by Jon Coon
“She and Emily are giving that little mare a workout. Looks like Emily’s going to be a barrel racer. That’s the way Carol started. I’m glad they’ve got something else to think about after the attack. Em seems to be dealing with it all pretty well.”
“Did Carol tell you she wants to go on the Flower Gardens with us? If not to dive, then as one of the support staff.”
“Your call. What do you think?”
“I told her it was up to the Navy. I don’t know if they would let her dive, but it wouldn’t hurt to have her there with a first aid kit. Who knows what we’re going to find on that sub.”
“I’ll ask Bob if he can make that happen. I’m sure she’s going to be happier where she can keep an eye on you. On both of us, for that matter.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you here?”
“No, I’m just waiting to hear from Bob. We’re hoping he was serious about helping us to rebuild. My attorney says he’s going to fight the insurance company on that acts of war business. Hopes they’ll settle for something rather than fight us in court. But he said not to get our hopes up yet. They can be pretty tough. So the help we get from Bob may be all there is. Until then, we’re pretty much dead in the water.”
“Sorry to hear that. If you need me, I’ll be with Carol and the kids. Just shout.”
Gabe walked to the paddock where Carol had put the barrels out in the standard Women’s Professional Rodeo Association triangle. He sat on the tailgate with Carol and a stopwatch as Emily and Zonta made another run.
Carol punched the stopwatch and smiled. “That’s her best yet. Seventeen-point-three. World class is below sixteen-point-five. Sixteen-eight or -nine might win regionals.”
“So she’s doing well?”
“For her limited experience she’s doing very well. In another month we’ll try some local stuff, just for the experience. Next summer she could be ready for regionals.”
“About last night,” Gabe began.
“We’re talking about Emily and barrel racing. Kissing and cuddling are a conversation for another time. Like tonight. Say, your room about ten?”
“Deal. Ten.”
“Did you like the tee shirt?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Liar. You didn’t give me time to change, and I’m surprised your eyes stayed in your skull. But that’s okay. If you didn’t notice, we’d be in big trouble. Just remember our deal.”
“Your dad is going to ask the senator to clear you for the trip. We might know something today.”
“Great. It’s about time things started going right around here.” She looked to where Emily sat atop Zonta and called to her. “Get ready to go again, honey. You’re doing great. Just remember to keep low in the turns. Then let her have her head on the way home. She wants to run. Just let her.”
When Gabe left to go to the house site where big bulldozers were leveling the remains of the house and clearing the lot, Carol picked up her phone. She’d found Alethea’s number on Gabe’s phone after he’d fallen asleep the night before. She dialed the number and waited.
Alethea’s voice was strong. “Dr. Guidry. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Alethea, it’s Carol Evans. I’m with Gabe at my father’s ranch in Texas. Gabe’s nightmares are back, and I need your help.”
Chapter 36
GABE AND CAROL REPORTED FOR training at the Naval Surface Warfare Center in Panama City, Florida a week after his return to the ranch. In a brief meeting with the commander of the Experimental Diving Unit, they were informed of how unusual the request from Senator Benson was and that resources and personnel were being diverted from mission critical projects to accommodate the senator’s request. They were then introduced to Master Chief Mike Kurczewski, who would oversee their training. Kurczewski was trim and direct and wore his starched uniform like it had been tailored by Brooks Brothers.
“Tell me about your project,” he began, “and what is it that makes you so special that this couldn’t be carried out by our divers?”
“I’m sorry, chief, but what you’re asking is classified. What you need to know is that I need thirty minutes bottom time at 270 feet inside a narco-sub we sank a week ago. I’ve been told your new MK29 surface-supplied rebreather is the best option. I’ve done both surface-supplied and self-contained heli-ox and tri-mix diving, and since your guys are going to have salvage barges on site, and a recompression chamber, the MK29 sounds like the way to go.”
“What do you know about the MK29?”
“Only that it’s new and expensive and that if you guys are diving it, you must have put it through more testing than a Lunar Lander.”
Kurczewski laughed. “Right on all counts.” He shifted his attention to Carol. “And you, ma’am. What are we doing for you?”
“My name is Carol. I’m a diver and a trauma nurse. I’d like to be there to keep an eye on Gabe. I’ll do anything you need to help, and I won’t get in your way. I promise.”
He tilted his head and studied her for a moment before answering. Then he nodded and held out his hand to her. “All right, welcome aboard. Let’s get started.”
He led them to a large room with MK15 and MK16 rebreathers stacked in racks.
“NASA engineers developed the technology,” he explained. “We made some refinements to make the 16 non-metallic so we could use it around magnetic mines. There are more dives on those units than all the other gas rebreathers ever built. But just a word of caution, I remember my instructor saying that the only thing more dangerous than one of these rebreathers is well-directed small-arms fire in a phone booth. After thirty years of diving these rigs, I’d say that statement was too conservative.”
They stopped in front of a large locker, which he unlocked, then he lifted out a gleaming helmet.
“It’s thirty pounds of titanium. Some of the parts were made on a 3D printer and cost a fortune. But it dives like a dream. The rebreather is a slightly updated version of an MK14 with a surface-supply hose as a backup and com in the umbilical. We’ll do some pool dives tomorrow or for as long as it takes for you to get comfortable. And when you’re ready, we’ll move into open water. That’s about it. Any questions?”
The helmet had the heft and feel of a Kirby Morgan, with which Gabe was very experienced. And he was happy to learn that the recirculator could also function as a thirty-minute bailout system, an improvement over the ten-minute bottles most divers carried. After an hour in the pool and buoyancy drills, completely different than scuba, he felt quite comfortable.
Carol, after demonstrating scuba proficiency, was allowed to watch Gabe going through his paces in the large, deep training pool. Then she began what would be a short course in hyperbaric medicine. When they were done, Gabe and Carol invited the master chief to join them for dinner.
Kurczewski had enjoyed an amazing career. He’d been stationed all over the world and had done every conceivable kind of diving, from dropping out of submarines and airplanes to deep salvage and rescue. He told the story of Navy divers tapping Russian telephone cables at 500 feet and working with dolphins to locate lost divers. It was a career beyond comparison, and the chief was a master storyteller. Then came the moment Gabe had been expecting.
“Now tell me about this project of yours,” the chief said. He folded his hands on the table and waited.
Gabe told about the cartel and the sub full of Semtex at the refinery. That led to the initial escape but eventual sinking of the second sub.
“Defusing the Semtex inside that sub was one hell of a dive, Gabe. You can play in my dive locker anytime.” From his pocket, he produced a brown coin the size of a silver dollar. “This is our challenge coin. It identifies you as one of our community. The challenge part is that if we’re out for adult beverages and you’re caught without the coin, you win the bar bill. That’s my coin, and I’d be proud for you to have it.” He slid it across the table to Gabe.
The coin had the master diver emblem of an MK5 dive helmet, with d
olphins on either side and an inscription that read, NAVY DIVING AND SALVAGE TRAINING CENTER. On the obverse were large letters that said TOP 3.
“What’s this?” Gabe asked.
“Top three ranks—chief, senior chief, master chief.”
“Mike, I’m touched by this. Thanks very much. I’ll treasure it.”
“My pleasure, man. It’s an honor, and I can get another one.” He grinned.
Gabe smiled and put the coin in his pocket. Carol was quiet. Unusually so.
The chief picked up the conversation where they’d left it. “So you’re looking for something in that sub that will lead you back to the cartel?”
“Right,” Gabe answered. “Hopefully something that will lead us to their contacts here in the States and on up the food chain.”
“I want to help. How about if I sign on as your DSO?”
“That would be great, but will they let you?”
“Rank still has some privileges, even in our modern Navy.” He grinned. “And besides, I’m loaning you our gear. Someone needs to make sure it comes back in one piece.”
The next three days of diving were uneventful and ended with Gabe doing a 200-foot dive in the wet pot: a large chamber with a water tank that could be pressurized to depth. At the conclusion, the chief was there with an Experimental Diving Unit shirt for Gabe and a pat on the back.
“You’re ready. Let’s go diving.”
The night before flying out to meet the barge, Gabe and Carol went alone to Captain Anderson’s for dinner overlooking the water. They enjoyed fresh grouper, deepwater red shrimp, and key lime pie. Gulf Coast favorites. Afterward, as they walked from Gabe’s truck back into the hotel where they slept in separate but adjoining rooms, Carol asked how he’d been sleeping.
“Honestly? Not very well. The dreams are back. But not as badly as the last time you came to rescue me. I don’t think I’ve been yelling in my sleep, but I wake in a cold sweat and I know why. I think I’m just worried about this dive.”
“I wondered. I think I heard you last night, but by the time I’d gotten up you were quiet, and I didn’t want to wake you. Let’s leave the doors open between our rooms tonight, just in case.”
“I’ve got a better idea than that,” he teased.
“I’m sure you do. But we agreed to the rules, and we’re sticking to them.”
Through the open doors between the rooms, he heard her shower and get ready for bed. He lay staring at the ceiling, trying to go to sleep, trying to get his mind on something else. Eventually sleep came, but when he woke two hours later, she was there beside him. She was wrapped in a blanket on top of his quilt sleeping soundly. He lay beside her smelling her damp hair and listening to her breathe.
When he awoke again near dawn she was gone, but her pillow was still damp and smelled of the wildflowers in her shampoo. He tried to focus on the technical aspects of the gear and the dive, but the attraction of that scent was a powerful thing. He didn’t think that “I’ll try not to be a distraction” thing was really working.
His mind drifted back to the sheer, black negligee she’d left hanging on the back of his bedroom door in the RV. Although he’d never seen her wear it, the fantasy was enough to roll him out of bed in search of predawn coffee.
Their work platform would be a 200-foot barge with a hundred-ton crane and a dive station with a pod dive locker and modular compressor and 54-inch-diameter, double-lock chamber. The tug left Panama City with the barge and headed southwest for the two-and-a-half-day trip to the sub. Tom, Chief Kurczewski, Gabe, and Carol flew out from Galveston and landed on the heliport of a nearby Mobil Oil deepwater platform. Tom had arranged for them to have quarters and meals on the platform if they needed to stay overnight. After grabbing a quick lunch, they rode a personnel basket down sixty feet to the stern of a waiting crew boat that took them to meet the barge.
NOAA had given special dispensation for deepwater anchoring, and the work barge was secured over the sub with four anchors on computer-operated winches that, like the mooring systems used by floating drilling rigs, would hold the barge precisely in position. Crossing over a shallow portion of the coral-encrusted salt dome, Carol was amazed at the clarity of the water and the sight of two whale sharks basking near the surface.
“I’m jealous. This is beautiful. I want to dive.”
When they arrived at the barge, Master Chief Kurczewski briefed the first pair of divers. “Okay, the drop camera shows the hatch is sealed, and we need to get it open for Sgt. Jones. We made a shaped charge based on the measurements from the first sub, so set it and run a Primacord trunk line back to the surface float. Tie in an electric number 8, and when the inflatable is clear, shoot it. Questions?”
“No, Master Chief.”
“Good. Get to work.”
“Yes, Master Chief.”
Their dive tenders looked them over a final time and walked them to the edge of the barge. With two helmet taps, both jumped. Gabe and Carol watched them descend more than a hundred feet before the rich blue enveloped them. Standby divers, fully dressed, waited by the dive station, and two radio operators seated by the gas manifold watched fathometers and kept a regulated conversation going.
“Approaching one hundred feet,” a diver reported.
“One hundred feet, aye.”
At 150 feet, the gas manifold operator said, “Switching to bottom gas.”
The tender and the diver both acknowledged.
“What are we diving?” Gabe asked the chief.
“Bottom gas is fifteen percent oxygen, eighty-five percent helium.”
“In the oil field we waited until one-seventy to switch to bottom gas. Has that changed?”
“One-fifty keeps things easier, and we don’t worry as much now about the helium. That’s another advantage.”
“The cutter is set, they’re starting the ascent.”
“How long till we get them in the chamber?”
“Ten minutes bottom time, sixty-nine minutes in water deco, Master Chief.”
“We’ll wait until the chamber is clear to start your dive, Gabe. Just tell me if there’s anything you need.”
“As a matter of fact there is, Mike. Can we talk privately for a minute?”
They walked to the round house beneath the crane and stood facing the water.
“What I’m about to tell you is going to make you think I’m nuttier than a Snickers bar, so please just hear me out.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to turn off the radio while I’m in the sub.”
“What?”
“Things are going to happen in there that are highly classified. I looked at the helmet and I don’t think I could reattach the com wire even if I could unplug it, so I need your help.”
“I don’t like the idea of your being in there without com. Isn’t there another way?”
“There is, but you won’t like it … Put Carol on the headset. She’s got clearance, and she can let you know if I’m in trouble.”
“You’re right, I don’t like it. I wish you would just level with me, Gabe.”
“I’m sorry, Mike. I just can’t.”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way. But one of these days I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
“Fair enough. One of these days.”
They waited the hour for the two divers to surface and get quickly into the recompression chamber and be pressurized back down to forty feet. There they would repeat their in-water forty-foot stop, breathing 100 percent oxygen through push-pull masks that vented the used oxygen outside the chamber to prevent dangerous oxygen buildups and fire hazards within.
By the time the divers were ready to exit the chamber, Gabe and his Navy safety diver, a lanky basketball player named Tim, were suited and ready to dive. After a thorough equipment check, the tenders walked them to the edge of the barge and tapped them on the back.
It was a fifteen-foot drop to the water. Gabe hit harder than expected and took a second to regroup. His t
ender kept the umbilical tight until Gabe was ready to start down. He exchanged “okay” signals with Tim and then said, “Beginning descent.”
“Descending, aye. Have a good dive.”
“Thanks, Mike. Here we go.”
They dropped at sixty feet per minute through clear blue water. Jacks and a lone nurse shark passed in the distance. At a hundred feet, two large manta rays flew gracefully past. At 150, when the gas changed from compressed air to the helium oxygen mix, the gas coming into the helmet became colder, and at 200 feet, the light dimmed, but they could make out images on the bottom. At 230, they could see the hundred-foot sub sitting upright. A tiger shark, over ten feet long, circled outside the sub, attracted by the scent of decaying flesh within. Gabe dropped to the deck of the sub and Tim landed beside him. They exchanged “okay” signals again and Gabe said, “Okay, Mike. Time to put Carol on the phone.”
“All right, but you be careful in there.”
“Yes, Master Chief,” Gabe replied. “It’s all good.”
Carol settled into the chair by the gas manifold. Kurczewski watched gauges and made notes beside her.
“Hi, pal.”
“Hey, cowgirl. How’s it going?”
“So far so good. How about you?”
“I’m on the conning tower. The shaped charge did a great job. I’m lifting the hatch cover out of the way … Okay … Oops. The hatch is blocked with bodies. Looks like they seriously wanted out. I’m going to have to clear this mess before I can get in. Hang on.”
Tim helped Gabe push and shove until they had forced the two corpses back into the sub and then with a wave to Tim, Gabe backed down the ladder and stopped before he hit the deck. Tim was left alone on the deck with the tiger shark, who was expressing more than a casual interest in the sub and that enticing scent.
Gabe closed his eyes and tried to fight off the panic he felt rising within. A body drifted into him and he pushed it away violently.
“Breathe, Gabe,” Carol said softly. “You’re not breathing.”