The pilot listed them off: “You got your destroyers on the outside, for protection; RVS’s further in, that’s Remote Vehicle Support, for the robots; then MSS, Mission Support and Supply; and OSRV’s in the center.”
“OSRV’s?”
“Oceanographic Survey and Research Vessels.” The pilot pointed to the white ships. “John Hawes to port, and William Arthur to starboard. We’ll put down on the Hawes.” The pilot circled the formation of ships. Norman could see launches running back and forth between the ships, leaving small white wakes against the deep blue of the water.
“All this for an airplane crash?” Norman said.
“Hey,” the pilot grinned. “I never mentioned a crash. Check your seat belt if you would, sir. We’re about to land.”
BARNES
The red bull’s-eye grew larger, and slid beneath them as the helicopter touched down. Norman fumbled with his seat belt buckle as a uniformed Navy man ran up and opened the door.
“Dr. Johnson? Norman Johnson?”
“That’s right.”
“Have any baggage, sir?”
“Just this.” Norman reached back, pulled out his day case. The officer took it.
“Any scientific instruments, anything like that?”
“No. That’s it.”
“This way, sir. Keep your head down, follow me, and don’t go aft, sir.”
Norman stepped out, ducking beneath the blades. He followed the officer off the helipad and down a narrow stairs. The metal handrail was hot to the touch. Behind him, the helicopter lifted off, the pilot giving him a final wave. Once the helicopter had gone, the Pacific air felt still and brutally hot.