Beyond the Ice Limit

5

AS THE HELICOPTER banked, the afternoon sun shimmered off the waters of Great Harbor, Massachusetts, and the R/V Batavia came into view. Gideon was surprised at how big it looked from above; just how much, with its massive prow and tall central superstructure, it dwarfed all the other research vessels and boats in the mooring field.

“A Walter N. Harper–class oceanographic research vessel,” Glinn said from the adjoining seat, noticing Gideon’s interest. “Three hundred twenty feet in length, beam of fifty-eight feet, twenty-one-foot draft. It has two thirty-five-hundred-horsepower Z-drives, a fourteen-hundred-horsepower azimuthing jet, full dynamic positioning, two-hundred-fifty-thousand-gallon fuel capacity, eighteen-thousand-nautical-mile range at a cruising speed of twelve knots—”

“You lost me with the part about the ‘azimuthing jet.’”

“All it means is that the jet drive can be rotated in any horizontal direction, so the ship doesn’t need a rudder. It allows for very exact dynamic positioning, even in rough seas with winds and currents.”

“Dynamic positioning?”

“Keeping the ship in one place. Gideon, surely you know all about boats after your recent adventure down in the Caribbean.”

“I know I don’t like them, I don’t like being on the sea, and I’m quite content to remain ignorant of all things nautical.”

The helicopter finished its turn and began to descend toward the midships helipad. A deckhand with wands motioned them into place, and a moment later the door was opened and they hopped out. It was a brilliant fall afternoon, the sky a cold blue dome, the sun slanting across the deck.

Gideon followed Manuel Garza and Glinn across the helipad, the EES director crouching a little stiffly against the backwash of the rotors. They went through a door into a waiting and staging room, sparely furnished. Three people immediately stood up, two in uniform and one civilian. Outside, the chopper lifted off.

“Gideon,” said Glinn, “I’d like you to meet Captain Tulley, master of the R/V Batavia, and Chief Officer Lennart.”

The captain, a man of no more than five feet, stepped forward and shook Gideon’s hand with gravity, his tight and humorless face breaking into a poor semblance of a smile. One brisk up-and-down motion, and then he stepped back.

Chief Officer Lennart was worlds apart from Tulley: a blond, Nordic woman in her early fifties who towered over the diminutive captain, full of warmth and fluid motion, with a hand as warm and as enveloping as an oven mitt.

“And this is Alexandra Lispenard, who is in charge of our fleet of four DSVs. She’ll be your driving instructor.”

Lispenard tossed her long, teak-colored hair and took his hand with a smile, giving it a slow shake. “Nice to meet you, Gideon,” she said, her contralto voice in contrast to the formal silence of the others.

“DSVs?” Gideon asked her, trying not to stare as he did so. She was about thirty-five and stunningly attractive, with a heart-shaped face and exotic, agate-colored eyes.

“Deep Submergence Vehicles. A motorized bathyscaphe, really. A marvel of engineering.”

Gideon felt the pressure of Glinn’s hand on his shoulder. “Ah, here’s the doctor. Gideon, I’d like you to meet Dr. Brambell, the expedition’s physician.”

A wiry old man with a glossy pate, wearing a white lab coat, had appeared in the doorway. “Pleased, very pleased!” he said in a wry Irish accent. He did not offer to shake hands.

“Dr. Brambell,” said Glinn, “was on the Rolvaag when it went down. I’m sure when he has a chance, he’ll tell you all about it.”

This unexpected statement was greeted by a short silence. The two ship’s officers looked surprised—and displeased. Gideon wondered if Brambell might be considered a kind of unlucky Jonah.

“That isn’t a fact I care to have bandied about,” said Brambell shortly.

“My apologies. In any case, Gideon, you’ve now met several of the most important people on board. Alex will take you down to the hangar deck. I’m afraid I have another engagement.”

With no further talk, Lispenard turned away, and Gideon followed her through an open bulkhead door, down a circular metal staircase, and along a maze of cramped passageways, stairs, and hatches until—quite suddenly—they came out into a vast, gleaming space. Along the sides stood several bays, some covered with drop cloths, but four of which were open. Inside three of these were small, identical rounded vessels, painted bright yellow with turquoise trim. They sported a variety of thick portholes, along with various extruding bulges and projections and a kind of robotic arm set into the bows. The stern wall of the hangar contained a large door, which had been rolled open, exposing the ship’s fantail deck. A fourth vessel was visible there, under an A-frame crane.

Lispenard began humming “Yellow Submarine.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Gideon. “Very cute.”

“Twenty million dollars’ worth of cute. That one under the crane is George. The other three are Ringo, John, and Paul.”

“Oh, no.”

She walked through the hangar, stepped up to George, and placed her hand on it, giving it a little pat of affection. It was surprisingly small, no more than nine feet long and about seven feet high. She turned to Gideon. “Inside, there’s a titanium personnel sphere, almost a sub within a sub, with a hatch at the top and three viewports. There’s a panel of electronics, a seat, controls, videoscreens—and that’s about it. Oh, and there’s a receiving basket in front for the robot arm to place items in. If something should go wrong, there’s an emergency release that jettisons the sphere and sends it to the surface. The rest of the DSV is taken up with ballast tanks, a mercury trim tank, cameras, strobes and lights, sonar, a bank of batteries, a stern propulsion motor, propellers, and a rudder. Simple.” She shrugged. “Shakedown dive tomorrow.”

Gideon turned from George to her. “Great. Who’s going?”

She smiled. “You and me. Oh seven hundred.”

“Wait. You and me? You think I’m going to drive one of those? I’m no Captain Nemo.”

“They’re designed to be driven by anyone. They’re idiotproof.”

“Thank you very much.”

“What I mean is, they have self-driving software. Like a Google car, but controllable with a joystick. You just move the joystick indicating where you want to go, and the mini sub’s AI does the rest—making all the dozens of little adjustments necessary, avoiding obstacles, maneuvering through tight spaces, doing all the fine control without you even being aware of it. You can’t crash it even if you try.”

“Surely there are other people along for this joyride who have more experience with DSVs.”

“There are. Antonella Sax, for example, our exobiology chief. But she won’t be joining the ship for some time yet. Besides, Glinn said there was a reason you should get comfortable with operating a DSV. Something to do with your role in the overall mission.”

“He never mentioned I’d be driving a submarine. I don’t like being on the water, let alone in it—and two miles down, for Chrissakes.”

She peered at him with a half smile. “That’s strange. I didn’t take you for a wimp.”

“I am a wimp. I am most definitely, without doubt, a lily-livered, spineless, cowardly, gutless poltroon.”

“Poltroon? Nice word. But you’re going down with me tomorrow. End of discussion.”

Gideon gave her a stare. God, he was sick of bossy women. But there was no point in arguing with her for the moment; he would take it up with Glinn. “So what else is there to see around here?”

“There’s the various labs—they’re fantastic, you’ll see them soon enough—along with the mission-control room, a library, galley, dining room, lounge and game room, and crew quarters. Not to mention the engine room, machine shop, commissary, sick bay, and all the other shipboard necessities.” She checked her watch. “But now it’s time for dinner.”

“At five o’clock?”

“When breakfast is at oh five thirty, all the mealtimes are shifted.”

“Breakfast at five thirty?” This was another thing he’d take up with Glinn, this totally unnecessary nod to military discipline. “I hope to God this isn’t a dry ship.”

“Not now. It will be once we arrive on target. We’ve quite a long journey ahead of us.”

“How long?”

“Nine thousand nautical miles to the target site.”

It hadn’t occurred to Gideon there would be a long preliminary voyage before they even reached their goal. Of course, if he’d given it even a moment’s thought, he would have realized. What had Glinn said about the cruising speed of the ship? Twelve knots. Twelve nautical miles per hour, divided by nine thousand nautical miles—

“Thirty-two days,” said Alex.

Gideon groaned.