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The legs were similar to the arms, all connecting to a white, hard-sh.e.l.led torso, as did the bulbous helmet. A boxy red backpack housed the oxygen supply and CO2 scrubber, which could give the diver up to forty-eight hours of life support. An ADS rig was one of the few things that could make a s.p.a.ce suit look dainty by comparison.

The suit was far too bulky to fit through any of the Los Angeles’s external hatches. Cutting directly into the nose cone might put the alien artifact at risk. The diver would use an underwater torch to cut through the hull of the torpedo room, then move through that wider s.p.a.ce into the nose cone.

The bright light faded from the screen.

“Diver One, cut complete. Removing hull.”

Clarence saw a large, oval piece of metal drop away from the submarine’s curved hull and thump into the lake bottom, kicking up a slow-motion cloud of flotsam.

“Diver One, proceed into the torpedo room.”

“Roger that, Topside. Moving into the torpedo room.”

Clarence inched closer to the screen.

Almost immediately, the diver’s light revealed three uniformed corpses that hung motionless in the water. Rigor held arms away from bodies, as if the dead were waiting to give someone a hug. There was at least some animal life at this depth — even though no fish were visible, the ripped flesh of hands and faces betrayed their presence.

“Topside,” the diver said, “you seeing this?” His voice sounded tinny. Clarence could hear the man’s breathing increase.

“Roger that, Diver One,” the dive master said. “n.o.body said it was going to be pretty. You’re almost there. Just get the job done.”

“Roger,” the diver said. “Moving in.”

Clarence could imagine the diver’s stress. Nine hundred feet below the surface — a depth that would kill him without the suit — he was surrounded by corpses while violence and uncertainty swept across the s.h.i.+p above him. The diver, Tom, he had to have giant b.a.l.l.s of steel.

Technically, Clarence was the current representative of the scientific team. If needed, he had an override b.u.t.ton he could hit and speak directly to the diver. If any major issues popped up, Clarence could route the diver-cam view to Margaret’s heads-up display, let her decide what needed to be done.

The dive master’s voice sounded loud and clear in the speakers. “Diver One, move forward through the torpedo room to the nose-cone airlock.”

“Roger that, Topside.”

“Diver Two,” the dive master said, “position yourself at the entrance point and maintain safety of Diver One’s umbilical.”

“Diver Two, confirmed,” came a third voice, the voice of a woman.

Of course they were using a safety diver. Oddly, that made Clarence nervous — the Brashear only had two ADS 2000 rigs. If something went very wrong on this dive, there was no way to get another person down to the wreck without flying in additional suits. Even on a rush order, that might take a day or more.