Admiral Antus was seated at the end of a long table in a nicely appointed conference room. He was surrounded by the seven-person crew that would spend the next twelve months almost four miles below the surface of the ocean. It was a send-off breakfast and rehearsal of sorts for the media show that would follow. After the meal, they would board a sub tender and sail west before entering the submersible and testing fate. When everyone had been seated, the director stood up.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, toasting them with fresh-squeezed orange juice. They raised their glasses back to him and showed their excited smiles. “Next week at this time, God willing, you will be comfortably seated twenty thousand feet below the sea. I can’t help but smile as I look around at your tans. I can see you’ve all been soaking up every ray you could get before you go under. I don’t blame you. The tanning beds we have onboard for you won’t be the same.”
There were some polite and nervous chuckles.
“Although we have individually gone over most of the following presentation countless times before, I thought we’d take one final run through our amazing journey thus far as a group. You’ll notice you’re the only ones here. You’re to speak absolutely freely and express any final questions or thoughts about the mission as we go through the presentation. Commander Lewis will be operating the slides from the laptop. If he screws this up, I suggest you all abort the mission now.”
A few more nervous chuckles, and a stiff salute from Jim Lewis, the Challenger’s pilot and mission commander. A former US Navy ballistic submarine captain, he would be guiding the Challenger down to its new home in the deep black sea. Like Tom Antus, he wore his white hair in a military flattop, although he was a head taller and much wider at six three, 220 sinewy pounds of muscle. Jim pressed the button on the laptop and a photograph of the Challenger appeared on the white screen.
“Sleek she’s not,” joked the director as they gazed at the giant white ball. “But with a hull constructed of HY-950 titanium alloy, she’s the toughest thing to ever enter the water. The US Navy attack sub Seawolf was constructed with HY-100 steel, rated for one hundred thousand pounds per square inch for a maximum operating depth of sixteen hundred feet. With our new titanium cobalt-fiber steel alloy, your operating depth exceeds twenty thousand feet. Crush depths are almost theoretical at this point, but we believe the ship’s hull specs are in excess of the deepest parts of any known trench.
“This mission has many parts, and the seven of you will be extremely busy. I dare say this will be the fastest year of your life. I’ll review each of your specific missions, which you’re free to discuss with the media later on, in general terms. This mission is considered classified until all the data has been collected, if for no other reason than to piss off the Russians and Chinese.”
That brought a few laughs. There had been pressure exerted by both Russia and China to be included in the project and make it “international” like the space station. They had been politely told “no.”
“We’ll start with Commander Lewis. Jim will have total oversight over all individually tasked missions and final say over everything that occurs. He will guide the Challenger down in a controlled decent that will take almost two days, with the help of Dr. Clark and Sonar Chief Martinez.
“Dr. Clark will be conducting various experiments of her own while on this mission, but she is also responsible for crew health and safety. Since the atmospheric conditions are theoretical to some degree, she will be drawing blood and performing psychological evaluations during your mission. While we don’t anticipate narcosis problems, we simply can’t be sure.”
The others glanced at Dr. Jessica Clark. She was somewhat of an unknown to the crew and hadn’t been involved in their training very much. An attractive, athletic woman of forty, Jessica had been a navy doctor her entire career—including several tours aboard nuclear submarines. Although a pretty woman, she was a no-nonsense type who could handle herself in the roughest of naval liberty ports.
“Chief Martinez will be your sonar operator,” Admiral Antus continued. “He will assist with ascent and descent, computer imaging and modeling, videography and photography, sample collections, and ship maintenance.”
“Yeah, leave it to the navy to stick the Mexican with cleaning up the ship,” joked Tony Martinez with a chuckle. Of the entire crew, he looked most like the stereotypical sailor you’d find in an engine room, with his shaved head and tattoos covering his massive arms. His joking aside, Tony had been trained to operate the sophisticated new sonar systems that NASA had helped design for the ship, as well as the infrared cameras that could view and record anything that moved in the black cold water. He was technically gifted and had excelled in his years as a sonar man in the navy, reaching the rank of chief petty officer in only eight years. If his naval career didn’t work out, he looked like he might have a future as an NFL linebacker.
“Tony will be making sure your ship doesn’t leak—he won’t be cleaning the head,” said Antus with a smile. “Doctors Theresa Meyers, Michael Ammiano, and Ian MacMullen will be the research arm of this mission. They will have a to-do list a mile long, and all of you will assist them as your own schedules allow. They will be collecting samples via the revolutionary new lock system. The lock system—as well as all mechanical systems, telescopic docking legs, atmospheric systems, and fueling rigs—are under the supervision of your number two officer, Ted Bell. With the exception of Commander Lewis, Ted has spent more time than any of you learning the systems and operation of this ship, and I suggest you listen to him when he speaks. You are on an extremely sophisticated research vessel. Mistakes may be catastrophic. Take your time, be vigilant, check each other, and remain focused. Ted, tell them about the changes to the lock system.”
Ted was the oldest of the crew but, at sixty, remained an amazing athlete. He could out swim anyone onboard, although on this mission, if they were swimming, they had a serious problem. He was also a dedicated runner, biker, and martial artist. Most importantly, he was a genius. Ted could run any computer system on the ship—many that he had helped design, including the sonar systems. He was also the responsible for the biofuel plant, desalinization systems, and the sophisticated animal capture and decompression system created for the Challenger.
Ted was also the only crewman who came from NASA, and his slight resentment toward the entire process wasn’t lost on anyone. After spending years gearing up for a Mars mission, he had been reassigned to the deep-sea research project. It should have been considered an honor to be chosen, but for Ted, it was a crushing disappointment. He knew that, at his age, he would not be a part of any Mars mission that would now be many years away. And while it clearly wasn’t the fault of any of his new shipmates, there was a strain in his relationship with the others, in particular Tony and Ian, whose personalities seemed to clash with the “genius from NASA.” Personalities notwithstanding, the crew worked well together, which was essential aboard such a sophisticated vessel. Ted had worked extremely hard on the project, not because of his interest in oceanography, but because the vast financial resources dedicated to the cause enabled him to assist in developing systems that might also one day be used aboard a deep-space vehicle.
Prior to the Challenger, most deepwater submersibles were either run by remote control or a crew of two or three individuals who had extremely limited bottom time because of the effects of the vast pressure on the human body. They would collect samples outside the ship and not be able to analyze them until the sub had surfaced. This wouldn’t do for the Challenger mission. Instead, the vessel had several compartments that could be sealed off independently, and their atmospheres were controlled through a central computer. The bottom portion of the sphere contained the lab and the collection lock.
The lock’s design was based on the principles of a torpedo tube. Outer doors on large collection tubes could be opened and flooded, then sealed off. Once the outer doors were sealed, the tube contents could be inspected via infrared cameras and then transferred to large vaults inside the ship. Once sealed in the sample tanks, the crew could observe any collected animals up close and personal at their leisure.
It was hoped that over the course of the year, animals could be captured, the tanks slowly depressurized, and the animals brought inside to be examined while still alive. Of course, it was unlikely that living specimens would survive such a huge change in pressure. If the sample tanks were merely “opened” after collection, any animals inside would most likely just explode from the pressure changes.
Ted Bell stood and addressed the room. He had a midwestern accent and thin, sandy hair. Although he wasn’t particularly popular, he was well respected, and when he spoke, the others listened. “Morning, folks. Captain . . .” he said, nodding his head at Commander Lewis. “For the first six months, every design we came up with led to the conclusion that we’d either kill everything we collected in the process or blow the bottom of the station to oblivion.”
“Sounds promising,” said Tony quietly.
Ted ignored him and continued. “The system we ended up going with has never been tested at the depths we will be working in—but, what the hell, nothing has.”
“True dat,” said Tony, and the rest of the crew forced smiles.
“What we are aiming to do is collect as diverse a sampling as possible from the hadal zone. Ideally, we’d like to keep the samples alive, and we’ve constructed holding tanks aboard ship to bring the animals up. We believe, even going through slow decompression, that this may be impossible, however. Like most of what we’ll be doing, this is yet another experiment. As much as the research team wants to examine these animals and collect data, my primary duty is ship safety. Much of what we’ll be doing will be ‘learn as we go.’ At the first sign of any system stress or malfunction, we will attempt to devise alternate means of collections.”
“If we haven’t imploded,” said Tony.
“True dat,” answered Ted with his toothy grin. That brought a few louder chuckles.
“At least we’ll be entertained this year,” said Jess, shaking her head at Tony.
Tony responded by wiggling his eyebrows at the pretty doctor, as if to offer more than entertainment. “You wish,” she muttered.
Ted continued. “One of the great unknowns, as you are aware, will be the effects of our breathable atmosphere. On other submersibles, the crew all sounded like Mickey Mouse from all the helium. This ship will be kept at a little over one bar of atmosphere in a surface-air mix. The hull will be taking the pressure, not us. That said, we’ll still be four miles down in thirty-four-degree pitch blackness that no human has ever experienced for the length of time that we will be down there.” He paused. “You people sure you really wanna do this?” he asked with a big smile.
“Hell yeah!” responded Ian MacMullen. Although he was an American citizen and had lived in the United States for twenty-plus years, he still had his thick Scottish brogue.
“You’re just trying to make this an International Sea Station,” said Tony.
“I thought that was your job?” asked the commander to Tony, which brought several low “Ewwwws . . .”
“That is so not PC,” said Tony, feigning great hurt.
Dr. Clark spoke up. “I can see I’m gonna need baseline readings on Martinez to know if he’s going crazy from narcosis or he’s just being his version of normal.”
Ted laughed and motioned for Commander Lewis to change slides. The next picture showed a schematic diagram of the ship. “This is a large vessel for such a small crew. We are forced to operate understaffed because of the atmosphere issues. It means all of you have been cross-trained for multiple tasks. Teamwork will be essential to mission success and our personal safety. The computer system that NASA has designed is similar to the system used by the space shuttles. Quite frankly, the master computer can probably do this mission without us, except it doesn’t like getting wet.”
“At four miles down, I don’t wanna get wet either,” said Ian.
Ted laughed. “Most of the heavy lifting will be done by the MC. It will constantly monitor the atmosphere and make adjustments to oxygen and CO2 levels, internal pressure, and energy consumption.”
“HAL gonna take over the ship?” joked Ian, referring to the classic film 2001: A Space Odyssey.
“Why are you turning me off, Dave?” asked Tony in his very bad HAL impersonation.
“I don’t remember HAL sounding like a Mexican,” said Ian.
“Yeah, and I don’t remember him sounding like that dude in Braveheart, either,” said Tony. The joking was typical military machismo—the fact was, most of them had grown to be close friends over the past two years of training.
“The MC will not take over the ship,” Ted went on. “While it will make minor adjustments and do most things automatically, everything can be manually overridden. Mission-critical adjustments will be done with notification alerts on a regular basis. We will be in charge of the computer, not the other way around.”
“That’s what dey thought in the movie, too,” said Tony. If nothing else, the guy was entertaining.
Ted cleared his throat and they quieted down. “My point was, while we are only a seven-person crew for a large vessel, we’ll be fine. Everyone knows their tasks for descent. Once we are in position and the legs are locked off, we won’t be moving for a year . . .”
“Unless we all get eaten by something down there,” said Tony very quietly to no one in particular.
“Don’t worry, those sea creatures never had Mexican before,” said Theresa.
“Hey, but you know what they say—once you’ve had Mexican . . .”
“That is not what they say,” she whispered back. She hid a devilish smile and threw her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. Like Jessica, she was also athletic and outgoing, quite used to be being one of the few females in the room. Her oceanographic specialty—annelids—was not a field very popular with women.
Ted stared at Tony until he shut up again. “So. We’ll be a small sea colony on the ocean floor at twenty thousand feet in total blackness. Mr. Entertainment will be in charge of giving us a glimpse into the unknown world without disturbing the inhabitants. While most bathyspheres have used strong floodlights to record the undersea inhabitants, we will be using advanced infrared cameras that can see well in the dark. We’ll be able to observe and record sea life without disturbing it, which is something remarkable at this depth. In the past, other submersibles have blasted high-intensity lights at creatures that have never been exposed to sunlight. It will be a great advantage to observe deep-sea animals in their natural environment without stressing them. If we are able to bring anything aboard and depressurize it enough to be able to physically examine it without killing it, that will be another major milestone. Tony—want to go over the equipment?”
Tony switched mental gears from wiseass to wizard and went through a dozen slides explaining each of the high-tech gadgets designed for their mission. The Challenger boasted new sonar systems that even the United States Navy didn’t have yet. It also had next-generation computers that worked in tandem not only with the sonar but with every mechanical system on board the ship. The sophistication of the vessel enabled such a large ship to operate with such a tiny crew, and because the inhabitants were sharing a manufactured atmosphere at four miles below the waves, a small crew was all that was possible.
The more they all spoke about their separate missions, the more excited they all grew. Without question, they were pioneers into an unknown world that was every bit as inhospitable as deep space. Like the great explorers of history—Magellan, Columbus, da Gamma—to the astronauts and cosmonauts of the space age, the crew was embarking on a mission for which they had trained and studied and theorized. But until their vessel landed safely on the seafloor twenty thousand feet below the ocean’s surface, it was all just a lot of conjecture.
***********
NASA Research and Development Lab
The parking lot behind NASA’s research and development laboratory was dark and almost empty. Ted sat in the dark waiting for what seemed like hours for his colleague to emerge from the building. Eventually the man appeared, walking a bit too quickly with his face aimed at the pavement the entire walk from the lab door to Ted’s car. He pulled the passenger door open and hopped inside, placing a small duffel bag between them. The man was a nervous wreck, his bushy gray beard only partially concealing the sweat running down his face. His thick black eyeglasses fogged when he hit the air-conditioned interior of Ted’s car.
“Relax,” said Ted quietly. “You look like you just robbed a bank, for Christ’s sake.”
“You relax. Anyone finds out I gave you these, it’s my ass.”
“How many strains did you get?” asked Ted.
“All six,” said the man while scanning the parking lot for witnesses.
“Good job. How long did the orangutan last?”
“She’s still alive,” he answered.
Ted leaned away from the man, his face showing disbelief. “Are you shittin’ me?”
The man looked at Ted and removed his glasses, which he wiped with his cheap black tie. His thin white short-sleeved shirt had no less than six pens jammed in the pocket. “It’s been forty-three days, Ted.”
Ted’s smile filled the entire car. “Unbelievable. Temperature?”
“We’ve got it up to three hundred. Oxygen levels down to three percent. Sulfur dioxide and CO2 are twenty-five and ten. She’s fine.”
Ted shook his head in disbelief. “At three hundred?”
“Raised it twenty degrees a day after day ten. She lost her hair and stopped eating solid food, but it’s just like you predicted. This keeps going and she’ll be ready to walk Mars by Christmas. It’s unbelievable.”
“Behavioral and psychological changes?” asked Ted, his face showing its amazement.
“Yeah. Well, we’re observing. She’s lethargic—probably the heat.”
“Three hundred degrees? Ya think?” interrupted Ted.
“Seems a bit aggressive at times. We’re going to keep increasing all levels until she dies, then do a full autopsy. We don’t want to try and run any tests now—we’d have to take the temperature and pressure back down. It would stop the whole process.”
“Of course. What’s the pressure in the tank?”
“Eight atmospheres. We’ll keep increasing. Max for the unit is twenty, although I doubt she’ll make it that long. Forty-three days. Jesus,” said the man.
“This is the most significant work NASA’s ever done,” said Ted.
“Shame no one will ever know about it,” said the man, replacing his glasses.
“Well, they may not know about the chimp—fuckin’ PETA folks—but when we’re ready for deep space in any environment, they’ll see the genius in our work. I need to get out of here. Good luck with the orangutan.”
The man looked Ted in the eye for the first time. “Good luck to you, too. You figured out how yet?” He raised his hand. “Never mind. I don’t wanna know anyway. A year, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ll see ya in a year. Maybe the ape will still be alive.”
“If she is, she’ll be flying to Mars without a suit.” Reaching for the handle, he said, “We never had this conversation. You get caught, you’re by yourself, you understand?”
“Stop worrying. You did your part. You’re out. I never saw you. Now go play with the orang.”
The man looked at Ted and started to speak, but then he shook his head, patted the bag, and left in a hurry. Ted stared at the windshield of the car, not really even looking through it. “Three hundred degrees. Unfuckingbelievable.” He grinned broadly.