Launching and recovering one of the submersibles was tricky enough in calm weather, but Juan wasn’t tempted. Every second counted. “No. Not this time.”

“Good luck,” Max said, and turned to head back to the op center.

Cabrillo was neither superstitious nor a fatalist, yet somehow Hanley’s wish made him uneasy. Wishing luck to someone going into danger was just bad luck. He roused himself. “Okay, people, let’s saddle up.”

He was the last one through the Nomad’s hatch and he spun it closed, tightening the seal until an indicator light in the cramped conning tower flicked to green. Mike would see the same indicator in the high-tech cockpit. A second later the technician on launch control used the heavy machinery to lift the submersible off its rack while at the same time opening the controls that flooded the moon pool.

The lighting in the space switched from fluorescent tubes to red bulbs to help the crew adjust to the coming darkness. When the artificial basin was full, hydraulic rams opened the keel doors. Water in the moon pool sloshed dangerously, washing across the deck and dousing one technician with spray. The submersible held steady in its cradle.

It was slowly lowered into the water, waves splashing against the acrylic dome. It was too rough to risk divers in the moon pool, so a worker leapt across to the top of the sub and detached the cables while she was still floating inside the ship. Mike immediately dumped air, and the minisub dropped clear of the ship.

The water was pitch-black, and at this shallow depth they could feel the powerful South Atlantic surging above them. Until they were about fifty feet down, the Nomad dipped and swayed in a nauseating random ballet.

“Everyone okay back there?” Trono called over his shoulder after setting a westerly heading.

“There should have been a sign back there that said I was too short for this ride,” Linda said. She massaged her elbow where it had been slammed into the steel hull.

Juan climbed through the austere cabin and plopped himself in the copilot’s seat to Mike’s right. “What’s our ETA?”

“One second.” Mike finished punching numbers into the navigation computer. It spit back the answer instantly. “We’ve got five hours in this can, provided we don’t stumble on any Coast Guard or Navy ships.”

“They’ll never hear us in this slop.” Juan leaned back so he could see the others. “Five hours. Might as well catch a few z’s.”

“Mark, you can share my bench,” Linc said. “We can spoon.”

“Forget it, Colossus. You never let me be the little spoon.”