Deep Fire Rising

whatever was in it caused the blaze.”

“That’s our assumption too.” Mercer had decided not to mention anything about Tisa Nguyen and her predictions and would have proposed the container theory had the third officer not thought of it already. He’d also created a plausible cover for the urgency of his mission. “However, the navy needs confirmation. There have been unspecified terrorist threats against our ships in the Pacific, and if this turns out to be something other than an accident…”

“They have to know right away so they can take appropriate steps,” Carlyle finished for him. “I was in the navy for twenty-one years. I know how it goes and personally I’m glad we’re here to help.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carlyle.”

“Jon.”

“Jon. People just call me Mercer.”

“Let’s get you settled, Mercer, and come up with a plan to survey the wreck.”

Mercer stowed his meager luggage in the cabin assigned to him and took a brief shower. He stepped from the tiny bathroom wearing only a towel and was about to toss that on the bed when he saw a raven-haired woman standing in his doorway. He recalled closing the door minutes earlier. She wore sandals, tight shorts, and a T-shirt that sweat kept plastered to her skin. It was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She radiated an earthy sexuality that Mercer imagined would captivate most men.

She appraised him for a moment. “That was quite an entrance.”

“The helicopter?”

“That, too.” The flirtation went from her voice. Her eyes hardened. “I’m Spirit Williams, one of the scientists who’s losing their opportunity to work because of you.”

“I-”

“There’s nothing you can say, so don’t. I’ve spent a lifetime to get aboard this ship, and I wanted to say thanks for screwing it up for me.” She wheeled away and was down the hall before Mercer fully grasped what she’d said.

He didn’t go after her. It would be a waste of time. He knew the type. A scientist, probably still working toward her doctorate, so dedicated to her work that anything, no matter how serious or important, was a distraction she refused to tolerate. Such narrow-minded focus served scientists well in their own world, yet made many insufferable to the rest of society. He expected the rest of the science staff on the Sea Surveyor would treat him in a similar fashion. With any luck he’d complete his mission before seeing her or any of the others.

Ten minutes later, Mercer found the mess hall and saw his luck had already run out. Spirit Williams was in the mess hall with Jon Carlyle and a young blond man in diving trunks and a garish Hawaiian shirt. Her leg was pressed against his, and she was drinking orange juice from a glass in front of him. Noticing the ring on his hand, he assumed they were married, although she wore no jewelry.

“Ah, Mercer.” Carlyle stood. “Let me introduce one of our sub drivers, Charlie Williams.”

The tanned surfer stood. “Call me C.W. This is my wife, Spirit.”

“I’ve had the pleasure.” Mercer took the fourth chair at the table. A mess steward asked if he wanted anything. Mercer took coffee.

“I met Mr. Mercer earlier and told him I didn’t appreciate his presence on the Surveyor,” Spirit said acidly. “I suspect he’s here as part of a government cover-up. The navy was probably doing some illegal research, killing whales with sonar like they did a few years ago off Long Beach, and something went wrong. Now he’s going to hide the truth.”

“He’s here to find out why a lot of brave sailors died two nights ago,” Jon retorted. He’d had his fill of Spirit’s rancor. The vessel’s crew had no real interest in what the ship did once she was at sea, but the researchers had tight funding and guarded their time on board jealously. Even a few days’ delay was a colossal waste of their time and resources. They hadn’t stopped griping since getting the news, and C.W.’s wife had been the most vocal.

“Their souls have crossed,” Spirit replied. “They should be left to rest. Sending people down there to gloat over their remains is ghoulish.”

“Mr. Mercer isn’t here to gloat. He’s here to get answers so more sailors aren’t lost.”

“They knew the risks when they joined the navy. Dying’s part of their job.”

Carlyle’s face grew red. “Defending our country is their job.”

“Oh, I see.” She became even more sarcastic. “Dying is just a fringe benefit.”

Mercer caught C.W.’s eye. The submersible operator showed no interest in restraining his wife. He’d heard her in action before and knew to stay out of the line of fire.

“Now, see here,” the normally unflappable officer thundered. Since the loss of the Smithback, his admiration for the navy and its men had been rekindled. Before he could continue, four other men entered the mess room.

Carlyle glared at an unrepentant Spirit, wiped his brow with a handkerchief and made the introductions. One of the newcomers was a second sub pilot. The other three headed the support staff.

“You’ll have to go, sweet,” C.W. told his wife.

Like flipping a switch, her temperament did a complete reversal. She smiled at the assembled men and gave C.W. a long kiss on the mouth. “Come get me at the lab if you’re diving today. I want to be in the van. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

If Jon expected C.W. to apologize for his wife’s behavior, he had a long wait coming. The seconds grew.

Mercer realized no one would cut the silence, so he cleared his throat. “Okay, down to business. Jon may have told you I’ve been sent here to discover what happened to the Smithback. It seems we’re all under the same impression that she struck a container that split and whatever was inside burned. The navy wants me to verify this hypothesis by physically inspecting the wreck. Have you pinpointed it on the seafloor?”

Jim McKenzie, who headed the team, spoke up. “We found her on side-scan sonar about ten hours after reaching the area. She’s directly below us now in nine hundred eighty-eight feet of water.”

“That seems kind of shallow,” Mercer said. “We’re in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

“We’re atop a subsea plateau that rises from the abyssal plane. Had the Smithback sunk fifty miles to the north, she’d be two miles down and unreachable by anything we have on board. Bob’s rated for two thousand feet, and our two ADSes can safely operate at one thousand. Just so you know, Bob is the name of our submersible. It’s what she does when she resurfaces. Just bobs in the ocean.”

Mercer smiled. “I have a friend who named his dog Drag because that’s how he takes his walks. What’s an ADS?”

“Atmospheric Diving Suit. Also called a NewtSuit. Think of it as a one-man submarine with arms and legs. It keeps the operator at sea-level pressure so we don’t have to bother with decompression but gives a freedom of movement we can’t get from a larger sub or even an ROV. C.W. helped in their development and is about the best operator in the world.”

“Jim’s exaggerating,” C.W. said to Mercer. “In college I worked part-time in the factory watching a computer-controlled lathe form the suits’ torsos out of aluminum blanks.” He gave a lopsided grin. “But I am the best.”

“How many men can Bob carry?”

“Three,” McKenzie answered. “Pilot and two observers. We do have a problem. We fried one of Bob’s banks of lights doing a test a week ago. At this depth you can’t see an inch beyond the porthole, and our ROVs operate with low-light cameras so they can’t provide enough backup illumination.”

“The solution,” C.W. interrupted, “is that I go down with you in an ADS and use it as a mobile lighting platform.”

“Are the ADSes autonomous?”

“They’re tethered to the Surveyor by a lifting cable and communications lines but don’t rely on the ship for air. Don’t worry,” C.W. added, “we’ve run the NewtSuit and sub together quite a few times.”