Chapter Prologue : (v.4) Chapter 1 - Prologue

June 23, 2023

It was quiet on the bridge of the oceanographic research vessel Fortuna. Dawn approached, yet the sun still lay hidden off the stern. Only a faint sliver of pink marked the horizon. The ship’s westerly course took them over a long chain of underwater islands called the Magellan Seamounts—their current area of operation.

This ship was one of several Auxiliary General Oceanographic Research (AGOR) vessels. The Fortuna, designated as AGOR-33 when launched, is comprised of navy personnel, along with civilian research technicians.

The captain, Rutger Dannecker stood at the center window of the bridge, peering through his binoculars over the bow. He rocked slightly from side to side as the ship rolled in the low swell of the Pacific Ocean.

A seasoned sailor, he held a coveted master’s license, known as a ticket, for any tonnage, any ocean. He’d been in command for over five years, selected to be Fortuna’s captain from a highly competitive field of officers.

He stood tall, built with a spare frame that showed no fat. He kept fit by playing both tennis and handball. His hair, bleached by the sun, he kept militarily short, that is, high and tight on the sides with a slightly longer top formed into a buzz-cut. Blue and flecked with gray, his expressive eyes could project emotions, like annoyance or joy, with ease.

The Fortuna wasn’t a large vessel—two-hundred-and-thirty-eight feet in length—but she was packed with the latest scientific and military-adapted gear necessary for investigating the depths of any ocean. Fifty feet wide amidship and a fifteen-foot draft limited her speed to just over twelve knots, ten knots at cruise. Propulsion came from two low-voltage, high capacity electric motors with variable-pitch propellers.

Affixed to the stern for heavy lifting, a huge crane towered over forty feet. This, coupled with an A-frame at the extreme stern, dealt with a range of equipment capable of being lifted over the side, transferring either to or from the water. Freeboard, the height above water at the transom, was only eight feet.

After dropping his binoculars to his chest on their strap, he took note of the latest position generated by the Global Positioning System (GPS) and stepped to the navigation table to verify it against his manually-generated plot. He knew it was make-work, but on a long, boring watch one had to stay awake. His calculated position was only minimally different from the satellite receiver.

Ever a perfectionist, Captain Dannecker ordered a change in course to bring them into alignment. “Come left four degrees.”

Guided by naval tradition, the helmsman repeated the order, “Left four degrees. Aye, aye, sir.” He turned the tiny wheel fixed in the center of the control panel two clicks to the left, paused, then released as the heading began swinging left.

Once the compass aligned with the new heading, he said, “Steady on two-six-seven, sir!”

“Very well,” Captain Dannecker replied, also by tradition.

To remain alert during the long dark hours, many turned their midwatch musings inward. Captain Dannecker was no different in that regard. He thought about the antiquated term “steaming” as it applied to most modern ships. An anachronism, to be sure, but to use any other term somehow didn’t sound right.

If he stood near the stern and listened hard, a faint whine from the electric drive motors could be discerned. Chuckling to himself, he coined a new term: “whining.” There we were, whining along at ten knots when...

He was distracted by the bridge clock chiming eight bells, or four in the morning. He stretched his arms for the overhead, yawned, and turned to the third man on the bridge. “Not much going on, Mister Dean. You have the conn. Remain on this course for another two hours, then call me. I’ll be in my sea cabin.”

“Yes, sir, I have the conn.”

“Very well.” Dannecker coiled the straps around his binoculars and stowed them in the proper slot before leaving the bridge.

* * *

First Officer Charlie Dean noted the time and typed it along with the statement the captain had left the bridge into the official computer log. When he straightened, he nodded to the helmsman, picked up his own binoculars, and stepped to the port wing.

The night air brushed past him, bringing the scents of salt and dank foliage from the barely visible islands to starboard. The stars began to fade from the glow of the rising sun. After another quick scan of the horizon and finding no reason for alarm, Dean went back into the wheelhouse.

Only two years back, Lieutenant Dean, before he graduated near the top of his class from Cal Maritime Academy in Vallejo, California, worked as a second mate aboard his father's fishing vessel out of San Francisco's famous Fisherman's Wharf. Soonafter graduation from the academy, he’djoined the crew of the Fortuna. He was of medium height, with a shock of fiery red hair. At twenty-six, he considered himself in expert hands and fortunate to serve under Captain Dannecker.

“Another day, another dollar,” he said to the helmsman.

The man snorted. “Yeah, after taxes.”

Quartermaster Second Class Bobbitt served as the helmsman. Although he held an important position in the bridge crew, he rarely spoke while on watch other than to echo commands given by the Officer Of the Deck (OOD)—something especially true when the captain was on the bridge. Not that conversation was frowned upon but silence avoided confusion or delay in responding to helm orders.

“Ah, yes. We mustn’t forget taxes.” Dean waved toward the coffeepot. “Want a cup?”

“Sure, sir. Appreciate it.”

With practiced efficiency on the lightly rolling deck, Dean poured two cups half-full and handed one to the helmsman. “Here you go.”

They stood, rocking slightly with the movement of the ship while staring out the wide forward windows at the brightening sky. The silence was broken only by the measured ticking of the clock, the slight whir of the spinning radar antenna fixed to the roof of the bridge, the sibilant sound of the passing sea, and the double-bark of a cough from an early-rising crewmember on the main deck forward.

* * *

Enclosed by the superstructure on the main deck, a three-man team tended their equipment in this floating laboratory, making note of a display, or typing on a computer keyboard. The Fortuna was currently involved in mapping the sea floor in a small portion of the southern Pacific Ocean. Most of the work was done by machines and electronics, which in turn sent their data to computers residing safely in their own air-conditioned compartment next door. A rather boring task, but as one technician observed, “Somebody’s got to do it.”

Two of the three were now moving about, cleaning up the leftover litter remaining from midrats, traditional midnightrations of bologna sandwiches, pickles, and chips. It wouldn’t do to have their boss, Dr. Sam Kemper, arrive in just over an hour and find his shop in any manner of disarray.

When Dr. Kemper pushed through the door at precisely eight in the morning, he glanced around, then poured himself a mug of freshly made coffee and retired to his small office. Taciturn, especially in the early morning, he usually kept to himself until he’d reviewed the nightly effort and coming daily objectives before engaging his teams.

Ten minutes later, the eight-man day crew of scientists, technicians, and trainees filed into the compartment and began their daily routines. The outgoing night crew briefed the incoming replacements on water conditions and any other incidents which had occurred overnight. On the chart lying flat on the central table, they pointed out the areas they had mapped during the midwatch.

Dr. Kemper joined both groups at the table, listened to the reports, then tapped a point on the chart. “Did you get a good shot of that small mount we spotted on the last pass?”

“Yes, sir,” the off-going supervisor responded. “At around oh-four-hundred. The picture is a little blurry, though. Not sure why. I left an order for the techs to go over the side scan next time they bring it up.”

Pondering the information, Kemper shrugged. “Nah. Let’s run the complete cycle, then pull it for servicing. We’ll use what we have. Is that the same ROV that’s been giving us fits all week?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve started calling her ‘Psycho’ for short. When she goes offline, she becomes one dumb remotely operated vehicle for sure.”

Kemper grinned. “Good name. But, confirm, she’s running now?”

“Yup. Still blurry but seems to get better if we jiggle the height a little.”

“Okay. Keep me advised. I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”

“Aye, sir.”

With that, Kemper glanced around the lab, then left, closing the door with a thump. He walked toward the bow, past the staff lounge and the scullery, to the forward staircase to climb up to the bridge deck, which was higher in the superstructure than his working spaces. When he reached the door to the bridge, he tapped and stuck his head through. “Permission to enter the bridge.”

Now back on the bridge after four hours of rest, Captain Dannecker turned and greeted Doctor Kemper. “Come on in. I’ve told you before you have full access to the bridge, Sam.”

“Yeah, I know. It goes back to my navy days. I’d get keelhauled for entering the bridge without permission. Old habits die hard.”

“Just the same, you can stop asking. Grab those binoculars and come out on the wing.”

Kemper did as the captain asked and joined him outside.

The heat of another day at sea hit them like a physical force. Humidity was already high even at this early hour. The glassy sea sparkled in the bright sunlight, throwing off rays of brightness. The air remained relatively still, as it would be with a following breeze at nearly the same speed as the ship. Faint whiffs of overheated cooking oil exhausted from the galley appeared then dissipated.

Dannecker raised his glasses and made a quick scan. “Muggy as hell today. Going to be a hot one.”

Dr. Sam Kemper raised his own, focusing on the beach of a small island about five miles to starboard. “Look over there. Just to the right of the inlet. Great place for a beach party.”

The captain pressed his elbows against the coaming and stared hard at the island. “I agree. Too bad we can’t take the time to put in and get a volleyball game going.”

“Yeah. If we did, my scanning crew would throw a fit. They like liberty as much as anyone else, but business is business and they’re locked into this mapping task.”

Both men continued their reconnaissance of the ocean. No ships on the horizon and nothing but the one island in sight, fading slowly astern. The sea seemed almost completely flat, with only an occasional whitecap breaking the surface.

Neither man was aware of a faint ticking coming from the bridge until the helmsman called it to their attention. “Captain, take a look at the fathometer. It’s showing a rise in the seafloor,” he said, breaking the normal silence of the bridge.

“How much?”

“Hard to tell, sir. It isn’t stationary.”

“Not stationary? How?”

“The depth is rising about a fathom every second or two.”

Intrigued, the captain stepped back into the wheelhouse and examined the depth gauge. “Damned if it isn’t. Sam, what do you make of this?”

The fathometer, installed in the rack at the rear of the bridge, was a device which indicated the amount of water under the keel, in six-foot increments called fathoms. As they watched, the numbers decreased once more, showing a rise in the ocean bottom. After ten seconds, the numbers changed by eight—upward still.

Dr. Kemper picked up the phone hanging from the intercom panel. “I’m going to check with my techs.”

The captain continued to stare at the indicator. “Go ahead.”

The doctor pressed a button and held it. “Research, this is Kemper. Is the seabed rising or do we have a defective fathometer on the bridge?”

“About to report it to you, Doc. We’ve been watching it down here. The charts don’t show any mound along our course, but it certainly looks like one coming up. I suggest we come to a stop and check it out.”

“Hmm. Good idea.”

Kemper’s thinking was along the lines of an uncharted seamount. Apparently, their ROV was unreliable while moving. Perhaps stopping would give other instruments time to tell them what was happening. He turned to the captain. “Advise bringing us to a full stop,”

“I agree.” Dannecker raised his voice. “All stop!”

“Answers all stop, Captain.”

“Very well.” Dannecker turned to Kemper. “Now, we wait.”

As they were only moving at six knots, the ship slowed to a stop within five minutes, rolling slightly as the gentle seas rose and fell.

Both Dannecker and Kemper moved to the fathometer and stared at the ever-changing display.

Click. 1640.

Click. 1630.

Click. 1620.

In thirty seconds, the reading had changed from an initial 1640 fathoms to 1340.

“Impossible!” Dannecker frowned. “Must be faulty. If this is correct, we’ve gone from a depth of around three thousand meters to barely over twenty-four-hundred in thirty seconds. And, we’re not moving. Check with your techs to make sure.”

Doctor Kemper opened his mouth to speak, but the intercom beeped, and an intense voice interrupted him. “Bridge, Research. Doc! Everything we have in the water just went offline. We have no readings at all, except the depth under the keel. It’s decreasing at a fast rate.”

“We’re seeing that up here as well. Any idea what’s happening?”

“No, sir. None.”

Another voice interrupted. “Wait! The narrowband doppler just activated. The floor profile shows the depth at only seven-hundred meters. And it’s rising fast.”

Kemper now knew it was the sea floor approaching. “Keep at it. Give me readings every one-hundred meters.”

“Roger.” Pause. “Six-fifty, no, wait, six hundred.”

“Five hundred.

“Four hundred.

“Three hundred! Coming up faster now!

“Two hundred. Doc, it’s gonna hit us!”

Dr. Kemper spun toward the captain. “If the fathometer readings are real, then something very odd is happening right below us. Earthquake or volcano possibly. Whatever. We’re right in the middle of it.”

The ship lurched left sideways, heeling over nearly twenty degrees and hung there. Loose gear about the bridge crashed to the deck. Loud creaks and groans sounded from the aft deck. Then came two metallic bangs the captain recognized as failed tie-downs. A cargo container, lashed to the midships deck, scraped toward the guardrail, hung for a moment, then plummeted over the side with an immense splash.

My ship is in danger. The captain’s thoughts raced. Faulty equipment, earthquake, or volcano, I must stabilize her.

Dannecker spun to the helmsman and gave the order with full military perfection. “Ahead full. Alter course ninety-degrees to port.”

The helmsman gathered the engine levers and pushed them full forward while simultaneously turning the wheel to the left. “Aye, aye, sir.” He paused. “Coming through five knots forward, my wheel is left.”

“Very well. Hold course at one-seven-seven.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The captain turned to the intercom panel, threw several switches, and announced, “General alert! Prepare for collision from below!” He then punched a red button and an ear-splitting clanging alarm sounded.

Next, he grabbed the microphone of the satellite comm unit. “Any station. Any station. This is Fortuna. This is Fortuna. Need immediate assistance. Over!”

He turned the volume up to maximum to overcome the noise from the alarm.

Silence.

He called again, making a longer transmission. Still no response.

The ship increased speed, heeling to starboard as they swept through the turn, causing everyone to lean left to compensate. Once on the ordered course, and the wheel centered, the roll stopped.

The fathometer continued to decrease at a frightening rate.

The alarm still sounded.

Dr. Kemper pointed to the offending display as if it was a coiled snake. “The floor is still coming up. It’s just over fifteen-hundred meters. This area is supposed to be well over three-thousand. Insane!”

“Well, whatever’s happening, we’ll be smacked in the keel pretty soon if we don’t get the hell out of the way.” Captain Dannecker’s voice sounded tense as he tried to press the engine controls into giving his ship more speed. “Damn. We’re at max now. Eleven knots.”

Kemper examined the positional indicators. “No, wait. Our forward motion is diminishing according to the speed indicator, but the GPS has us increasing speed. We’re over forty knots and increasing!”

“Tsunami!” they both shouted.

The captain’s expression turned grim. “We’re being pushed along by the subsurface wave.”

“And, our stern is rising.” Kemper adjusted his stance backward. “A wave is peaking right under us.”

The bow dipped downward, nosing fifteen feet into the sea. Green water came aboard, toppling the forward mast and forcing it to crash against the portable crane, destroying the port and starboard life rafts. The tall crane just aft of the bridge tore loose and dropped hard against the aft mast, sweeping it and the satellite comm dome clear as it fell ponderously overboard. The main mast failed as the bow-down angle increased, landing on the main deck forward.

Around them, the wave they were riding suddenly broke. Foam coursed over the transom, sweeping across the deck from aft and smashing against the rear of the wheelhouse, staving in the bulkhead. Green sea poured through the rupture. Sparks and smoke appeared wherever it touched live power connections.

“Clear the bridge,” the captain shouted. “Get out! Abandon ship!”

Dr. Kemper pressed the intercom switch and gave the same orders to his crew below. “Everyone to the weather decks! Full survival gear! Move!”

“On our way, Doc!”

Once on the bridge wing, Dannecker looked aft, surveying the damage made by the cargo container. The entire handrail from just aft the bridge clear to the stern A-frame was gone. The main deck was covered with twisted wreckage.

The sea was a boiling cauldron of conflicting currents, eddies, and whirlpools. One large whirlpool, at the starboard bow, nosed the ship to the right, causing a corkscrew motion. The helmsman, who had exited last, was thrown overboard and quickly lost in the roiling sea.

Both Dannecker and Kemper held fast to the port bridge coaming, swaying with the ship as it encountered currents from all directions. White geysers of seawater and foam rose from the bow and covered the foredeck.

Then came the first powerful jolt. The keel buckled with the horrendous sound of rending steel and aluminum. Every deck below the main deck had been crushed like a multi-layer sandwich. Kemper had no doubt most if not all his crew was now dead.

Captain Dannecker braced as well as he could, but the ship’s movement lifted him bodily, curling him over the side only to be crushed against the hull by a rogue wave.

Dr. Kemper managed to jump outboard in an arc, which landed him twenty feet from the ship’s hull. He splashed down into less than three feet of rapidly draining water, losing consciousnessfollowing the thirty-foot fall.

The ship remained vertical yet only half as tall as before. The electric motors in their pods, blades torn from their shafts, now spun at an unsustainable rate, burned out and belched a cloud of black smoke.

Fortuna now rested on her crushed keel, hesitating a few moments before the starboard side buckled. She teetered as if resisting the inevitable, then fell horizontal. Inner bulkheads failed, crushing any who may have survived but were unable to get free. With a final shriek of tortured steel, she caved in, no longer recognizable as a ship.

Slowly, the final rivulets of water sluiced from the massive object that hit them in miniature tidal waves. Such water remaining settled against a black and brown, barnacle-encrusted metallic surface in every direction. The only sound which remained was an occasional crash from within Fortuna and the forlorn whistle of the wind through her twisted and crushed remains.