“I’ve got to try,” he replied, then he was gone, over the side.
Below the surface, the water was no calmer. The sea churned all around, and his sense of direction was compromised. A vision from his dream in the mat-trans chamber rushed into his mind’s eye. In that vision, the water had been much clearer, and had color.
Ryan realized the vision had been wrong.
The ocean was neither green nor blue. The ocean was black.
NOT FAR AWAY from the sinking yacht, down lower on the Georgia coastline, in a tiny, dimly lit room crowded with blinking lights and softly whirring computer equipment, a white blip appeared on a normally blank sonar screen.
The sight was so unusual, the crew-cut man seated in front of the screen rubbed his eyes in disbelief. A blip meant something big was going down, at least, that was what his training had told him. The antiquated gear in the room was prone to hiccups such as this one in their attempts to register phantoms in the deep.
Normally no one would have even been in this chamber, but there was a test in progress, a preliminary run. As such, he felt his duty required him to pass this information along to his commanding officer.
In the days before the nukecaust, this was known as “passing the buck.”
“Sir?” he asked a man who was watching over operations from across the room.
“Yes?”
“You might want to check this.”
The man approached. He was dressed in the same type of uniform, with tan, pressed slacks and a short-sleeved buttoned-up shirt of the same color. He was also wearing an embossed name tag that read Brosnan.
Brosnan exhaled a burst of air from his lungs as he stepped up next to the seated man at the screen. “What is it now, Regis?” he asked tiredly.
“Something’s set off one of the mines,” Regis said.
“Second one this month, both times during tests. Wonder what triggered it this time?”
“Don’t know, sir. Maybe another one of those weird-ass mutie fish.”
“Maybe,” Brosnan said, checking another screen. “Maybe not.”
“That’s what I think,” Regis said confidently.
“Weather reports a hell of a storm blasting across the water out there. The mine was hit by lightning, no doubt,” Brosnan said. “Or maybe you’re actually right, and it was another one of those mutant fish. They seem to be becoming a problem. I think the communication buoys we put out there are drawing them in somehow.”
“Lightning. Sure. No doubt,” Regis agreed. “Sounds good.” A pause. “So, I guess you’ll be the one answering to the Admiral if you’re wrong?”
Brosnan considered it for a moment. He was second-in-command to the Admiral, but the title was merely a formality given for his loyalty and seniority. The title also came because Brosnan knew not to make even the slightest move without consulting with his master first.
Brosnan picked up the microphone at the far end of the room and pressed the Send key.
“Mothman One, this is Base. Mothman One, this is Base. Do you copy?”
“Copy that.” The comm units provided excellent clarity, even with the nearby storm.
“I need to speak to the Admiral.”
There was a slight burst of static.
“Mr. Brosnan, I requested radio silence,” an icy voice said. “You were supposed to track and observe, not talk.”
“Yes, sir, I know, but something’s triggered one of the mines across the bay. Thought you might want to have a look, seeing as how you’re already out that way.”
“Our own sensors already caught the explosion, and we’re almost at the site now,” the voice of Admiral Poseidon said briskly. “Is there anything else?”
Regis winced at Brosnan as he replied “No, sir, Brosnan out.”
“Wonder what he thinks set it off?” Regis asked. Brosnan didn’t answer.
They would both hear about this when the Admiral returned to port.
Chapter Twelve
The yellow life raft bobbed in the ocean, a lifesaving cork of inflated plastic and canvas. In the raft, in varying degrees of condition from the ordeal of the night before, were J.B., Dean, Mildred and Doc. Ryan was also seated in the raft, but on the other side, as far away from human contact as he could manage in the limited quarters.