Page 38 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

Ninety Miles East of Madagascar

The hundred-and-twenty-foot research vessel carried the number244on the bow. The nameIsabellahad been painted on the stern by those at the university who thought she should have a name.

Manned by a crew of ten, including Chantel Lacourt and two other volunteers from the university, the small ship carried Paul and Gamay across the sparkling waters northwest of Reunion at a leisurely pace. The breeze was light; the swells were small, smooth, and slow. Triple-S conditions, as Paul had jokingly labeled them. All in all it was a peaceful day to be out on the ocean. Peaceful and boring.

“It would be nice if something interesting happened,” Gamay said.

She and Paul were parked inside the boat’s science bay, watching a pair of monitors. The screen in front of Gamay displayed the information coming in from an ROV operating below them while Paul studied the data coming in from a towed sensor buoy being trailed out behind them.

The sensor array was feeding them data on the state of theseawater itself. Temperature gradients, oxygen and salinity levels, and the concentrations of trace elements, organic compounds, and other chemicals. All while testing the water for any trace of two hundred known pollutants.

The ROV was traveling an oscillating path. Diving slowly to six hundred feet as it moved forward, leveling off for a mile and then pitching upward and rising toward the surface again. The extended rollercoaster-like path allowed it to traverse the entire light-absorbing zone while its cameras and sonar surveyed the aquatic life up and down throughout the zone. There was just one problem. So far they’d seen nothing.

Stretching and yawning, Gamay glanced over at Paul’s screen. “Anything interesting?”

“Not unless I can get the Red Sox game on this thing,” Paul replied. “Temperature and salinity are right where they should be. No dangerous chemicals detected, no sign of elevated radioactivity, nor is there a lack of oxygen. In essence, we’re traveling across a swath of pure, unadulterated seawater. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I’d call a distinct lack of sea life something out of the ordinary.” Gamay said. “Aside from a few jellyfish we passed, our million-dollar fish-finder hasn’t found a thing. Are you sure the oxygen sensor is working? This is the kind of thing I expect to find in a dead zone after a massive algae bloom has absorbed all the oxygen.”

Paul had considered that a possibility, but had checked the data and found nothing to support the idea. “I’ve tested the sensors repeatedly. Both the prime O2sensor and the backup are calibrated and working properly,” he said. “There’s plenty of oxygen down there, and for the record, not a sign of any algae.”

“Do you two always quarrel while you’re working?” Chantel asked as she came through the door.

Gamay sighed.

Three days of this was taking a toll on her sanity. “It’s a way to relieve the boredom,” she said. “We’re not really fighting.”

“Null results are still results,” Chantel said, offering them a snack from a plastic bin she’d taken from the ship’s kitchen. “Even if we find nothing, that’s something.”

Gamay grabbed an apple. The fresh fruit would be gone soon. Much like everything in the sea. “It’s like the ocean has gone barren for no reason at all.”

“There has to be a reason,” Paul said. “We just haven’t found it yet.”

Gamay resisted the urge to hit him with a ruler. “Thanks, Captain Obvious. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Paul refrained from laughing. Previous experience told him snickering at his wife’s outbursts was a dangerous proposition. Instead, he reached for an orange. “Might as well ward off scurvy while we still can.”

Gamay shook her head, but a wry smile suggested she was in a more playful mood than it appeared. She was about to push back from her console and switch places with Chantel when an alarm began to chirp.

She slid forward again, focusing on the screen. “Sonar contact. Four hundred yards, bearing two-eight-one. Intermittent and changing shape. Looks like it might be a school of fish.”

Paul leaned closer, happy to hear they’d finally found something.

Chantel looked over her shoulder. “See, all you need is a little positive energy.”

Gamay’s joy was fading. “Contact isn’t moving,” she announced. “We should see more than just relative motion.”

“Could it be something drifting?” Paul asked. “A commercial fishing net or some debris?”

“Only one way to find out.” She tapped the keyboard in front of her, disengaging the ROV’s autopilot and taking manual control. “I’m going to take a closer look.”

Paul sat down. He felt a sudden energy surge after so many mind-numbing hours staring at the screens. He hoped it was more than an abandoned fishing net.

Gamay said nothing as she manipulated the controls, adjusting the depth and heading of the ROV, nudging the joystick until it was on the right track, and then bumping the thrusters to a higher power level.

“Three hundred yards,” Paul called out.

Gamay adjusted the cameras and lights, focusing them directly ahead of the ROV. At a depth of a hundred feet, the waters were a deep sapphire blue.

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