“What do you use at night, moonlight?” she said archly.
“No, ma’am. We use the surplus electricity stored in banks of cryobatteries. Any more questions?”
There were none.
Captain Powell cupped Mrs. Red Cloud’s elbow in his hand and guided the inspection party down a candy-striped corridor toward the interior of the ship.
“Did I mention wake dampening?”
Mrs. Red Cloud shook her head. She tried to visualize how one dampened wakes–by dousing the Irish mourners with holy water?
“I should have. That’s one of the Sun King’s most important functions. The constant beating of the waves against the berg’s leading edge, as I said earlier, is as destructive as a jackhammer. But the passage of the Sun King flattens out the waves like an oil slick, producing a wake as smooth as the water in your backyard birdbath.”
After lunch in the officers’ mess, the inspection party prepared to return to shore. But one question remained uppermost in Mrs. Red Cloud’s mind when Captain Powell had brought them through the labyrinth of passageways back to the dock.
“This has been most interesting, Captain,” she said, “But I wish you had had time to show us the engine room. Judging by what I’ve already seen, it must make that of an ocean liner look like a wind-up toy.”
“Engine room? Oh, I’m afraid we don’t have an engine room, Mrs. Red Cloud.”
“No engine room? Then how do you turn the propellers?”
He chuckled.
“The Sun King doesn’t have propellers, either.”
“Then how are you going to make it go? Are you going to get out and push?”
“No,” replied Captain Kerry Powell, smiling, “pull.”
22. MERMAIDS
15 JANUARY 2008
THE AMPHIBIAN PUT DOWN ON MODERATE SEAS NEAR THE S.S. Lupe Alien, lying in Saint Helena Bay 150 miles up the west coast of Africa from Cape Town. The 22,300-ton submarine support ship dispatched a motor launch, and a few minutes later Jennifer Red Cloud and Ripley Forte were clambering up the accommodation ladder to the main deck. There they were met by Captain Steve Brawley, a tall, scholarly man wearing glasses, shorts, baseball cap with “Navy” embroidered across the crown, and smudges of grease on his face and forearms. He wiped his hands on cotton waste and greeted Jennifer Red Cloud warmly.
“Welcome aboard, ma’am,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Mrs. Red Cloud is assistant secretary of water resources for administration,” Forte explained. “She’s riding shotgun on Triple Eye aboard the Sun King.”
“It’s a real pleasure to greet somebody besides politicians trying to get their photographs in the papers and public relations men trying to keep them out. What would you like to see?”
Jennifer Red Cloud was wearing a dress of gauzelike chiffon that stirred in every breeze. Cut up into strips, it would have served to bandage a sizable scratch on the elbow. Most of the crew seized the moment to pause in their labors for a cigarette, with all eyes, without appearing to do so, managing to focus on the same spot.
“The works,” she said. “I’m ecumenical–a little of everything.”
“Why don’t we go up to the chart room on the bridge? There we’ll get a bird’s-eye view of the fleet and a look at the maps.” He led the way up the ladder from the well deck, followed by Mrs. Red Cloud, Forte, and a hundred envious eyes.
On the bridge, Brawley pointed to the southeast. “The point of land you see is Cape Columbine, and about 150 kilometers down the coast is Cape Town. Over to the west, riding at anchor, are five of our supply ships. As fast as we empty one, it is replaced by another coming down from Houston or Galveston.”
He stepped over the combing from the wing into the empty pilot house and on to the chart room behind it. The four bulkheads were covered with maps, as was the chart table.
“I understand Raynes Oceanic Resources works mostly Pacific waters, Mrs. Red Cloud. Are you familiar with the Atlantic as well?”
“I’m afraid not, Captain.”
“Well, because of the Coriolis force, Atlantic waters in the southern hemisphere tend to veer to the left, in the northern hemisphere to the right. These so-called gyres are basically what is gong to bring the Alamo into port. The South Atlantic Gyre moves counterclockwise, sweeping up the west coast of Africa, across the equator going west, and south again down the Brazilian and Argentinian coast, then joining the Antarctic Circumpolar Current going east again. The Alamo will follow the Benguela Current north along Africa’s west coast, then due west with the South Equatorial Current. You see?”
“I see it reaching almost the coast of Brazil and veering off toward the south.”
“Well, yes. There’s the critical area. There we have to nudge the Alamo at that point into the Guiana Current that flows up the northern Brazilian coast. Once we get there, we pick up the clockwise-flowing North Atlantic Gyre, and the Carribean Current takes the berg south of Cuba and along the coast of Mexico right into Matagorda Bay.”
“Where’s that critical area again?”
“Right here.” Captain Brawley pointed at a spot in mid-Atlantic.
Jennifer Red Cloud exulted. If that northward “nudge” were somehow nullified, the Alamo would be swept south by the slow, warm Brazil current and melt to the size of an ice cream cone within weeks. Score one for the visiting
team. “How fascinating! Do you mean that the Alamo is going to float all the way from the Antarctic to Texas on ocean currents?”
“Yes, Mrs. Red Cloud,” said Steve Brawley. “Not wholly, of course. For one thing, it would be too slow. Now, the frigid Antarctic Circumpolar Current which is presently pushing the Alamo eastward toward us is moving at a sluggish two nautical miles a day; that figures when you consider that it’s the biggest current in the world, moving 165 million tons of water a second. The Benguela Current in which we’re anchored, on the other hand, is also cold, but fast. The South Equatorial and Guiana currents are even faster, but warm. As for the Carribean and gulf currents, they’re slow and warm. Now, these currents, except for short stretches where they split up, can carry us all the way to Matagorda Bay.”
“That’s convenient.” Jennifer Red Cloud’s mind was on those short stretches.
“In fact, there’s no other economically sound way. Still, the currents meander around the shores of the continents, and by the time the Alamo reaches this point, it will still have 9,300 nautical miles to go. Figuring the current carries the Alamo at an average thirty-two nautical miles per day, it would take us 290 days to reach our destination.”
“Much too long,” put in Ripley Forte. “The melt would be totally unacceptable after so many summer months in tropical currents. Not to mention the political angle. I’ve promised President Turnbull that it’ll be in port by the opening of the Republican national convention in July so he can take credit for it.”
Another point for the visiting team, gloated Jennifer Red Cloud. It wouldn’t even be necessary to destroy the Alamo. Just to delay it would ruin Ripley Forte. He would never see another penny of government subsidy. And without it, Forte Oceanic Engineering would be ruined. She did some quick mental arithmetic.
“Then you have to get the Alamo to Texas in about 180 days.”
“More like 185.”
“Which means you have to make good at least fifty nautical miles a day.”
“Right.”
“In other words, the average thirty-two nautical miles the current will provide, plus another eighteen.”
“Right,” said Forte, “but we figure we can average an extra twenty-three nautical miles instead of eighteen.”
“How?”
The two men looked at each other.
“Why don’t you show her, Rip?” said Steve Brawley. “The Mako’s ready to go, and you’re checked out on it.”
“Come along, Mrs. Red Cloud,” said Forte. “Let’s take a dip.”
She and Brawley followed him back through into the pilot house and down a steep iron ladder with greasy chains for handrails. She had to step very carefully to avoid getting her heels caught in the iron grating that formed the treads. They walked forward and then down three more levels to a lock opening into the Atlantic itself.
A few minutes later there was a burst of bubbles, and a yellow, cigar-shaped submersible broke the surface.
Rip Forte observed her bemused look. “Yep, it’s one of your Raynes Rovers, Red. We believe in nothing but the very best.”
“How did you get it?” she said, with an effort keeping her voice under control.
“Them,” he corrected. “We have six. By we I mean the Coral Gables Oceanographic Institute, a wholly owned subsidiary of Forte Ocean Engineering.”
“I see.” She made a mental note, cast in concrete: She’d fire the whole Rover sales division for selling equipment to Forte’s stooges that he could use to bankrupt her.
“Want to go for a spin?” Forte challenged her.