Michael Crichton: Sphere

“Good trip, sir?”

“Fine.”

“Need to go, sir?”

“I’ve just arrived,” Norman said.

“No, I mean: do you need to use the head, sir.”

“No,” Norman said.

“Good. Don’t use the heads, they’re all backed up.”

“All right.”

“Plumbing’s been screwed up since last night. We’re working on the problem and hope to have it solved soon.” He peered at Norman. “We have a lot of women on board at the moment, sir.”

“I see,” Norman said.

“There’s a chemical john if you need it, sir.”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“In that case, Captain Barnes wants to see you at once, sir.”

“I’d like to call my family.”

“You can mention that to Captain Barnes, sir.”

They ducked through a door, moving out of the hot sun into a fluorescent-lit hallway. It was much cooler. “Air conditioning hasn’t gone out lately,” the officer said. “At least that’s something.”

“Does the air conditioning go out often?”

“Only when it’s hot.”

Through another door, and into a large workroom: metal walls, racks of tools, acetylene torches spraying sparks as workmen hunched over metal pontoons and pieces of intricate machinery, cables snaking over the floor. “We do ROV repairs here,” the officer said, shouting over the din. “Most of the heavy work is done on the tenders. We just do some of the electronics here. We go this way, sir.”

Through another door, down another corridor, and into a wide, low-ceilinged room crammed with video monitors. A half-dozen technicians sat in shadowy half-darkness before the color screens. Norman paused to look.

“This is where we monitor the ROV’s,” the officer said. “We’ve got three or four robots down on the bottom at any given time. Plus the MSB’s and the FD’s, of course.”

Norman heard the crackle and hiss of radio communications, soft fragments of words he couldn’t make out. On one screen he saw a diver walking on the bottom. The diver was standing in harsh artificial light, wearing a kind of suit Norman had never seen, heavy blue cloth and a brightyellow helmet sculpted in an odd shape.

Norman pointed to the screen. “How deep is he?”

“I don’t know. Thousand, twelve hundred feet, something like that.”

“And what have they found?”

“So far, just the big titanium fin.” The officer glanced around. “It doesn’t read on any monitors now. Bill, can you show Dr. Johnson here the fin?”

“Sorry, sir,” the technician said. “Present MainComOps is working north of there, in quadrant seven.”

“Ah. Quad seven’s almost half a mile away from the fin,” the officer said to Norman. “Too bad: it’s a hell of a thing to see. But you’ll see it later, I’m sure. This way to Captain Barnes.”

They walked for a moment down the corridor; then the officer said, “Do you know the Captain, sir?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondered. He’s been very eager to see you. Calling up the com techs every hour, to find out when you’re arriving.”

“No,” Norman said, “I’ve never met him.”

“Very nice man.”

“I’ m sure.”

The officer glanced over his shoulder. “You know, they have a saying about the Captain,” he said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“They say his bite is worse than his bark.”

Through another door, which was marked “Project Commander” and had beneath that a sliding plate that said “Capt. Harold C. Barnes, USN.” The officer stepped aside, and Norman entered a paneled stateroom. A burly man in shirtsleeves stood up from behind a stack of files.

Captain Barnes was one of those trim military men who made Norman feel fat and inadequate. In his middle forties, Hal Barnes had erect military bearing, an alert expression, short hair, a flat gut, and a politician’s firm handshake.

“Welcome aboard the Hawes , Dr. Johnson. How’re you feeling?”

“Tired,” Norman said.

“I’m sure, I’m sure. You came from San Diego?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s fifteen hours, give or take. Like to have a rest?”

“I’d like to know what’s going on,” Norman said.

“Perfectly understandable.” Barnes nodded. “What’d they tell you?”

“Who?”

“The men who picked you up in San Diego, the men who flew you out here, the men in Guam. Whatever.”

“They didn’t tell me anything.”

“And did you see any reporters, any press?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Barnes smiled. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He waved Norman to a seat. Norman sat gratefully. “How about some coffee?” Barnes said, moving to a coffee maker behind his desk, and then the lights went out. The room was dark except for the light that streamed in from a side porthole.

“God damn it!” Barnes said. “Not again . Emerson! Emerson!”

An ensign came in a side door. “Sir! Working on it, Captain.”

“What was it this time?”

“Blew out in ROV Bay 2, sir.”

“I thought we added extra lines to Bay 2.”

“Apparently they overloaded anyway, sir.”

“I want this fixed now , Emerson!”

“We hope to have it solved soon, sir.”

The door closed; Barnes sat back in his chair. Norman heard the voice in the darkness. “It’s not really their fault,” he said. “These ships weren’t built for the kind of power loads we put on them now, and-ah, there we are.” The lights came back on. Barnes smiled. “Did you say you wanted coffee, Dr. Johnson?”

“Black is fine,” Norman said.

Barnes poured him a mug. “Anyway, I’m relieved you didn’t talk to anybody. In my job, Dr. Johnson, security is the biggest worry. Especially on a thing like this. If word gets out about this site, we’ll have all kinds of problems. And so many people are involved now… Hell, CincComPac didn’t even want to give me destroyers until I started talking about Soviet submarine reconnaissance. The next thing, I get four, then eight destroyers.”

“Soviet submarine reconnaissance?” Norman asked. “That’s what I told them in Honolulu.” Barnes grinned. “Part of the game, to get what you need for an operation like this. You’ve got to know how to requisition equipment in the modern Navy. But of course the Soviets won’t come around.”

“They won’t?” Norman felt he had somehow missed the assumptions that lay behind the conversation, and was trying to catch up.

“It’s very unlikely. Oh, they know we’re here. They’ll have spotted us with their satellites at least two days ago, but we’re putting out a steady stream of decodable messages about our Search and Rescue exercises in the South Pacific. S and R drill represents a low priority for them, even though they undoubtedly figure a plane went down and we’re recovering for real. They may even suspect that we’re trying to recover nuclear warheads, like we did off of Spain in ‘68. But they’ll leave us alone-because politically they don’t want to be implicated in our nuclear problems. They know we have troubles with New Zealand these days.”

“Is that what all this is?” Norman said. “Nuclear warheads?”

“No,” Barnes said. “Thank God. Anything nuclear, somebody in the White House always feels duty-bound to announce it. But we’ve kept this one away from the White House staff. In fact, we bypass the JCS on this. All briefings go straight from the Defense Secretary to the President, personally.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk. “So far, so good. And you’re the last to arrive. Now that you’re here, we’ll shut this thing down tight. Nothing in, nothing out.”

Norman still couldn’t put it together. “If nuclear warheads aren’t involved in the crash,” he said, “why the secrecy?”