“Good morning, Admiral,” said Morris, a large, heavy-set man in his late forties. Morris had a reputation as one of the best engineering officers in CSAC. He was one of the first recruits to the CSAC contingent and had worked on the construction of Watch Station One. He had spent his entire Navy career serving on Watch Stations.
“Good morning, Barry. How’s Jane and the boys?” said McHugh. McHugh had a particular fondness for the CSAC staff that had joined in the beginning and drew strength from knowing them on a personal basis.
“They’re great, Admiral. Barry, Jr., is serving on a tin can in the Seventh Fleet and Johnny just graduated from Annapolis, wants to join the nuclear Navy,” he said, beaming. “Jane is just finishing her Master’s degree in social psychology at Rutgers University. I hope to be topside for her graduation in August. You ready for a ride?”
McHugh climbed up the ladder into the rather comfortable cabin of Benthic Ranger One. Unlike the older utilitarian Squid, the interior of the Benthic Ranger was outfitted with six individual captain’s chairs, three against each side of the vessel. The front window was rectangular, a triumph of modern engineering. There was a large porthole at each seat. The Benthic Ranger was roughly rectangular in cross-section, with a hydrodynamically shaped nose and tail.
Propelled by thrusters and outfitted with lights and television cameras, Benthic Ranger One literally flew over the ocean bottom at relatively high speeds. Except for trim and adjustment for ocean density, the Benthic Ranger did not depend on ballast or blow tanks for buoyancy. The Benthic Ranger was a shaped hydrodynamic body that depended on the adjustment of vanes and thrusters to gain or lose altitude. In an emergency, the pilot of the Benthic Ranger could make an emergency dump of its permanent ballast and pop to the surface.
The two Benthic Rangers were also equipped with four wire-directed Mark 48 torpedoes which were externally mounted and fired without propulsion tubes. McHugh hoped that the Benthic Rangers would never have to defend the Watch Stations. However, with the events of the last few days, McHugh was glad that Mike and the late Tom Sevson, the genius marine engineer who worked on the discovery of the objects in the seventies and developed many of the systems now in use, had talked him into adding this armament.
McHugh took the starboard seat immediately behind the co-pilot’s seat. O’Shannon sat in the co-pilot’s seat and Morris climbed into the pilot’s seat after sealing both the transfer sphere and the Benthic Ranger’s airlock. The whooshing sound, indicating that the hatchway between the Watch Station and the Benthic Ranger was being flooded, could be heard by everyone on the Benthic Ranger. With a soft metallic clang, the latches of the Benthic Ranger released their grip on the flange of the airlock and retracted into the body of the vessel.
The green heads-up display on the windshield of the Benthic Ranger gave all the vital information necessary for its operation. Morris turned on the forward halogen head lamps. The bottom was essentially lifeless with the occasional skeletal remains of some sea creature lying on the sea floor and the tangle of cables splaying out from the Watch Station to various instruments and cameras. He also turned on the forward scanning sonar in order to see more clearly in order to steer.
Aboard the Watch Station, John Lawrence carefully shuttered the portholes of the Main Control Module before Benthic Ranger One began its journey. This was done to preserve his night vision for the tasks at hand. After the whirring sounds of the Benthic Ranger’s thrusters faded into the distance, Lawrence unshuttered the portholes.
Elsewhere on the Watch Station, both crews were crowded around the small portholes watching the departure of Benthic Ranger One. In the sterile, dead world of the ocean bottom at 18,000 feet, even the comings and goings of submersibles were major events.
Barry Morris flew the Benthic Ranger like it was an airplane. Unlike the earlier versions of Squid, the Benthic Ranger did not crawl over the bottom like a snail. The thrusters on the Benthic Ranger were the latest technology. New lightweight nickel metal-hydride batteries supplied enough power for the Benthic Ranger’s fairly sizable engines.
“Barry, how fast can this go?” said McHugh.
“Admiral, I’ve gotten it as fast as 20 knots,” said Morris.
In a matter of minutes, the Benthic Ranger had completed the circuit around the object. O’Shannon wanted McHugh to see one more thing.
“Barry, let’s take the Admiral over to the carbon dating site.”
“Aye, sir,” said Morris as he put the Benthic Ranger into a sharp right bank. The sensation was just like taking a turn in a light plane. In a few minutes, the Benthic Ranger was over the core drilling site. Here, robot roughnecks were employed to drill and sample the benthic sediment for more clues on the origin of the objects.
“I read about this project,” said McHugh to O’Shannon. “Do we have much data so far?”
“So far, Admiral, we’ve been able to calculate the age of the sediment in this area. As a benchmark we used sediment cores taken near the object and correlated the data to this site. The top layers of sediment seem to have been deposited after the darker material found more adjacent to the object. If this data is right, the Sentinel has been here over ten thousand years.”
“That’s very interesting.”
1993: Defection
Bill Sorenson had not been able to sleep for several nights. Every moment had been spent running over and over the gruesome scene he had witnessed in that old farmhouse south of Mankato. During those brief moments when fatigue overcame his despair, the slow motion horror of Richard Winslow’s exploding head played over and over again, like a poor quality film loop in a pornographic peep shop. When those nightmares came, Sorenson would bolt up in bed, screaming, and holding his temples as if the squeezing could drive out the final death scream once and for all.
Sorenson had taken to wandering around Lake of the Isles, thinking, wondering, hoping, pleading that someone could take him out of his nightmare. He had not bathed in several days as well. His hair was matted and dirty. His wife, LuEllen, noticing the terrible change in his sleep habits and his behavior, had expressed concern, but she could get nothing from Sorenson. Over the course of several days, her concerns had changed to an uneasy wariness.
On this morning, Sorenson found himself walking aimlessly down Hennepin Avenue toward Lake Street. His thoughts remained jumbled. What could he do? As he approached Lake Street, he saw two blue globes out of the corner of his eye, a police station.
Yes, thought Sorenson, I can turn myself in. That will solve my problem.
“Can I help you?” The voice of the police sergeant came from behind the high golden oak counter. Before the police sergeant stood a dazed man with dirty, matted hair, whose clothes were unkempt and who weaved as he stood.
“Yes,” he stuttered. “I’d like to speak to someone about something.”
“That’s not enough,” said the police sergeant. “You’ll have to tell me more.”
“I’m a secret agent, I need help.”
God, thought the police sergeant. Why do I get them all?
“Just sit on the bench there for a moment. I’ll get someone to help you.”
As Sorenson moved away from the counter, the unmistakable scent of someone who hadn’t bathed in many days wafted over the counter. The police sergeant picked up the telephone and dialed the detective squad room.