It hypnotizes, and that’s a luxury we can’t afford.”

“I should read that poem again,” Boucher said.

“There’s a copy in your quarters and about a dozen other places aboard,” Mae said. “It’s a constant reminder to us.” She looked at the sky. “We’re going to get some rain and I’ve got work to do. I think we should all get below.”

B
OUCHER SHARED A SMALL
cabin with Palmetto and two other scientists, both at work somewhere else on the vessel. The early arrivals had chosen the upper bunks, denoting territorial rights by dumping their duffels on the beds.

“I’m going back to the lab,” Palmetto said. “Are you going to be okay here?”

Boucher stowed his bag under the bed. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “When do we get where we’re going?”

“About twenty-four hours from the time we left port; midmorning tomorrow, we’ll be over the Carolina Trough. There are preparations and checklists for the sub. We’ll start those about five in the morning. Life at sea begins early. But you have the rest of today to relax. Take advantage of it. I advise you to eat and drink sparingly. There’s no crapper in the sub, and we piss in bottles. The less you have to expel, the more popular you’ll be with your crewmates. Our descent will take us about four hours; we’ll have a couple hours on the ocean floor, and the same time to ascend. We’re talking about ten hours in close quarters. Sounds like a lot, but it goes fast. Believe me, it will be the most fascinating day of your life.”

“I didn’t say I was going.”

Palmetto nodded and left.

Boucher lay down on his bunk, his hands folded under his head. He stared at the lattice of springs that supported the mattress above him and wondered what the hell he was doing here. He didn’t ponder the question too long, realizing that lying prone was not the best position to be in at this stage of a landlubber’s first ocean voyage. He felt the advent of seasickness and decided to go back up to the main deck. The rain had stopped. For two hours he stared at the horizon; maybe not out far nor in deep, but at least not over the side. When he got his sea legs, he was all over the ship like a spider crab. He asked questions, was given answers, and found his enthusiasm growing. Conscious that his were the only idle hands on board, he didn’t spend too much time with or ask too many questions of any one person, and by late afternoon, he’d met the entire crew and research contingent. The
Beagle
carried a crew of thirty-six and a scientific team of twenty-four. The ship had been in port for repairs to the submarine’s mechanical arm, and the personnel had not dispersed. Still, Boucher was amazed that they were able to prepare for this mission with as little notice as they’d been given.

A pleasant surprise that no one had told him about was the ship’s small but adequate gym. There was no one around, his boxers and T-shirt looked enough like gym clothes, so he stripped and gave the rowing machine a workout. Closing his eyes, feeling the rhythm of the vessel as it cut through the sea, he imagined himself as a member of an Olympic scull crew. Had there been a way to harness the energy he expended rowing, he was sure he could have contributed to the progress of the ship. It was late afternoon when he returned to his cabin, timing perfect. He was first to shower and dress and was lying on his bunk in exactly the same position Palmetto had left him when he returned.

“Have you been there all day?” Palmetto asked.

“What else did you expect me to do?”

Dinner was served at six sharp: steak and potatoes. He ate half and pushed his plate away.

“You don’t like it?” Palmetto asked.

“It’s delicious,” Boucher said, “but I can’t eat a lot tonight. Busy day tomorrow.”

Palmetto smiled. “What made you decide?”

“The Robert Frost poem. I read it in the cabin. I’ve got a chance to look far and deep. Chances like that don’t come often.”

Evening for the crew of scientists was not that much different from a night at home. Some read, there were several board games and DVD movies, and of course there was conversation. Though the passenger list frequently included guests from all walks of life, a federal jurist was a first and Boucher was the focal point of conversation. All were interested in the same question he had asked himself earlier—what was he doing here?

“I had to bust Mr. Palmetto out of jail. Next thing I know, here I am,” Boucher said. It got a laugh.

“Judge, it’s time to wake up.”

Palmetto had given him a gentle nudge. Boucher opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just after six. We made good time. We’ll be coming up on our diving site in about an hour.”

“What about the sub?”

“It’s ready. See you on deck. I’m going to give Mark a call at the Institute and let him know we’re here.”

Rexcon’s communication buoy bobbed on the choppy Atlantic surface. It was linked by cable to a monitor on the ocean floor where their surreptitious discovery had been made and charted. Sensors placed on the sea bottom were still retrieving and transmitting data to the buoy, which sent it by satellite to the corporate communication center in New Orleans. The buoy could also receive transmissions sent by any ship within a fifty-mile radius, and warn home base of any suspected poachers. It was in this manner that the call made by Bob Palmetto was captured and beamed up.

Bert Cantrell was copied on all communications from the ocean communication buoy. He saw the name Palmetto in the message and about fell out of his executive office chair. When he regained his composure he rushed into Perry’s office.

“I just found Palmetto,” he said.

“You’re shitting me,” was the response from Rexcon’s CEO.

“He’s on the research vessel
Beagle.
Take a guess where it’s going.”

“I don’t have time for guessing games.”

“It’s headed for the Carolina Trough, the site of our methane hydrate field.”

Perry stood up from his desk. “What did I tell you? I knew he was going to start poking around. What do you think he’s doing?”

“They’ve got a submarine on that ship. Knowing that Palmetto is aboard, I think they plan to take the sub to the floor. He’s probably going to look for samples. He does that and gets the word out, we’ve got complications.”