Tony Martinez sat next to Jim Lewis on the bridge on Deck One running systems checks.
“This reminds me of Batman,” said Jim.
“Why? ’Cause you’re sitting with the Joker?” asked Tony.
“No,” he laughed. “The original TV series. The floor was always tilted in these weird angles on the show. I’m not exactly sure why they did that, but it always looked bizarre. I’m looking at this room and I feel drunk.”
Tony yelled over to Jessica Clark, who was reading her own to-do list. “Uh-oh! You hear that, Doc? Skipper’s gettin’ narced out already!”
She laughed. “At one bar, I think he should be okay.”
Tony laughed. “Ya know, they say that you have the equivalent of one drink for every bar of atmosphere . . .”
“The martini rule,” responded the doctor.
“Yeah—right. So like, if you’re scuba diving at ninety feet, you’ve had like three martinis. So lemme ask you—how many martinis is it at twenty thousand feet?”
“I actually figured that out before we left. It’s about six hundred sixty-seven martinis. That’s a lot even for you, Tony,” said Jim sarcastically.
In actuality, the ship’s inner atmosphere would be kept at just over one bar, the equivalent of sea level, unless they had to make unplanned adjustments to slightly increase pressure at the bottom.
Ted Bell walked into the bridge. “Everything seems to be fine. I’ve walked the entire vessel and can’t find any bugs.”
“Oh, great. You had to say that. We’re fucked now,” said Tony.
“Language, sir. There is a lady present,” said Jim.
“Yeah! Watch your fuckin’ mouth!” said Jessica, very blasé.
Ted looked at the two of them. “Did I miss something?”
Commander Lewis shook his head. “Nope. They’re just practicing bugging the crap out of each other for the next three hundred sixty-five days.”
Ted and Jim spent the next hour reviewing technical information. Below, on Deck Four, the three researchers relaxed in front of the heavy double-paned synthetic diamond windows, watching the sea life.
Theresa sat on large chair with her feet tucked under her sipping a cup of tea, gazing in wonder at the blue ocean and its inhabitants. “Best seats in the house,” she said quietly, to no one in particular.
“Yeah, and we’re bloody spoiled, too,” answered Ian, his thick brogue making everyone listen carefully as he spoke. “Ya know, I did a dive on the Alvin a few years back. We froze our arses off. On that vessel, you could only wear cotton or wool—no synthetic fibers because of fire safety rules in the oxygen-rich atmosphere. I don’t mind the cold normally, but it was god-awful. And no toilet either. And here we are, sitting in big recliners, sipping tea, looking out windows that cost more money than we’ll make in our entire lives. Spoiled, I tell ya.”
Michael Ammiano laughed. He leaned closer to Ian and whispered, “I’ll tell you just how spoiled. If you’re a good boy, on our one-month anniversary, I’ll share the bottle of scotch I brought with ya. But keep it between us for now—I didn’t ask the captain when I brought it on.”
Ian grinned from ear to ear. “Mum’s the word.
“I assume I’m invited to the party, too—or I go straight to the boss,” whispered Theresa with an evil smile. With her blonde hair up in a bun and her black glasses, she looked like the librarian that shakes out her hair and takes off her glasses to reveal the bombshell.
“It wouldn’t be a party without a hot blonde,” said Mike with a smile.
“Careful now. We have a sexual harassment policy aboard this vessel,” said Ian.
“I didn’t sign nuthin’!” said Mike, with his hard-ass Jersey accent.
“Whoa!” exclaimed Theresa.
“Scared?” asked Ian.
“No, no! Look!” she said, pointing through the window at a tremendous school of squid.
The three of them sat in silence as the squid seemed to fly through the crystal-clear water. Their translucent bodies glowed a pastel lavender, and there were thousands of them. Their banter forgotten, the three scientists smiled at the spectacle before them, each wondering about what else awaited them in the deep unknown.
**********
On the bridge, Commander Lewis sat next to Tony and Jessica running computer checks.
“Let’s take her down to two hundred,” he said.
“Aye-aye, Skipper” said Tony quietly, his usual joking manner replaced with his navy professionalism. “Descending to two hundred feet.”
Jessica and Jim looked at the system monitors and occasionally glanced out the windows. Their descent was slow and steady, and the water went from crystal-clear aqua to a much deeper blue. The fish outside were larger in the deeper waters of the Pacific, with large tuna, swordfish, and the occasional shark gliding past their windows.
“God, it’s beautiful,” said Jessica, barely above a whisper.
“Sure is,” said the captain. “Ya know, US Navy submarines in World War II operated at about two hundred feet. Four hundred was considered deep. When I think about being down four miles, it blows my mind.”
“Well, let’s just hope your mind is the only thing that gets blown,” said Tony. Then he added a “Sir.”
“We’ll be fine, Tony,” said the skipper. “We could sit on the bottom of the Challenger Deep and we’d still be well above our crush depth.”
“In theory,” said Tony, watching the monitor. “We’re at two hundred feet, Skipper.”
“And not leaking!” said Jessica with a grin, patting Tony’s strong back. He smiled and looked at Jessica. She was a pretty lady, and Tony looked her in the eyes until she broke eye contact.
“The skipper on the tender must feel like he’s dragging an anchor,” said the captain. “Computer reads twenty knots, and I bet he has her pegged!”
“Yeah, well, we ain’t exactly designed for speed. I feel like a little kid screaming ‘Are we there yet?’ I just wanna get down to the bottom, know what I mean?” said Tony, watching the screen in front of him.
“Don’t be in such a rush,” said Jessica. “Enjoy the view and the sunlight. In another couple hundred feet, it’s going to be dark. The water looks gorgeous here.”
“Yeah, well, gorgeous or not, don’t open the windows,” said Tony.