LITMIR.BIZ

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R2-D2 topped with wind vanes and a couple of solar panel eyes.

      Stupidly, I forgot a basic oceanographic physics lesson. Intrepid, now sideways to the waves, tossed port and starboard as well as fore and aft. I squinted through the viewer, trying to keep the bobbing buoy in the picture.

      Bitter stuff oozed up from my stomach into my throat. I dropped the camcorder to my thighs, swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and lifted it once more.

      The zooming back and forth with the camcorder did it.

      I threw up. Bad enough. But I didn’t do it over the side. I doubled over and let loose right where I stood. I’d had cereal for breakfast so, well, it was a goddamn mess.

      Finally, my gastrointestinal track was empty. Panting and coughing, I blinked open tightly scrunched eyes. Splattered boots came into focus. I prayed it wasn’t another scientist. Much better for a crewmember to see me in this thoroughly undignified condition.

      I unfurled halfway. My splatter ran up yellow rain pants. Please be the deckhand who winked as I boarded the ship.

      No such luck. I stood and looked into a chiseled face softened by wavy, straw-colored hair and lips turned up into a lopsided grin. Ted McKnight, my brand new colleague. Someone I’d really, really wanted to impress.

      In a good way, that is.

      He handed me a tissue.

      I wiped my chin. “My god. I am so sorry.”

      His clear blue eyes flickered with amusement. “Hey, not your fault. Hold on a sec.”

      Ted skidded a water bucket my way, put his hands on my shoulders, spun me around, and splashed my rubber boots. I turned to face him, and he emptied the bucket on my boots and his pants. “There you go.”

      Before I could retort with something clever, Ted walked away to deal with the buoys.

      One of the crew mumbled, “Great. A seasick oceanographer.”

      Ryan, first mate and my oceangoing pal, scowled at the seaman. “Enough.” He turned toward me. “Don’t you worry, Dr. Tusconi. We’ll take care of this.”

      I climbed down the ladders to change. At the bottom, I missed a rung and landed with a thud at a crewman’s feet. I looked up into the liver-colored eyes of a ponytailed bruiser who didn’t bother to offer his hand.

      “Ah, hi.”

      “J-Jake.”

      Jake walked away. If he were nicer, I’d feel sorry for a guy who stuttered his own name.

      Sitting on my bunk, I stripped off the offending pants and pictured my excruciating moment with Ted. I pushed it out of my mind. No time for that now.

      Back on deck, I closed my eyes and took in the cold, clean air. Intrepid was steaming straight now, heading for the next station.

      The ship slowed to a crawl, and I popped my eyes open. The whistle sounded. Ear-splitting shrill—three short blasts—four times.

      “Man overboard, port!”

      I ran. The port railing was already three deep with scientists and crew. Crewmen below shouted as they lowered the rescue boat, but even on tiptoe I couldn’t see them. From the railing, Ryan pointed past the aft end of the ship. “There! He’s way back there!”

      My mind raced through a grim list. If the man fell face down into the icy ocean, he’d reflexively gasp and flood his lungs with seawater. His blood pressure would spike. Then his heart would stop.

      Frigid water was one reason why ship workers have the most dangerous job in the country. I put my hand on my chest and whispered, “God bless.”

      Ryan yelled, “Level the damn boat and get in!”

      Finally, the outboard roared and faded into a drone as the men sped toward their target, probably hundreds of yards off by now.

      The boatswain shouted, “Turn to!”

      The railing cleared, and I peered over the side. The inflatable was heading back, a bright red dummy sprawled on her deck.

      Ryan joined me. He yanked down his cap and shook his head. “Much too slow a drill. Guys looked like rookies.”

       3

      THE SHIP RESUMED SPEED. IT was time for the senior scientists—me, Ted, Harvey, and Peter—to gather in the tiny lab off the fantail deck and review the deployment schedule. Regrettably, the meeting also included Seymour Hull.

      Seymour, whom I’d nicknamed See Less Dull, was department chair and in charge of things that mattered, like grants. I refused to butter him up, and the man resented me.

      He also could appear out of nowhere. “Mara, I need to speak with you.”

      I spun around.

      Seymour’s thin lips formed what could pass as a smile.

      “Our meeting’s now.”

      He held up my Science Today paper. “This will take a moment.”

      I waited.

      He licked his lips. “Your paper.”

      “Yes?”

      “You made a rash prediction and didn’t pass it by me.”

      “Pass it by you?”

      He waved the reprint. “Incorrect projections reflect badly on MOI. Not just you.”

      “Scientists sometimes make risky predictions. It’s a judgment, and it’s why they took the paper.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “What?”

      “They published it because the author was a Tusconi.”

      I stepped closer and growled, “I do not use my father’s name to get ahead. They took it because I’m an excellent scientist.”

      “Excellent?” He pointed to my nausea patch. “You can’t even handle conditions out here.”

      I snatched the paper and marched toward the lab. That Seymour would throw my dead father’s name in my face was obscene.

      Seymour called out, “The Prospect Institute. More unwelcome publicity for MOI.”

      Harvey caught up with me. “That looked like a nasty interaction.”

      I quickly told her about the hacked emails and Seymour’s accusation. “No suggestion I consult MOI’s lawyers.”

      “He wants you to stew for a while.”

      “Yeah.”

      “And, Mara. What can you do about the email?”

      “No idea. They don’t teach you this stuff in grad school. I’ll talk to Angelo when we get back.”

      Angelo de Luca, my godfather, is my only family. Twelve years ago my parents died in a research submarine accident. I was nineteen when my world fell apart. Angelo helped me try to make sense of the senseless and is as devoted to me now as I am to him.

      He’s my drift anchor in a rough sea.

      We squeezed into the lab for our planning meeting. Head scientist, Harvey led the discussion. “We’re on schedule with the deployments. Questions?”

      “When can we look at CTD data?” I asked.

      Tethered to the ship by high-strength line, the Conductivity-Temperature-Depth (CTD) profiler drops through the water and records real-time temperature and salinity from the surface down. Cutting-edge technology my parents’ generation could only dream of.

      “The profiler’s already downloading,” Harvey answered.

      My

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