Chapter 13
There was no easy way up or down without risking severe consequences.
JD and I climbed into the hyperbaric chamber.
The sheriff was there to see us off. "Good luck, and stay safe."
I gave him the thumbs up, and the tech closed the hatch and sealed us in.
We both knew this was going to be a ride, so we brought bags with clothes, toiletries, first-aid supplies, medication, and anything else we might need for the duration.
Of course, I had my pistol, a backup, and extra ammunition.
With a satellite buoy, we would have Internet and cell service, theoretically.
I brought my phone, Bluetooth ear buds, and a tablet.
At 300 feet, we’d breathe a heliox mix. With that pumped into the hyperbaric chamber, it didn't take us long to start talking like chipmunks. Quite comical at first. It was hard to take anything JD said seriously for a moment. These would be our voices for the foreseeable future. We’d get used to it after a while, but we had good fun for a few minutes with our new personas.
It was the last bit of levity before the chaos.
Once in the habitat, there would be nothing to laugh about.
The pressure intensified, and my ears popped as I constantly tried to equalize.
Once we’d been thoroughly compressed, we transferred through a hatch to the diving bell and sealed ourselves in.
Now the real fun would begin. It was a slow process, with our first stop at 10 meters, just like the tech had said.
So far, no signs of tremors, dizziness, or nausea.
All was good.
The deeper we got, the slower the process.
At 300 feet, we made our final hold for two hours, staying in contact with the DSV to make sure all was well.
The DSV had computer-controlled thrusters to maintain proper position over the habitat.
The diving bell had its own navigation thrusters, controlled by the surface, and optionally within the bell itself.
After six hours total, we locked onto an exterior hatch, then made the final dry transfer to the habitat.
Flynn was there to greet us, but his ever-present grin was missing. "Am I glad to see you two.”
I breathed a little easier knowing Flynn was still alive. "What happened?"
"We're still trying to figure that out," he said.
The crew was there to greet us, all with somber faces. They were dressed in deep-blue mission suits made of breathable wicking material. With their names above their chest pockets, along with the habitat logo, it helped orient us to the crew.
“I’m David Wong, currently in command,” he said, extending his hand.
David stood about 5’11 and had dark hair, a strong jaw, and an athletic physique. In his late 30s, he had a commanding, yet unsettled presence. Understandable. Everyone here seemed unsettled.
He introduced the rest of the team. “This is Judy Weyland, she’s an anthropologist, specializing in colony planning and cultural cohesion.”
Judy was an attractive brunette in her early 30s with wavy chocolate hair that hung past her shoulders.
She had big dark eyes, full lips, and fair skin.
With puffy eyes and mascara streaked by tears, it was easy to see she was close to the deceased.
She wasn’t the only woman with puffy eyes, looking distraught.
Wong continued, “This is Ross Blum. He’s a botanist. He specializes in astrobiology. He’s responsible for the biosphere garden, among other things.”
We shook hands. Ross was a nerdy guy in his late 20s with a round face, thick black-framed glasses, and short curly brown hair. I’m not quite sure how he passed the physical fitness exam. He was a little soft around the midsection.
“This is Quinn Marston,” Wong continued. “And her husband Mitch. Quinn handles tech support and system data. Mitch handles logistic supplies and redundancy. As the operations specialist, he is responsible for all the consumable supplies. If there’s anything missing, it’s his fault.“
Mitch forced a slight chuckle and shook our hands.
He looked like he could have played a doctor on a soap opera.
With perfectly quaffed hair, a square jaw, and a charming smile, he looked the ideal fit for his blonde bombshell of a wife.
Quinn’s golden hair hung well past her shoulders, and her trim figure made the mission suit look stylish.
"This is our medical officer, Dr. Robert Norrington," Wong said.
Norrington was mid-50s with a trimmed beard that was graying. He had shaggy brown hair that hung to his mid-ear.
"And this is Dr. Elana Hartwell, our psychologist. She's the one who’s going to keep us from going insane as the pressure ramps up.”
"No guarantees," she said, extending her hand.
"Pleasure to see you again. Though I was hoping it would be under better circumstances," I said.
"You two know each other?” Wong asked.
"We met briefly at the Seven Seas," I replied.
"Oh, and I almost forgot, Chuck Trask," Wong said, making the introduction.
Chuck extended his hand.
I had never met the man before, but I was somewhat familiar with him.
Trask ran an advanced defense research company.
He was a young guy in his early 30s with long brown hair and a mustache and goatee.
A colorful figure, pushing the boundaries of technology, he’d made the rounds on the podcast circuit, promoting his new tech.
At first, I wondered what a defense contractor was doing aboard the habitat, then it made perfect sense.
I'm sure he was working in conjunction with Tristan, developing advanced weaponry both for undersea and space warfare. A colony on the moon or Mars might need to defend itself at some point, and the research could trickle down to modern weapons development. I wouldn’t be surprised if Trask had some financial involvement in the habitat and the planned space missions.
"Where's the deceased?" I asked.
A solemn look tensed the faces of the crew.
"Follow me," Wong said.