“I read.”
“Why don’t you start by getting a feel for the joystick. Move it forward, sideways, and back, and see how the DSV responds.”
“How do I go up and down?”
“Good question. You see the thumb toggle on top of the joystick? Forward moves you up, backward goes down. Go ahead and play with it while I watch and comment.”
Ever so gingerly, he pushed the joystick forward. A faint humming noise sounded and the sub moved, very slowly.
“You can be a little more aggressive. The autopilot smooths out any sharp motions you might make.”
He gave it a bigger push and the sub moved forward faster.
“You’re coming right at me, Gideon. Try a turn.”
Instead of turning, Gideon toggled the sub up and it went up and over her sub, then he toggled back down and the sub settled just above the layer of kelp. He pushed it sideways and the sub went into a smooth turn. In a moment Alex’s mini sub reappeared in the viewport.
“Gideon? How about learning to walk before you fly?”
Her instructional tone was beginning to irritate him. He accelerated toward her, then toggled up again; but this time his coordination was off and the sub went almost vertical, climbing sharply toward the surface.
“Toggle down.”
He pushed the toggle down, but accidentally pushed the joystick forward as well. The problem, he began to realize, was that the sub’s response wasn’t as instantaneous as a car’s; water gave everything a sluggish, delayed effect. And now he was heading straight for the bottom—fast.
“Oh, shit.” He pulled the toggle and joystick back, but in his panic overcompensated once again and gave it an inadvertent twist. The sub slewed around like a corkscrew before coming to an abrupt halt—unbidden—just above the kelp. A small red light was blinking and a genteel alarm was sounding; on the main control screen a message appeared:
FULL AUTOPILOT TAKEOVER
RELEASE OF CONTROL TO OPERATOR IN
15
SECONDS
He watched as the numbers counted down.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
Alex’s cool voice sounded in his ear. “Well, Gideon, congratulations. That was the most remarkable display of ineptitude I have ever seen in a DSV. Now that you’ve gotten your teenage ya-yas out, want to try again? This time as an adult.”
“If you weren’t yammering in my ear all the time,” he said angrily, “I might have pulled it off. Bloody backseat driver.”
Alex’s cool voice came through. “Keep in mind that our conversation, and everything we do, is being closely monitored in mission control.”
Gideon swallowed his next comment. He could just picture Glinn, Garza, and the rest assembled in the control room, listening and frowning with deep disapproval. Or perhaps laughing. Either way he felt annoyed.
“Right.” The seconds had now ticked off and the screen read:
CONTROL RELEASED TO OPERATOR
He eased the joystick forward and the sub moved slowly in a straight line; then he executed a gentle turn, came back, and halted.
“There’s a good boy,” said Alex. “Nice and easy.”
Gideon almost thought he could hear a faint snigger sounding in his headset.
9
THE R/V BATAVIA had “crossed the line” with all the silliness and concomitant ceremony that passing the equator entailed, which Gideon had retreated from with alacrity. For the past fifteen days, since leaving Woods Hole, life on board the Batavia had been dulclass="underline" seasickness alternating with bored overeating, reading, watching Game of Thrones in the ship’s theater, playing backgammon with Alex (where he was now about a hundred games behind), and trying not to drink too many cocktails in the evening.
Although by now he had met numerous scientists and many of the ship’s other major players—nattily dressed Ship’s Chief Engineer Frederick Moncton; Eduardo Bettances, dour and formidable chief of security; and Warrant Officer George Lund, who seemed intimidated by everything and everybody—he had made few friends on board. Most of the crew were ex-navy, with crew cuts and pressed uniforms—not Gideon’s type at all. And the various scientific and technical teams were too busy preparing for their upcoming duties to do much socializing. Glinn was as remote as ever. Gideon and Garza, despite the recent thaw in their relations, remained wary of each other. The only one he really liked—liked far too much—was Alex, but she had made it clear that while she, too, enjoyed his company, shipboard romance was out of the question.
But there was one character aboard ship who, over time, began to intrigue him: the ship’s doctor, Patrick Brambell. He was like a gnome, a devious old fellow with a head as shiny as a cue ball, a small face, sharp crafty blue eyes, and a stooped way of slinking about the ship, like a ghost. He always had a book tucked under one arm and never appeared in the mess hall, apparently taking his meals in his room. The rare times Gideon had heard him speak, he’d detected a soft Irish accent.
What intrigued Gideon most of all was that, aside from Glinn and Garza, Brambell was the only member of the expedition who had been on the Rolvaag when it sank. Gideon had the nagging sense that Glinn and Garza were withholding information about the shipwreck, perhaps even lying about the fate of the Rolvaag in order to secure his nuclear expertise. For this reason, Gideon decided to pay Brambell a surprise visit.
So one muggy tropical afternoon, he made his way to the crew quarters and, making sure Brambell was in his room, knocked on the door. At first there was no answer, but he knocked again, loud and persistent, knowing the devious old coot was holed up inside. After the third knock, an irritated voice finally responded. “Yes?”
“Can I come in? It’s Gideon Crew.”
A pause. “Is this a medical issue?” the voice filtered through the door. “I’ll be glad to meet you in the sick bay.”
Gideon didn’t want this. He wanted to beard Brambell in his element.
“Um, no.” He said no more; the less explanation, the less Brambell would be able to find a reason to say no.
A soft rustle and the door unlocked. Without waiting for an invitation, Gideon pushed in and Brambell, taken by surprise, automatically stepped back. He was holding a Trollope novel in one veined hand, his finger marking where he’d been reading.
Gideon took a seat, uninvited.
Brambell, his wizened face wrinkling with annoyance, remained standing. “As I said, if it’s a medical issue, the clinic is the proper place—”
“It’s not a medical issue.”
A silence.
“Well, then,” said Brambell, not exactly defeated but resigned, “what can I do for you?”
Gideon took in the large room. It astonished him. Every single inch of wall space, even the portholes, had been covered with custom-built shelves, and those shelves were completely lined with books, all kinds of books, the most eclectic range imaginable, from leather-bound classics to trashy thrillers to nonfiction books, biographies, histories, as well as titles in French and Latin. As his eye roamed the collection, the only type of book he did not see in evidence was medical.
“This is quite the library,” said Gideon.
“I am a reader,” came the dry voice. “That is what I do. Medicine is a sideline.”
Gideon was impressed by this frank announcement. “I guess, being on a ship, you get a lot of time to read.”
“That is the very point,” said Brambell in his high, whistling accent.
Gideon clasped his hands and looked at the doctor, who was eyeing him curiously, no longer irritated—or at least, so it seemed. The doctor put down the book. “I see you are a man who has come to me with a purpose.”