It was a technology developed by the US Navy, and Ingles had been among the first test subjects. It essentially involved a moment of death before coming out on the other side, unless a diver panicked, in which case, there was no other side. Having the liquid pumped from the lungs after mission accomplished was no picnic either, but breathing from lungs filled with what scientist had finally come up with for deep ocean and exotic diving, OPFC, a highly oxygen-enriched, lighter than typical liquid perfluorocarbon as clear as vodka which allowed for breathing and safe pressures as deep as two and a half miles below the surface—the same depth as where Titanic awaited.
In any event, there was no room for error.
“I can hardly imagine being able to withstand temperatures of minus 1,700 degrees,” muttered Alandale in Ingles’ ear. The man’s large-faced, wide grin was infectious, and now Ingles placed his looks: Alandale had the bearing and appearance of the actor Max Von Sydow in his later years.
“Our dive suits are made of the same material as the Cryo-Cable here,” David replied, giving a mock-squeeze to the huge cable. Ingles had imagined this trip and the dives ahead of them many times over; he’d imagined the giant four-sided, metal basket atop a huge platform at the bottom of the sea chockfull with treasures that Neptune would cry for. Treasures that would find their way to public museums across the globe. Treasures dredged up by human hands from Titanic’s secret interiors.
Sure I’m in it for the money, but I’m here for the adrenaline rush, too, he thought, being honest with himself.
The press called them fortune hunters, mercenaries, but there was more to it than money—far more. Ingles turned at the shouting of orders from below. From where he stood alongside Alandale, he could see that every major media outlet had shown up, some with microphones milling about the pier. Others made moves to come aboard the research vessel but were held in check by a pair of brawny crewmembers.
Reporters, Ingles thought. Most would kill their mothers for an inside story.
The last time Ingles had spoken to a reporter was on his return from Japan where he’d been branded a hero for saving lives. No one said much about Wilcox. Hell, Wilcox had saved his life so that he could himself go on to save others. But Wilcox had died in the tragedy—no story in that, he facetiously realized. And him… made out the big hero. Twisted story indeed so far as David Ingles was concerned. No, he’d failed his best friend when Terry most needed him.
Ingles’ dark glasses lightened when the sun slipped behind a cloud, relieving the scene of the blinding April morning glare. He wore a sailor’s Navy Pea coat and matching watch cap, looking like any crewmember as he’d hoped to get through the reporters without notice, without anyone recognizing him, and it’d worked. He just wanted to blend in at this point; he could be himself and was seldom at ease any longer when not at sea.
His wide shoulders, height, and good looks usually tagged him as some sort of Billy Budd, but this particular Budd held two diplomas and a doctorate in underwater forensics—investigating shipwrecks with an eye to what brought them down. His long, sandy blond hair curled up from below the hat. As always, he maintained his regimen of exercise to keep in peak athletic shape. A former Navy Seal, he routinely involved himself in various triathlons across the country and overseas.
Ingles’ attention was suddenly drawn to a figure pushing through the crowd, a young woman who offered a reporter a sharp reply to what looked like either an annoying question about her mercenary tendencies, or an annoying pass. Ingles guessed who she might be, and he thought her stunning, and from her catlike reaction to the reporter, she didn’t take anything sitting down. He noticed how she took in the crowd, eyes darting in every direction as if searching for someone she’d hoped to meet on the pier, someone other than reporters.
Looking over her shoulder like me these days, he wondered, thinking maybe they had something in common—detesting reporters. Regardless, he found himself unable to take his eyes from her. He watched her go about in a circle, making him wonder why she was taking her time on the pier. Looking for a boyfriend who was supposed to see her off, no doubt. Still searching it seemed, when she suddenly looked up at the ship and straight at David. He blinked and pretended to look away. He then turned and leaned into the railing, hair lifting in the breeze. But he soon looked back. Had she found who she was looking for? Was she in search of the so-called hero, David Ingles? Was she a pushy, snooping reporter or was she Dr. Kelly Irvin? Irvin was another of the divers whose specialty was marine biology and creatures of the deep. Word had it that Woods Hole insisted the expedition have a marine biologist aboard, and they expected specimens brought up from the deep.
But if she’s a reporter in search of a story here to ask me to repeat my harrowing escape from death, David told himself, just watch how quickly I’ll lose interest in the woman, despite her beauty. Then again perhaps she’s not a reporter at all. In fact, she looked like a photo he’d once seen of Dr. Kelly Irvin, and if so, perhaps there was an up side to the hero business, he inwardly joked. After all, she is damned gorgeous and obviously in wonderful health.
When he again focused on her whereabouts, she was storming aboard, her gaze set on him. At least it seemed so, which is what he told himself. As she neared, smiling, a hand extended, David gave her a firm nod to acknowledge their mutual stare, and he instantly regretted it when she rested a duffle on wheels that trailed in her wake, her honey hair blowing like wheat in the ocean breeze. Dressed in jeans and a safari blouse, the returning sun bathed her in light. Tall, he thought, fair-skinned, eyes matching the color of her hair. Carries herself with a distinct elegance and pride, he surmised.
But it was suddenly apparent that indeed this was Dr. Kelly Irvin, one of his co-divers, when she stepped up to him and Dr. Alandale—her duffel bag carrying the universal sign for divers.
She gave David a perfunctory nod but showered Alandale with a beaming smile, grabbing his hand and pumping it in a handshake. She then proceeded to tell him how she had read everything he’d ever written while still pumping his arm as if she might discover some secret if she only shook long enough. She certainly appeared enthusiastic in her admiration for the elderly man beside David—perhaps one of those father complexes; perhaps simply in awe of being in his presence.
“Such genius… such genius,” she said in a mantra while David frowned. Meanwhile, entirely ignoring Ingles as if he were a fixture—treating him like one of the crew—she began a tirade of questions for Dr. Alandale, all surrounding Titanic and her last night at sea in what appeared an effort on the part of the student to make the teacher believe that she was his number one pupil and entirely enthralled—and apparently, she was.
By now Ingles wasn’t sure it was a bad thing to be ignored by Kelly Irvin. At the same time, he had to give it to Alandale; the man knew as much about patience as that shown by the biblical character Job. He also knew every detail of Titanic and her first and last ‘maiden’ voyage in 1912. In the parlance of gang mobsters and salvage crews, people said of Alandale ‘He knows where the bodies are’.
Dr. Kelly Irvin finally introduced herself to Alandale, and then continued a rain of questions, until Alandale stopped her with a single word. “Enough.”