As it turned out, Mike Ammiano was a damn good cook. Using the basic ingredients found in the ship’s freezer and pantries, he managed to cook an authentic Italian feast for the crew. The main dish, fresh yellowtail, was the last fresh fish they’d be eating unless there was something edible at twenty-one thousand feet below sea level, which was pretty unlikely. The smell of garlic sautéing in olive oil had all of their mouths watering.
Tony offered to clean up, since the fish geeks had done the cooking. Jessica offered to help, which brought a smile to his face. After the rest of them cleared out, Jessica dried dishes as Tony washed.
“So how’re you feeling?” she asked.
“Is this, like, an official question?”
“Yup. I’m multitasking. Drying dishes and interviewing a deep-sea subject.”
“I feel fine.”
“So you do dishes on land, too?”
“Yup. Momma stopped doing my cleaning a long time ago.”
“Excellent. Just making sure it wasn’t narcosis setting in that had you being such a gentleman.”
He smiled. “That man can cook. No shit. I’ll clean all year if he agrees to cook.”
“You can’t cook?”
“Not like that. Just the basics. But I’ve spent my adult life in the navy—the food was never that great. This was a treat.”
“Your ex cook?”
“Exes. And they were both shitty cooks.”
“So why’d you marry them?” she said with a smile.
“’Cause they could cook—know what I’m sayin’?”
“Um-hmm,” she replied, trying to look disgusted.
“But, apparently, while I was away months at a time, they was cooking for other guys, too. So . . .”
“Yeah, we had that discussion already. So seriously, you feel any different down here than you did at the surface two days ago?”
“Nope. You?”
“No, I don’t think so. The noise takes some getting used to, though. Or lack of it, I should say. It’s so quiet it’s eerie.”
“Yeah, well you served on subs. You should be used to that.”
“Yes, but that silence was for brief intervals when we were engaged. Usually, there was always background noise, you know? This ship is just quiet.”
“Yeah, we should pipe in some tunes. I brought my iPod. Wonder if we could patch it through the MC?”
“Ask Ted. I bet he could figure it out.”
Tony made a face and looked around the galley to make sure they were alone. “You trust that dude?”
She made an odd face at him. “Why would you ask me that?”
“I’m just askin’. You trust him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You always answer a question with a question?”
“I’m a doctor and research psychiatrist. Of course.” She smiled.
“That guy was a NASA jock. He wants to be on Mars, not underwater. Something about him I don’t like.”
“Just because he came from NASA and not the navy?”
“That’s not all of it. Something else. I haven’t put my finger on it.”
“Paranoia could be a symptom of narcosis,” she said with a smile.
“You know, I knew a dude who used to think people were after him.”
“And?”
“Somebody killed him.”
They stared at each other for a while.
“You messing with me?”
“Nope. Of course, the dude was a serious fuckup. But still—sometimes it’s okay to be paranoid. Anyway, I’m gonna keep an eye on that dude.”
“Good—that’ll take some of the pressure off me.”
He stepped closer. “You feel pressure from me?”
“Not really. I’m kidding. Sort of.”
He smiled. “Listen. I’m a joker—I know that. But I’d never cross the line, know what I’m saying? A year can be a long time. I’m just glad you’re here, that’s all.”
She patted his muscular arm. “Me too,” she said, and disappeared out of the galley before he could see her flushed cheeks.
***********
In the lab, the three fish geeks sat down at a small conference table to discuss their first experiments.
“First things first,” said Theresa. “I gotta say—Mike, you can cook for me anytime. That was amazing. Only thing missing was a great bottle of wine.”
“Yeah, son of a bitch. I took the whole galley apart—there is no wine aboard,” he answered. “But thanks. I like to cook.”
Ian smiled and leaned forward. “After that meal, I refuse to cook. You’re right. Scottish food is shit.”
They all laughed.
“God, your accent is thick!” exclaimed Theresa with a laugh.
“You should hear me brothers! They’re still in Edinburgh.”
Mike and Theresa laughed again.
“Well, it sounds better than the Jersey accents I usually hear,” said Mike.
“So—what’s our first mission?” asked Theresa.
“Landing without being crushed to a pulp. We did that one already, thank God,” said Ian.
“Okay, so now what? We go fishing again?” asked Theresa.
“Absolutely,” said Mike. “Although it’s gonna be a lot harder down here. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, actually. I think we should bottom-fish for starters. There’s more life scavenging at this depth than free swimming. I think we hook up some bluefish, put on some weights, and lay it out on the ocean floor for a few hours and see what happens.”
“Fine with me,” said Ian. “I’ll even bait the hook for us after your brilliant meal.”
He disappeared to the freezer and Mike and Theresa got up and assembled their tackle to fish at four miles underwater.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” asked Theresa.
“My last name is Ammiano—all Italians can cook. It’s in the blood. I got three cousins who own restaurants in Jersey, an uncle who runs a hotel, and my mom could outcook any of ’em. I was born to cook—when I’m not underwater.”
She laughed. “How did you go from a family of cooks to being an ichthyologist?”
“My dad had huge fish tanks in the house when I was a kid. I was alone a lot when I was little—my parents worked a lot. Don’t laugh, but I used to talk to the fish. I even trained ’em. You know—turn on the light and feed them for a few weeks so they’d come up when the light came on. Then I got this one fish to jump out of the water at feeding time by holding up a piece of krill by the surface. Before long I had my own little circus act. Anyway—I ended up getting a scholarship to college. I just followed the fish.”
“You also cook a mean fish.”
He genuflected and crossed himself. “Forgive me for eating my pets.”
Ian walked in with a bloody chunk of bluefish. “Let’s go fishing!”