“I’m going to take this rare silence as acquiescence,” Larry said. “Now, Adams, you’ll be red diver. Donaghue, you’ll be green diver. Mazzola, you’ll be bell diver.”

Richard and Michael cheered and then leaned across to one another and high-fived. Louis blew out disgustedly through pursed lips. The bell diver’s job during the dive was to remain inside the PTC to play out the tethers for the red and green divers and watch the gauges; he did not enter the water except in an emergency. Although this position was safer, it was looked down upon by divers. The designations of red and green diver were used to avoid any confusion in communications with topside that might occur if given or surnames were used. On the Benthic Explorer red diver was recognized to be the on-site leader.

Larry reached down on his desk and picked up a clipboard. He handed it over to Richard. “Here’s the predive checklist, red-diver. Now get your asses in DDC1. I want to start compression in fifteen minutes.”

Richard took the clipboard and led the way out of the van. Once outside, Louis began a long lament about being bell diver, complaining that he’d been bell diver on the last dive.

“I guess the chief thinks you’re the best at it,” Richard said while giving Donaghue a wink. He knew he was goading Louis. But he couldn’t help it. He felt relieved that he’d not been selected, since it was his turn.

As the group passed the occupied DDC3 each man took the time to glance through the tiny viewing port and give a thumbs-up sign to the three occupants, who still had several more days of decompression ahead of them. Divers might fight with each other at times, but they also shared a close camaraderie. They respected each other because of the inherent risks. The isolation and danger of being on a saturation dive was ironically similar in certain respects with being in a satellite circling the globe. If a problem occurred it could be hairy, and it was difficult to get you back home.

At DDC1 Richard was first through the narrow round entrance port on the cylinder’s side. It required him to grasp a horizontal metal bar, lift his legs, and enter feet first by wiggling through the aperture.

The interior was utilitarian, with the bunks at one end and emergency breathing apparatuses hanging from the walls. All the diving gear, including the neoprene suits, weight belts, gloves, and hoods, and other paraphernalia, was in a pile between the bunks. The diving masks were up in the diving bell with all the hoses and communication lines. At the other end of the DDC was the exposed shower, toilet, and sink. Saturation diving was a communal affair of the first order. There was no privacy whatsoever.

Louis and Michael entered right after Richard. Louis climbed directly up inside the diving bell while Michael started sorting through the material on the floor. As Richard called out the names of individual pieces of equipment, either Louis or Michael would yell out whether it was present or not, and Richard would check it off on his list. Anything not present was immediately handed through the open port by one of the watch standers.

When the four pages of checklist were completed, Richard gave a thumbs-up to the dive supervisor via the camcorder mounted on the ceiling.

“Okay, red diver,” the supervisor said over the intercom, “close and dog the entrance hatch and prepare to start compression.”

Richard did as he was told. Almost immediately there was the hiss of the compressed gas, and the needle on the analog pressure gauge began to rise. The divers happily took to their bunks. Richard pulled the worn deck of playing cards from his long johns pocket.

Perry emerged from the interior of the ship and stepped out onto the grate that formed the deck of the fantail. He was dressed in a maroon jogging suit over sweats-Mark’s suggestion. He told Perry it was what he’d worn the last time he’d been in the submersible. The quarters were tight, so the more comfortable the clothes, the better, and layers were good because it could be cool. The outside water temperature was only around forty degrees, and it was foolish to expend too much battery power on heat.

At first Perry found walking on the metal grate disconcerting since he could see down into the ocean surface some fifty feet below. The water had a cold, gray-green look. Perry shivered despite the pleasant ambient temperature, and he wondered if he should go on the dive after all. The strange foreboding that he’d awakened with returned, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. Although he wasn’t claustrophobic per se, he’d never been comfortable when he found himself in a tight space like the interior of the submersible. In fact one of Perry’s most horrid memories as a child was having been caught hiding under the covers by his older brother. His brother pounced on him instead of pulling the covers back and, for a time that seemed like an eternity, wouldn’t let him out. Occasionally Perry still had nightmares that he was back in that cloth prison with the desperate sensation he was about to smother.

Perry stopped and stared at the little submarine, which was sitting on chocks at the very stern of the ship. Angled over it was a large derrick capable of swinging the vessel out over the water and lowering it to the surface. Workers were swarming around the craft like bees hovering around a hive. Perry knew enough to recognize they were participating in the predive check before launch.

Perry was relieved that the vessel looked considerably larger than it had when it was in the water, a fact that appeased his recently awakened claustrophobia. The submersible was not as tiny as many were. It was fifty feet long with a twelve-foot beam, and bulbous in shape, like a bloated, HY-140 steel sausage with a fiberglass superstructure. There were four view ports made of eight-inch-thick, conical sections of Plexiglas: two forward and one to either side. Hydraulic manipulator arms, folded up under the bow, made it look like an enormous crustacean. The hull was painted scarlet with white lettering along the sides of the sail. Its name was Oceanus, after the Greek god of the outer sea.

“Handsome little devil, isn’t she?” a voice said.

Perry turned. Mark had come up behind him.

“Maybe it’d be better if I didn’t go on the dive after all,” Perry said, trying to sound casual.

“And why is that?” Mark asked.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Perry said. “I came out here to be a help, not a hindrance. I’m sure the pilot would prefer not to have the equivalent of a tourist tagging along.”

“Poppycock!” Mark said without hesitation. “Both Donald and Suzanne are thrilled you’re coming. I spoke with them not twenty minutes ago, and they said as much. In fact that’s Donald on that scaffolding, supervising the connection to the launching crane. I understand you’ve never met him.”

Perry followed Mark’s pointing finger. Donald Fuller was an African American with a shaved head, a neat pencil-line mustache, and an impressively muscled frame. He was dressed in crisply ironed dark blue coveralls with epaulets and a shiny name tag. Even from a distance Perry could appreciate the man’s martial bearing, especially when he heard his deep, baritone voice and his clipped, no-nonsense manner as he called out commands. During the current operation there was no doubt who was in charge.

“Come on,” Mark urged before Perry could respond. “Let me introduce you.”

Reluctantly, Perry allowed himself to be led over to the submersible. It was painfully obvious that he would not be able to get out of diving on the Oceanus without a significant loss of face. He’d have to admit to his fears, and he hardly thought that would be appropriate. Besides, he had enjoyed his first ride on the sub even though that had been done in only a hundred feet of water just outside of the harbor on Santa Catalina, a far cry from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.