Don got out of the program he was working in and they left the control room and headed downstairs. He’d brought a GFDL windbreaker with him and he gave it to her. “You might need this, it’s a little chilly outside now that we’re at forty-two-double-oh-three.”
For just an instant she had no idea what he was talking about, and she could see that it made him nervous. But then she understood. “My God, I wasn’t keeping track,” she said.
Forty-two-double-oh-three was a navigation buoy out in the middle of the Gulf, anchored in nearly 1,800 fathoms of water, more than 10,000 feet. It essentially marked the halfway point between Biloxi and the westernmost end of the Florida Keys where they would make their turn to the east toward the Atlantic. Don and the others had planned a celebration, modeled after the kinds of initiations that sailors went through after crossing the equator.
And she also understood why he’d been on edge for the past couple of days. According to McGarvey, if trouble were coming their way it could happen any time now, something she’d practically, though not completely, forgotten in the press of her work.
“Everybody okay with this?” she asked. “I mean, considering the threat.”
Don gave her an oddly bleak look. “I don’t think we have any choice. It’s either that or hide in our cabins. Anyway the religious freaks haven’t done a thing except make noise, your gun-toting pals are keeping watch, and we need a break.” He managed a thin smile. “Lisa’s called you a slave driver from the beginning, and now everybody is starting to believe it.”
And Eve had to smile, too. Maybe a celebration was exactly what they needed to break the tension. “Even you?” she asked.
“Especially me.”
It was a little cool on deck, but the wind from the north had subsided to near zero so that their slow forward motion canceled the apparent wind to absolutely nothing. It was fully dark now, but because of the lights on the rig the stars were invisible as was the horizon, and even the lights on the flotilla were mostly hard to pick out. But the noise of the horns and boat whistles was constant as it had been for nearly one week, but now it was mostly background noise, almost below the level of notice unless you stopped to listen for it.
Eve and Don walked past two of the completed impeller tripods and a third one that was nearly finished. Everyone aboard had been given the evening off for the celebration, and when they came around the corner of one of the storage containers about the size of a semi-truck trailer, lashed to the deck, where a long table laden with drinks and food was laid out, music suddenly began. And it wasn’t a recording, because it was, if not terrible, amateuristic and Eve had heard it before. A few of her techs had a little musical ability and they’d formed what they called the Test Tube Jug Band. Two out of tune guitars, an electronic keyboard Richard played hesitantly, missing a lot of notes, a set of drums that just about drowned out everyone else, and Lisa on vocals.
All of it badly performed without rhymes, more or less to the tune of Bert Parks’s “Here She Is, Miss America.” And everyone was laughing, cheering, and singing, Lisa with tears in her eyes. An emotional group, tired, strung out, but they were on their way and they were one hundred and ten percent behind
And when the song, which was embarrassing but wonderful in Eve’s estimation, was finally over, and after everyone had hugged her and kissed her cheek, the champagne was poured.
“To the Queen of the High Seas,” Lisa said into the microphone, her voice now louder than the drums, which caused even more laughter, and everyone raised their glasses.
Everybody drank the toast, and a couple of her techies called for a speech, but she waved them off.
“No speeches,” she told them. “We’re taking the night off, and getting drunk, and hopefully some of you are getting laid—” Everyone laughed uproariously again. They loved her. “And you’d best enjoy it, because in the morning we’re back at it, this time full tilt. So don’t fall overboard in the middle of the night.”
Then they cheered, poured more champagne, and started on the hors d’oeuvres.
Defloria was there with some of his people, and she congratulated them.
“You’re almost finished with the third tripod,” she said. “Good work, thank you.”
“We’re ahead of schedule,” Stefanato said, and he winked at her. “Nice bunch of kids. Smart.”
“They are,” Eve said.
Don went to get her more champagne and Defloria and Stefanato left, and a minute later McGarvey and Gail came over. They looked worn-out and Eve was uneasy. Cops and watchdogs were never supposed to be tired. But McGarvey was smiling. “You have a happy crew,” he said.
“Most scientists are,” Eve said. “At least most of the time. And they’ve been working pretty hard for the past eighteen months, so whenever they get the chance they like to blow off a little steam.”
Gail nodded. “Understandable. But maybe tonight should be the last of it until we get to Hutchinson Island.”
If someone was actually coming after them with the intention of sinking the platform, now or certainly in the next few days would be the time to do it. At these depths any sort of a recovery operation would be impractical. Once Vanessa was on the bottom she would stay there. At the very least, the project would be set back one year, probably longer. Funding would certainly dry up, Eve was sure of it, and depending on how many people got hurt, the entire project, concepts and all, might end up on the floor of the Gulf as well.
“So maybe now it’s time to call for some help,” she said, ignoring Gail, because lately she had felt nothing but animosity from the woman, and she didn’t understand the change. “Once they start shooting missiles at us, or dropping bombs or whatever, it’ll be too late.”
“Nothing like that’s going to happen, Doctor,” Gail said.
“Are you sure?” Eve demanded, her voice rising a notch.
“No,” McGarvey said. “We’re not even one hundred percent sure that anyone’s going to try to attack us, but if they do it’ll only be a few people — maybe a half dozen. And they don’t know that we’re aboard so the advantage would be ours.”
“Anyway it’s a lot harder to hit a moving target than a stationary one,” Gail said. “And there are a lot more people aboard than there’ll be once you’re at anchor. Defloria’s guys wouldn’t exactly be a knock over.”
Don came back with the champagne. “Who wouldn’t be a knock over and for what?” he asked, his eyes squinty.
He was angry again, and Eve understood why, he thought that he was in competition with McGarvey. The man-of-the-mind scientist versus the man-of-action warrior. And it also suddenly dawned on Eve that Gail Newby might be of the same mind, she could feel that she was in competition for McGarvey. The lady warrior versus the female egghead.
“Just speculating,” Gail said, and she and McGarvey nodded pleasantly then headed away.
“What was she talking about?” Don asked. He was on the verge of arguing.
Eve shook her head. She didn’t want to get into it with him. “I haven’t a clue,” she said. “Let’s join the party, okay?”
FIFTY-NINE
From one hundred meters out, DeCamp and the others aboard
Wyner was dressed all in black, camouflaged greasepaint on his face, the same as DeCamp. He was hanging off the stern in the four-man Avon RIB dinghy, the outboard idling. They’d painted the ten-foot rigid inflatable boat’s hull and the engine cowling black on the way to join Schlagel’s flotilla, keeping it out of sight until now, lest someone in the flotilla wonder why they’d done such a thing.
DeCamp handed him down a nylon bag with a pair of Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns in the SD6 -silenced version, along with six thirty-round box magazines of 9mm x 19 Parabellum ammunition.
Helms, one of the four contractors from London, watched from just inside the bridge, and he waved when DeCamp looked up. Bob Lehr, one of the other new contractors, was at the wheel, and over the past few hours he’d
