Previous: Chapter Twenty-Nine:
In the galley of the solar powered ship, Ric, the oceanographer, spread a map of the floor of the Southern Indian ocean onto the display surface of the conference table.
“Needle… haystack.” Said Frances.
“What?” asked Merl.
MaryLiz’s eyes narrowed. “Frances is right. People have been de-orbiting satellites here for more than a hundred years. My grandmother was in her forties when the International Space Station – the first one! – came down. A couple hundred million people watched it burn in the sky.”
“Watched it burn… from WHERE?” Merl asked, in alarm.
“Mostly on television,” replied the astronaut. “The whole reason for doing it there, so far from land, was so nobody gets hit by space junk. That was the whole point. IS the whole point. We still deorbit satellites there now.”
Merl was unconvinced. “So we’re going to look for maybe one or two antique Cold War Russian space probes, each no bigger than a small car. All of ‘em partially melted on re-entry.” The ranch hand gave a low whistle. “What are the odds that anything survived impact with the water, let alone a century and a half of seawater and marine life?
Ric, the oceanographer, spoke up. “We know the ocean floor much better now than formerly. A hundred years ago, they used to say that we know more about outer space than we do about the deep ocean on our own planet. People still say that, but it’s no longer true. Project Poseidon put paid to that idea a couple of generations ago. We have sonar and lidar maps down to 10 meter resolution everywhere, and better than that at areas of particular interest.”
“By the time the Southern Indian was mapped, there were over eighty thousand detectable pieces of space metal resting on the part of the sea floor where we are heading,” (Frances blanched at the word ‘we’.) “dispersed among maybe half a million natural features of approximately the same size. I admit it seems daunting. I’m a sea mapping dog, not a space archeologist. There’s going to be a lot of false positives that are just boulders or eroded bits of ancient coral reef.”
MaryLiz looked thoughtful. “I may have an ace in the hole. Too elderly to dive with us, but through telepresence, they may be able to help.”
Ric brightened up. “You know an expert on space junk?”
MaryLiz straightened herself for comedic effect. “I’m an expert in space junk. I’ve spent half my career servicing and salvaging satellites. Admittedly, in space, where they live, not in the deep ocean, where they go to die. I’m talking about my Aunt Too. Great-aunt, actually.”
Merl asked, “What’s their name, this Aunt of yours?”
MaryLiz said, “I just said. Their name is Too. I need to make a phone call to Kentucky.”
“That’s pretty far from the Indian Ocean,” said Ric. “What does Aunt Too from Kentucky care about deorbited space junk?”
MaryLiz laughed. “Trust me… for this one, it’s personal.”