“That’s comforting,” muttered Will Bowman, getting a snicker out of the others.
Lou silenced them with an upraised hand. “So it’s a lot cheaper for the expedition if you decide now, else you’ll be flown out by chopper once we’re at sea and Mr. Kane and company will be up my ass about it, understood?”
“I do… completely, sir,” David replied, feeling certain that Lou was talking about him the entire time thanks to the press that he and National Geographic had gotten on the botched salvage operation in the Sea of Japan. Despite David’s plea that National Geo not air the program, the producers had overruled him and other divers who felt as David did that it should not air, given the dire turn it had taken, costing Wilcox—who figured heavily in the program—his life.
“You don’t go into this thinking you have something to prove, people,” continued Swigart, ignoring David Ingles. “This is now, and it’s hardly the Sea of Japan. Trust me, this is great depths we’ll be working at, beyond anything anyone has ever withstood before—and the real reason I suspect you’re all here, willingly…” He let this sink in while taking up a position along the side of the podium where he now leaned in a casual manner. “And this series of dives will prove the new technology right or wrong.”
“In other words,” said Will Bowman, grinning, “live or die.”
The room erupted in a quiet chorus of murmurs.
“I need the bread, Lou,” David assured his boss. “No one’s here to prove anything.”
“Not even you—David Ingles?” came a female voice at the rear, making David look back. It was the second female diver, Lena Gambio, a weight-lifting Italian with an overlarge nose for her petite face.
“I signed on for the hundred thou.” Ingles’ blunt reply caused a wave of muttering about the small meeting room.
“The going rate for a suicide dive.” Swigart didn’t miss a beat.
“The money has been put up by a private donor working through the institute, working through Luther K —”
“Hold on!” said Kelly Irvin, suddenly standing. “I thought Kane was footing the bill.”
“Luther Warren Kane is a rich man because he doesn’t gamble his own money on risky ventures, and nothing gets more risky than undersea salvage.”
“Kane is just fronting?” Kelly persisted.
“What’s it matter?” asked Jacob Mendenhall, the closest diver to her. “Who cares where the money comes from so long as we get paid?”
Swigart waved them all down. “Said donor has managed to ignore decades of objections from those who support the belief that
“The poor dear, she’s looted from the outside by various nations around the world,” added Lena. “But we get a shot at her insides!”
“No one’s had the technology we have,” countered David.
“Or the corporate and government backing that
“Far cry from just having National Geographic support,” said Bowman with a smirk.
Mendenhall laughed and added, “I saw the spread NG did on you, Ingles.”
“We all saw it!” countered Bowman. “So what, Jake.”
“Please, it’s Jacob or Mendenhall if you like, Bowman. “I am just saying that I’d worry less about where the money is coming from and more about with whom we are diving alongside—I mean at these depths!”
“Mendenhall makes sense,” agreed Lou who continued, pointing to the rear of the room. “Confine your concerns to the dive and your teammates. Your life and the success of this mission depend upon it.”
David glanced over his shoulder to where Kelly Irvin sat at the back of the room. From her expression, she had known who he was all along. He heard Swigart’s continuing rant again in his ear. “That Geographic episode made quite a splash. Just be damned sure we have no g’damn accidents here, and that the wreck you and your friends worked in the Sea of Japan is in the past and out of your system—got that Ingles? Are you hearing me?”
“Yes sir! Heard and taken to heart, sir.” David gave a thought to his best friend whose body had never been recovered, at eternal rest inside the hull of a World War II Japanese submarine; quite the expensive coffin. How many eulogies had he given to Terry Wilcox? “Lou, I swear to you it’s behind me,” he wanted to believe it as firmly as he’d said it.
“Good… good. Can’t have you down there with any damn ghosts, emotional baggage—all that shit. And that goes for all of you in this room.”
“Understood, sir… yes, sir…” came a chorus of affirmations.
“Have to be focused like a laser, stay on camera and audio. No place for idle thoughts or daydreaming.”
Swigart was right of course, and right to call him on it a final time today. “I won’t let you down, Lou. Promise.”
Others muttered and nodded to indicate the same sentiment. Ingles took in the faces of the seven other divers—Team Aft Section
Meanwhile, Team Bow Section
“All I ask, all I ask,” repeated Swigart, “and thanks for dropping by!” he tried and failed at sounding a bit friendlier. “Now get your gear stowed and ready yourself for the voyage out to the Sea of Sacrifice.”
“Haven’t heard it called that in a long time,” muttered Kelly Irvin as they all recognized the phrase—a title on one of Alandale’s books that went into some detail about all those he could find records on who went down with the
“Aye, Commander of Divers!” shouted Steve Jens, a stalwart looking, handsome fellow with the requisite seaman’s tan. The others followed suit, saluting Swigart as most were ex-Navy.
Swigart was pleased to see this; he obviously wished to run his operations by US Navy standards despite—or rather due to its highly experimental nature—and despite the fact that none of them were any longer connected to the Navy.
At least Swigart had set the tone for ‘open and aboveboard’ about everything that goes on—and on a ship, that was important, and David Ingles consoled himself on this point even as he felt that Swigart had been unnecessarily rough on him. Still, what with too many people packed in too small a space, everyone really did need to be honest and up front. Besides, it was the unspoken stuff that seeped into Ingles’ mind that might make him paranoid about how others viewed him and his recent failures. A disciplined work ethic aboard following naval protocol felt right and proper.
These thoughts followed David out of the debriefing, and while others were introducing one another, he rushed past them and was soon in search of his cramped semi-private quarters belowdecks. He soon felt the familiar sense of being home, even if it was in a metal box with poor lighting. The narrow passageways, the shoulder-to-shoulder sized archways led him to his cabin, marked No. 4 where he opened the hatch on a small area as cramped as any rolling RV. Two bunk spaces and a single locker with small mirror to each man. Any shaving or other toiletry needs meant additional shared facilities down the hall.
It all looked like that damned sub in the waters near Japan. It made him wonder about where precisely Terry Wilcox’s skeletal remains had become a permanent resident, but he quickly rushed from that path of thought, knowing he could not go down that road again if he wished to remain sane.
As a balm, his thoughts moved to the thoroughfares inside the
