His main interest was the crew of two dozen divers that Lawton was responsible for and he was surprised to learn that a good majority of the men were ex-U.S. Navy. In Norway, a military diver was seldom allowed to transfer to the civilian sector and apply the craft that the government had spent so much time and money teaching him.
When Lawton admitted that he was an ex-Navy diver himself, who had seen action in Viet Nam, Magne’s eyes opened wide, and for the rest of the day the Norwegian pestered his host to share some of his wartime experiences. Lawton reluctantly did so later that evening, while sipping longnecks on the platform’s deserted helipad.
The war had been a traumatic time in Lawton’s life that he would have preferred to forget about. During his two-year tour in the jung led hell of Southeast Asia, he had witnessed atrocities that had broken stronger men than he. Only by the greatest of miracles did he come out of the conflict with some degree of sanity. Yet the nightmares still returned from time to time, and just sitting there on that platform, with the humid Gulf winds hitting him in the face, brought back many a poignant memory of his exploits as a U.S. Navy SEAL.
It was well after midnight when the two veteran divers finally parted company, with their new friendship all but sealed. To reciprocate Lawton’s hospitality, Magne invited the Texan to visit him in Norway. Lawton accepted, though it was to take him a full year to find the time in his hectic schedule to fit the trip in.
With the spirited strains of Peer Gynt still filling the cockpit, Lawton sat forward expectantly when the bare outline of a ship became visible on the distant horizon.
The vessel’s unique silhouette became more discernable as the helicopter continued its approach. Though he had previously only seen pictures of the Falcon, there was no doubt in his mind this was the Norwegian dive ship he had travelled thousands of miles to visit. There could be no mistaking the bulbous helideck that was positioned on the ship’s bow, or the massive bridge and dual engine stacks situated amidships. The rest of the bright yellow vessel was dominated by an immense crane. This was the operational portion of the Falcon, where its moon pools were located. Through these openings to the sea, the ship’s remotely operated vehicles, or ROV’s for short, and manned diving bells would be lowered.
“Looks like we made it,” said the pilot matter of factly
“I’ll have you safely on deck before you know it.”
The good weather allowed their approach to be a routine one, and with a minimum of difficulty the Bell 212 landed on its shipborne helipad with a bare jolt.
“Thanks for the smooth ride, Karl,” said Lawton as he unbuckled his safety harness.
“Will you be staying on board for awhile?”
“Afraid not, sir. I’ll only remain long enough for them to unload that mess of supplies back in the main cabin.
Then I’m off for Stavanger to pick up a new load of computer hardware for the main office.”
“Well, take care, young lady. And thanks again for the lift.”
The helicopter’s rotors were whirling to a halt as Lawton exited the vehicle through its main hatchway. Outside, he was met by a gust of cool, salt-filled air and a weather beaten crew member dressed in orange coveralls and matching hard hat.
“Welcome aboard the Falcon, Mr. Lawton. I’m Olav Anderson, the ship’s quartermaster. Magne is sorry that he wasn’t able to greet you personally, but he’s in the midst of an operation in the ship’s diving control room.
If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you down there.”
The Texan nodded and followed his guide down a latticed steel ladder to the main deck. Here they passed a silver suited figure, who stood with a fire hose in hand, his gaze riveted on the nearby helicopter. Nearby, a fully enclosed, orange life boat was stored, and Lawton was impressed by the Norwegian’s exacting safety standards.
A hatch led them below deck. While transit ting a spotlessly clean passageway, the quartermaster offered an impromptu briefing.
“The Falcon is the newest multi-purpose vessel in Noroil’s ever expanding fleet. Its main functions are to act as a diving support ship and provide fire fighting services. The Falcon is 101 meters long, with two fully equipped engine rooms, three tunnel thrusters in the fore ship and two Azimuth thrusters in the aft. All of these systems are automatically controlled through a dynamic positioning system with dual redundancy.”
“To what depth is your diving system rated?” asked
Lawton, as they passed by the ship’s mess room.
“350 meters,” answered the quartermaster.
“If needed, this rating can be easily modified for 500 meters.”
Yet another ladder led them to a spacious compartment filled with various machine tools. While crossing its cluttered length, the quartermaster continued his briefing.
“The Falcon has two moon pools and is outfitted with a pair of diving bells, each capable of holding up to seven individuals. For decompression purposes there are three separate transfer chambers, and a central four-man chamber for extended stay, saturation purposes.”
Lawton caught a brief glimpse of one of these large, cylinder-shaped, white chambers as they stepped through a hatchway and began their way over a narrow catwalk that bordered one of the open moon pools A thick cable linked to an overhead winch extended into the water here. Several crew members could be seen gathered around a nearby console, and the Texan couldn’t help but vent his curiosity.
“Is there currently a bell down below?” he asked.
“Actually, it’s a ROV” answered his guide, without breaking his brisk stride.
“We call it Solo. Inside that umbilical is the latest in fiber optics, allowing high quality video and data feedback at depths up to fifteen hundred meters. Solo has also got the latest in side scanning sonar, that allows for high speed pipeline sonar surveys at velocities up to four knots.”
Well aware that such a vehicle would certainly make life easier for the Falcon’s divers, Lawton followed the Norwegian into a narrow passageway lined with snaking electrical cables. The corridor led directly into a large compartment dominated by a central cluster of consoles.
Seated in front of this assemblage of high-tech equipment were a trio of technicians. Each wore yellow overalls, and had their attentions focused on the complicated assortment of video monitor screens mounted before them.
The middle figure sported a familiar mop of wavy blond hair, and David Lawton spotted the name Rystaad printed across the broad back. Magne seemed unaware of his guest’s presence behind him, his right hand glued to an airplane-like joystick, his eyes riveted to a video monitor. The Texan gingerly stepped forward until he was immediately behind his host and could just make out the flickering images visible on the video screen.
The monitor was filled by an object that appeared to be a large boulder. A digital depth gauge showed that it was laying on the seabed 283 meters beneath the sea’s surface. Yet it was a single sharp spike that emerged from the top portion of the object that indicated it wasn’t a boulder at all, but a manmade object.
“My God, is that a mine?” blurted the Texan.
Without taking his eyes off the monitor screen, Magne Rystaad coolly answered.
“As a matter of fact, it is. Welcome aboard the Falcon, David. Sorry I can’t offer you a proper handshake, but I’m currently utilizing our ROV to place six kilos of dynamite at the base of that baby, that we believe to be a relic of World War I.”
“No apologies necessary, Magne,” replied Lawton who watched intently as his host gripped yet another joystick with his left hand.
Almost instantaneously, an articulated manipulator arm came into view on the screen. At the tip of the artificial appendage was a sausage-shaped cannister that was being deposited beside the base of the mine. Only when this process was completed did Magne push back from the console, turn to face his guest, and exhale a full breath of relief.