Using his GPS mapping computer, Commander Lewis had been watching his vessel move closer to their destination point. He sat at the bridge sipping coffee and trying to stay alert, with Tony on his right. They’d been pulling extremely long shifts, anxious to get to their descent point. Jessica Clark was sleeping in her quarters, having been relieved by Commander Lewis after he grabbed a four-hour nap.
“Feel that?” asked Tony quietly.
“Yeah,” said the skipper very quietly.
The two of them sat in silence as the ship began to move to true horizontal. They had slowed down, and the large sphere was finding its balanced center. Neither of them spoke for almost five minutes, each concentrating on the feeling of slow motion they were experiencing. Their thoughts were interrupted by the speaker on the bridge.
“Skipper? It’s Ted on Deck Four. We slowing down?”
“Roger that. Looks like we’re about here. You can alert anyone who’s awake that we’ll be getting ready for descent within the hour. You’re all welcome on the bridge if you want to watch live by the portals.”
“Thanks, Skipper. I’ll see who’s around. I think the fishermen are sleeping,” he said, referring to Ian, Theresa, and Mike.
“You better wake ’em up,” said Tony. This may be the last glimpse of sunlight they get for a year. They’re gonna wanna see it.”
Commander Lewis grunted in affirmation. “You’re right. Ted, I’m waking the crew—stand by.”
The skipper pressed the all-call button and spoke into the mic. Every speaker in the ship turned on at his voice. “Attention all hands, this is your captain speaking. We are approaching our destination and will be preparing for descent. All hands are invited to the bridge to observe. This is not mandatory. Bridge out.”
Within a few moments, the entire crew had assembled on the bridge. Jessica joined Jim and Tony at the console, and Ted, Mike, Ian, and Theresa stood by the windows looking out into the deep blue sea. Somewhere above their heads, above the ocean waves, the sun was shining its warm rays into the Pacific. At their present depth, the ocean water was a beautiful deep turquoise, with bright fish occasionally darting past their windows. Tony’s voice brought them back to the present.
“Sonar systems are operational. GPS indicates position to be on target. Present depth two hundred and forty-seven feet—depth to bottom registering at twenty thousand three hundred and four feet.”
“Understood. Prepare to begin flooding ballast tanks,” said the skipper. He looked away from the consoles and addressed his small crew. “Ladies and gentlemen, our ‘takeoff’ will lack the drama of a space lift. I anticipate our time of descent to be almost thirty-eight hours. These will be busy hours. I’ll need all of you sharp and focused on your individual tasks. After we reach the mesopelagic zone at six hundred fifty feet, we’ll be in total darkness and the view won’t change much from there to twenty thousand. Use those hours to get some serious sleep in shifts. Tony and I will take care of the descent with some help from Jess, and Ted will monitor the internal atmosphere. Jess will also be running physical tests on all of us every few hours. If any of you feel any symptoms of narcosis, or anything else for that matter, I need to know immediately. No heroes, please. If you become ill or incapacitated, it could indicate a problem to the entire team. Report it immediately. We all clear?”
They all grunted their affirmations.
“Take us down, Tony. Seafloor.”
“Aye-aye, Skipper. Initiating descent.” Tony’s fingers flew across his keyboard, and the computer’s digital female voice announced that the descent sequence was initiated.
“And you don’t think that sounds like HAL?” asked Tony.
“HAL was a boy,” said Ted. “This must be his sister.”
“Yeah, well if she gets pushy, I’m pulling her damn plug,” he answered.
The three fishermen stood by the windows, watching huge clouds of bubbles as the ballast tanks were dumped and flooded with seawater. Their giant ball of people began to sink slowly into the unknown. Ian was grinning ear to ear. Mike and Theresa each looked totally mesmerized, their thoughts known only to them. The sun appeared to set slowly on the ship with each passing moment as the water grew colder and deeper blue until it was completely dark outside the windows.
Ten minutes later, the skipper made his announcement. “We’ve just crossed into the mesopelagic zone, people. I suggest you hit the rack if you aren’t on your shift.”
Ted sat in his seat at the console and read the data on his computer screen. “Internal atmosphere is standard. Nitrogen seventy-eight percent, oxygen twenty-one, argon less than one, and carbon dioxide showing point-oh-four percent. Outside temperature fifty-two degrees, internal is seventy. We’re maintaining one bar internal pressure.”
“I can hear the hull,” said Tony quietly. After years aboard submarines, sailors knew the sounds of their ship. The walls spoke to them in groans as thousands of pounds of pressure squeezed the thick metal walls.
“She sounds happy,” said the skipper, just in case Tony’s comment unnerved any of the less experienced submariners.
“Aye-aye, Skipper. Let’s just hope she’s still smiling at twenty thousand.”
The three fishermen took leave of the bridge and headed down to the lab to run some computer models before grabbing some shut-eye. When Mike said, “Good night, Meriwether,” the skipper missed the pun, but Theresa playfully punched him in the arm.
The sub groaned again and seemed to shutter. “She’s getting cold and squeezed,” said Commander Lewis. “Long way to go yet.” He was talking to himself as much as to Tony. Tony was staring at 3-D images of the ocean floor as the sub’s deepwater sonar tried to map the area where they would ultimately make landing.
“Yes, sir,” he said as he watched the depth gauges. “Long way to go . . .”
*********
Aboard the submarine tender USS Frank Cable, the senior chief stood at the bridge rail peering into the white foam as the large sphere sent up a torrent of bubbles in her dive. He chewed what was left of his wet cigar and looked up from the water at the petty officer next to him.
“You know them sumbitches are goin’ to twenty thousand feet for a year?”
“So I hear,” replied the sailor.
“That’s fucked,” he growled quietly.
“Think they make it?” asked the younger sailor.
The senior chief flicked his butt into the foam, aiming at where he thought the sub must have descended. He muttered another low growl and walked away without a real answer.
On the stern of the Frank Cable, a lone cameraman filmed the colossal white ball as it disappeared under the Pacific waves. White foam hissed and crashed over the top of the bridge as the awkward vessel displaced almost fifteen thousand tons of water. The cameraman pulled his head away from the lens for a quick moment and eyed the Challenger just before she disappeared. The colors of the American flag at the top of the hatch disappeared under the briny surface.
“Good luck,” he said quietly, waving to a crew that couldn’t see him.
After spending two-and-a-half weeks aboard the tender to capture his brief shot of the sub disappearing into the depths, he hoped that the news would even show it.