Both Robison and Sevson, who had been anxiously waiting by the telephone for news of Mike, came down to the reception area to welcome the newly released Ensign.
“Mike, so glad you could finally make it. Hope you aren’t the worse for wear given your morning’s activities. This is Ed Robison. Ed manages the Squid program for MacAlear Aviation. Ed just got back last night from the East Coast where he had been begging for funds, time honored tradition, eh, Ed? Ed, this is Mike Liu. Mike works for McHugh,” said Sevson.
“You mean ‘First to Lunch’ McHugh?” asked Robison. Robison was bald, but deeply tanned from his almost daily avocation of SCUBA diving. Dressed in a red checkered shirt, blue jeans, and work boots, you could almost mistake Robison for one of the mechanics working at MacAlear. In truth, Robison preferred to spend his time working on machines, but with a Doctorate in Mechanical Engineering from Stanford University and as the Project Manager for the Squid program, Robison had few chances to “get dirty” as he called it.
Robison also had a picture of the R/V Wayward Wind hanging on his wall, above his credenza. Unlike Sevson’s and McHugh’s photos, Robison’s showed a younger Ed Robison, sitting on a rock in ankle deep water, his head held up by his right hand, his right elbow resting on his knee. His left arm was draped over his knees. The R/V Wayward Wind was sitting in the near background, listing heavily to the right — obviously grounded. Robison did not look happy in this photograph; he looked dejected.
Robison had joined MacAlear Aviation in the late fifties as a systems engineer. In the intervening years, he had advanced within the company and was now responsible for the Squid Project. It was in this position that Robison began to shine. Completing the Squid had become an obsession to Robison; the Holy Grail.
What the Squid didn’t have was a sugar daddy.
Although the major components of the Squid had been assembled and pressure tested, government funding for the project had dropped off as the Viet Nam conflict intensified.
In order to keep the Squid Project alive, Robison had developed into quite the consummate grants player and office politician. By hook or crook, Robison had scraped together enough money year-by-year to keep his baby alive and on life support. However, at age forty five, Robison feared that he was coming to the end of the trail as far as the Squid was concerned.
One can just imagine his elation to hear from his old friend, Tom Sevson, who expressed an interest in the Squid. This joy was compounded when he heard that NAVFAC was sending a young officer to interview him about the project. A faint glimmer of hope sparked in Robison’s heart that maybe, just maybe, there was going to be a reprieve for the Squid.
Cruel fate intervened, he thought, when some dumb red necked commie catchers took this young fellow into custody on some trumped up charge. Robison was greatly relieved to hear that Mike had survived the inquisition and was now safely in his office.
“Why don’cha guys pull up a chair,” said Robison. “I’ve got some sodas in the fridge. What’s your pleasure?” as he went to the small refrigerator in the corner of his office. Opening the door of the refrigerator, Robison reached in and took out an assortment of sodas.
“I’ll have a Coke,” said Mike.
“I’ll take the NeHi orange,” was Sevson’s response.
Handing Mike a Coke, Robison said, “I hope you don’t hold what the D.I.A. did against all Californians.”
“Don’t worry, Ed. Those assholes were no more Californian than George Wallace. You’ve probably heard from Tom that I went to Stanford, didn’t you get your doctorate there?”
“Sure did, although Stanford in the early fifties was a heck of a smaller place.”
“Tell me about the Squid,” said Mike.
“From the specifications book that we sent you and Tom, you have a good idea about its operational profile. The Squid has an operating depth of over 20,000 feet. It can carry a crew of three: a pilot, an assistant, and one observer; four if everyone sucks in their tummies and is real friendly. The pressure sphere is constructed of titanium and had three small portholes for the crew. It can be on its own for up to forty eight hours, although it gets pretty rank by that time. We have attachment plates for scientific equipment, including high resolution television cameras, and strobe lights. It can also be equipped with an articulated mechanical arm for picking up samples.”
“How soon can we get her operational,” asked Sevson. He had been sitting quietly in the background.
“That’s the catch. I ran out of funds for anything more than component testing. The components are ready to go but I need about a year of system testing and operational phase testing before we can get to the at-sea trials. I would say if we could get the funding, I could be ready to go in eighteen months,” replied Robison.
“How much would that take and is there any way to expedite the process?” asked Mike.
Like a kid who had just been given a sack full of money in a candy store, Robison’s face lit up, “I think that we would need about ten million dollars to meet an eighteen month schedule. If we put some system tests on parallel test schedules, we might be able to shave a maximum of three months to the schedule.”
Mike and Sevson exchanged wary glances.
Finally, Mike said, “We can do that.”
1969: Face to Face
Mike stood on the deck of the USS Marysville, looking out over the vast expanse of blue water. There were a few waves, but generally the ocean surface was calm, perfect conditions for launching the Squid, which was aboard its own tender, the R/V Falling Star. The Marysville would serve as a support vessel for this trip. The only sound Mike could hear was the slap of the waves against the hull of the Marysville.
These last fifteen months had been exciting ones for Mike. Living and working in the Bay area was a nostalgia trip for Mike. During off days he would walk around the Stanford University campus basking in the northern California sun, watching the bronzed coeds scurrying between classes and Meyer Memorial Library, dodging the bike traffic that seemed to flow endlessly, and occasionally, official business would bring him on campus to consult with one of his professors.
One of the best times to walk around the campus was in the late afternoon and early evening, particularly along the paths through fragrant groves of eucalyptus trees with their Vicks vapor rub smell that proliferated throughout the campus.
Mike considered it a personal victory when Sevson began suggesting they go to the Oasis for a hamburger. Mike had learned his lesson well and always wore dungarees and polo shirts whenever they went to the off campus restaurant.
As he stared out at the gentle swells of the ocean surface, the newly minted Lieutenant (j.g.), U.S.N.R., chuckled to himself as he remembered McHugh’s reaction when he and Sevson had reported back on the cost of deploying the Squid.
McHugh had blurted, “YOU DID WHAT?!!” as his cigar dropped from his open mouth.
Now that the Squid was ready for its first deep mission over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain, McHugh was all over the place like a mother hen watching over her brood. McHugh was fascinated by the prospect of actually going to the bottom of the ocean in a free swimming submersible. At times it was difficult to discern whether his excitement was directed toward the prospect of finding out once and for all what secrets lay 18,000 feet below or in riding this magnificent machine. Robison and Sevson ruthlessly kidded their old friend, McHugh, about being a kid with a new toy. McHugh’s reply each time was, “But What a Toy!”