by Tom Clancy
He tried to wring more air from his primary tank as he emerged into the eelgrass, but could scarcely get enough to fill his chest. It was like trying to inhale through a gag, or a smothering hand clapped over his mouth. Two labored inhalations later, the unit was depleted.
Ricci again felt desperation skittering around the edges of his thoughts. And again he blocked it out, like someone slamming the shutters against a cold December wind.
Exhale, he told himself. Nice and slow.
If he’d learned anything from his underwater survival training with the SEALs, it was that diving was all about balancing pressure. Internal and external, mental and physical. When you ran into trouble in the water, your immediate impulse was to focus solely on getting air into your lungs. It was what made a drowning person climb on the back of a would-be rescuer and inadvertently push him under. And it was usually a fatal error. Unless you were born with gills, you had to learn to modify your instincts. Concentrate on the balance, and the skills you’d acquired for maintaining it through controlled breathing, to maximize any available oxygen resource.
Assuming you had one.
His mind raced back to one of the early lessons he’d been taught by his drill instructor, a former UDT man named Rackel who’d seemingly been born in a frog suit. The last-ditch technique for surfacing with no obtainable oxygen was a free ascent. You shed your weights and let your own positive buoyancy take you up, breathing out through your mouth to release air from the lungs, while spread-eagling your body to increase friction between yourself and the water — and slow your upward motion. Air compressed as you dove, expanded as you rose, and there was always some contained in your lungs, however starved for it they might be. Ascend any faster than sixty feet a minute without exhaling, and you risked having them literally inflate until they ruptured.
The impossible hurdle for Ricci was that he was ninety feet down, and had already been emptying his lungs for several seconds. Seconds that felt like an infinity, and were about all he could tolerate. Regardless of how fast he allowed himself to rise, he would have gone past the limit of his ability to exhale long before reaching the surface. Nor could he make his decompression stop… and that might lead to the bends, a condition with the potential to cause severe brain and nerve damage or even death.
Never mind that for now. One small step at a time, remember? Get to the surface alive, and then you can worry about what might happen afterward.
He needed an air source. One that could sustain him for at least part of the ascent.
And maybe he had one.
The bladders of his BC were almost entirely deflated, but the physical stresses upon them were identical to those upon his lungs. They too would have retained some compressed oxygen that would expand as he got closer to the surface and the atmospheric pressure on them decreased. And just as the air in his lungs would seek its outlet via the passages leading to his nose, throat, and mouth, so would the air in his BC try to escape through its artificial equivalent — the oral-inflator hose. A thirty- or forty-second supply would bring him up to a level of sixty feet, from which he might be able to exhale the rest of the distance. A long shot, but it was either that or call out the bugler and honor guard. Or dishonor guard, considering how his police career had finished out.
Abruptly turning faceup in the water, Ricci rolled his body to the left, away from the hose, to bring it up off his shoulder, puffing what little breath he had left into its mouthpiece to clear it of water. The safest way to rise would be on his back with one hand raised, so he could see and deflect himself away from any potential obstacles — and also so the hose would be above his head, allowing the water pressure to bear down upon it, and promote the free flow of air from it.
But there was no time to lose. His brain reeling, the veins in his neck and temples throbbing, close to suffocating, Ricci placed the mouthpiece over his lips, pushed the button to open its valve, and inhaled greedily as he held it down.
A thin stream of air entered his lungs. Hardly enough to sate his aching need, but nonetheless precious beyond description.
He exhaled into the mouthpiece, then breathed from it again, more slowly and evenly this time. The oxygen cleared his head a little.
Time to lift off.
Ricci unfastened his weight belt and ankle straps, and they went tumbling down and down into the eelgrass.
Then the water ripped him away from the bottom and cast him upward in a dizzying rush.
FIFTEEN
VARIOUS LOCALES APRIL 22, 2001
“Comment ça va, rollie?”
“Beautiful woman walks through the door speakin’ French, come all’a way from the States to see me, I gotta be doin’ awright.”
Megan smiled at Thibodeau and entered the room. He was in a semi-sitting position, the backrest of his hospital bed elevated to help support his weight. She could see a fluid drain in his abdomen, and an IV drip running to his arm from a stand beside the bed’s steel frame.
He nodded his chin at her brown paper shopping bag as she sat in the chair to his right.
“Tell me you got some Mardi Gras King Cake in there, or maybe some ’gator sauce piquant, I swear I’m gonna ask you to marry me.”
“There honestly such a thing as ’gator sauce?”
“I could eat it every day a’ the week.”
“Ugh.” She set the bag on the floor next to her chair. “You Cajuns must have iron stomachs.”
“Darlin’, I’d probably be dead wasn’t for that,” Thibodeau said. “Accordin’ to the docs, slug that hit me would’ve gone straight through my stomach an’ into my aorta if it hadn’t got detoured by my abs. Instead it only cost me part a’ my large intestine an’ my spleen.”
“Only, huh?” she said.
He gave her a weak shrug. “You gonna get gut-shot, you catch your breaks where you can.”
“There much pain?”
“Could be worse,” he said. “White coats say the biggest problem for me could be infection. Say the spleen helps fight off bacteria in the blood. Say the liver an’ my other organs gonna take over for it, but not for a while.”
Rollie paused, shifted on his pillow. Megan could see that he was trying not to wince.
“C‘mon, now, enough a’ the gory details,” he said, settling back. “How ’bout we get to what’s in the bag an’ my offer of marriage? Contingent, as I mentioned, on that sauce.”
Megan smiled again.
“Both of them in a minute, I promise.” She leaned closer, extending her hand over the rail to touch his arm. “Doctors treating you okay?”
“I guess,” he said. “Except for their pokin’ and prod-din’.”
“Which is what they get paid to do,” she said. “You’ve had one hell of a week, Rol.”
“Least I’m still alive.” His face became serious. “Not everybody here been that lucky.”
“No, not everyone,” she said. “I’m very sorry for the men you lost.”
Thibodeau was silent a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
“Like you said, helluva week, an’ not just for us on this base.” He moistened his lips with his tongue. “You hear ’bout that train wreck near the coast?”
“It’s been on the news, yes,” she said. “A horrible accident.”
“Blood’s been spillin’ everywhere round these parts lately,” he said. “All I’m waitin’ for now’s the frogs, gnats, boils, an’ whatever else gonna come down.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not religious,” she said. “But the things we’re talking about, I can’t believe they’re caused by the finger of God.”
Rollie gave her a neutral sort of shrug.
“‘Less maybe it’s His way a’ givin’ us the finger,” he said. “Them reports you heard mention how that li’l girl’s doin’? You know the kid I mean….”
“Daniella Costas,” Megan said. “Latest is that she’s fine. With one of her parents, I think.”
“Bon,” he said. “I was her father, I
’d wait till the engineer’s all recuperated, then kill him with my bare hands.”
“He claims it wasn’t his fault.”
“Who’s he blamin’?”
“Not who, what,” she said. “Mechanical failure.”
Rollie looked thoughtful a moment, then shrugged again.
“Anyways,” he said. “Ain’t that I could ever mind a visit from you, but I been wonderin’ what this one’s about since they told me you were on your way.”
“Roger thought I could help out until you’re back on your feet,” Megan said. “But I had my own reasons for wanting to come see you in person, Rollie. And one of them was to give you what’s in this bag.”
“You sayin’ I really do rate a get-well present?”
She nodded. “A very special one. Something I know you’d really appreciate.”
He looked at her in silence. A nurse in a white uniform dress and crepe-soled shoes swished up to the door, poked her head briefly into the room, then continued on down the hall.
Megan waited until she was gone, then reached into the shopping bag.
“Pete Nimec told me you’ve been wanting your Stetson,” she said. “And that the doctors won’t let you wear it yet.”
His shoulders became slightly more erect.
“You bring it here to me from my quarters?” he said.
She shook her head.
“I’d never go against hospital rules.” She pulled an object in loose wrapping tissue out of the bag and gently placed it on his lap.
“Whatever it is, it sure’s shaped like a hat,” he said, glancing down at it.
“Well, they didn’t mention any brand of headware besides a Stetson per se,” she said, and smiled. “Why don’t you go ahead and see if this makes a decent substitute.”
His brows furrowing, he removed the tissue paper.
And audibly gasped.
The acorn-ended campaign hat was old and battered almost to shapelessness, its gray felt balding in spots, its black leather chin strap scuffed and gnarled. But its gold-and-black intertwined-braid hat cord and the silk ribbon around its crown were almost perfectly intact — as were the crossed gold cavalry sabers pinned to the side of its upturned brim.
He looked up at her. “Don’ let me make a fool a’ myself by sayin’ what I think it is an’ bein’ wrong.”
“You wouldn’t be,” she said. “It belonged to my great-grandfather. He was one of Teddy Roosevelt’s First Volunteer Cavalry.”
“Mon Dieu.” He ran his fingers over the outside of the hat with open awe. “The Rough Riders.”
She nodded. “ ‘Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither suffer much nor enjoy much—”
“—‘cause they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat,’ ” Thibodeau finished. “I don’ know what to say about this, Megan. I truly don’t.”
She smiled.
“Taylor Breen went from holding a racket on the tennis court to a rifle on Kettle Hill in the space of six months. Joined the unit at TD’s personal request, took a leave of absence of his professorship at Yale to go to war against Spain.” She paused a moment, quietly watching him. “Rollie… I’ve got my own request goes along with the hat. I won’t pressure you to agree to it. But I’d like your decision now.”
He met her eyes with his own.
“This have to do with me fillin’ Max Blackburn’s old job?”
She gave him another nod.
“When we discussed the issue a few weeks back, you told me that you needed to think about it, that you weren’t sure you wanted to tackle the responsibility—”
“Or that Pete Nimec wanted me to,” he said. “My dope was that he had someone else in mind, an’ the two of you were buttin’ heads about it.”
“He did, and we were, but things have changed. Part of it’s what happened here the other night. How well you handled it.”
“Nimec feel the same way?”
“He and I had a talk before I left for Brazil,” she said. “And have reached a tentative agreement.”
“Sounds to me like there’s a catch hid somewhere in this proposition.”
Megan laughed a little.
“I am a woman.”
“As I did say, I’d noticed.” He looked at her. “The catch… you gonna mention what it is?”
“Yes,” she said. “After you tell me whether you’ll accept the promotion.”
Thibodeau looked at her a moment, looked down at the campaign hat. Then he lifted it off his lap and placed it carefully on his head.
“Fit okay?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
“Will you marry me?”
“No.”
He shrugged.
“Might as well accept your offer just the same, if only ‘cause it’ll get me off the night shift.”
Megan put her hand over the back of his and gave it a fond squeeze.
“Congratulations,” she said.
“And?”
She smiled at him.
“And,” she said, “here’s the catch….”
SIXTEEN
COASTAL MAINE APRIL 22, 2001
“You looked to make sure?” Cobbs said. He was chewing on a thick wad of gum. “I mean, you were watching, right?”
Dex plucked an imaginary lint ball off his mackinaw. It had been maybe ten minutes since he’d tied up the boat and Cobbs had already asked the question half a dozen times in one form or another.
“I told you, it’s done,” he said. “What more you want me to say?”
The look Cobbs gave him felt like a shove. He was wearing his Smokey hat and warden’s uniform, and held a Remington 870 pump gun with 20-gauge chambering and a collapsible stock. His binoculars hung from a strap around his neck.
“I want you to tell me what you saw,” he said bluntly.
Dex licked his lips. He heard something scrabble across the limb of a tree in the nearby woods and glanced distractedly toward the sound. Perched on the budding maple, a squirrel twitched its bushy tail as it nibbled on whatever morsel of food was in its forepaws, the bright black beads of its eyes warily studying the two humans below.
He turned back to Cobbs.
“Important thing’s what me an’ you ain’t seen,” he said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meanin’ I didn’t see no bubbles from my boat, an’ you didn’t see Ricci’s head bobbin’ up out the water through them binocs of yours,” Dex said.
Cobbs stared at him and chewed his gum. They were in the shade behind the prominent slab of rock that marked their meeting spot on the beach.
“Let’s sum this fucking thing up once more, just to help me picture it right in my mind,” he said.
Dex expelled a deep, tired breath and nodded with resignation.
“You waited while the bubbles was still comin’ up,” Cobbs said.
Dex nodded wearily again.
“And when there wasn’t any more you turned back here.”
Dex nodded a third time.
“So in other words,” Cobbs said, and hefted his Remington, “I won’t need to get in the motorboat and use this shotgun to blow Ricci out of the water.”
“Is the point I been tryin’ to make,” Dex replied, totally wiped out, and more disgusted with his lot than ever before.
Cobbs watched Dex another moment, looking as if he was about to hit him with another round of questions. Then he seemed to change his mind, pushed the chewing gum from the back of his mouth with his tongue, and spat it out onto the pebbly ground.
“Good riddance to one God Almighty asshole,” he said.
Ricci splashed above the water just when he’d felt he couldn’t exhale any longer and would drown within feet of the surface.
Exhausted and gasping, he floated on his back and swooped air into his lungs. Thus far he was feeling no symptoms of decompression sickness, but that didn’t necessarily mean he cou
ld dismiss it as a serious concern. The first indications were usually a bone-deep pain in the joints of the arms or legs, and could take minutes or even hours to become apparent. Still, he had fair odds of getting away clean. The nitrogen gas in the bloodstream that caused the bends when you ascended too rapidly after long descents — decompression stops being meant to give it time to dissolve through respiratory processes — tended to accumulate in fatty tissue, and he’d worked hard to stay in peak shape for more reasons than just impressing women at the gym.
He took a few moments to recoup, aware he couldn’t spare too many more. Not safely anyway. The skiff was nowhere in sight, but it was almost certain the water was being scanned for signs of his reappearance — though he did not yet know whether it would be from the island, the skiff, or both. Whichever, he wasn’t going to let himself be spotted.
He glanced around get his visual bearings, then double-checked them on his compass, having no idea how far he’d drifted from the dive site, or which direction the current might have taken him in. He quickly found that he was near the mouth of the cove and within a hundred yards of its southeastern flank. The skiff wasn’t anywhere in sight, not that he’d expected it would be. To the contrary, he thought he could guess where Dex must have brought it.
His breath slow and almost regular now, Ricci allowed himself another twenty seconds to recover his strength, reached into his satchel for the eight-inch J snorkel he’d separated from his spare oxygen canister before ditching it, and put the mouthpiece between his lips. Then he turned facedown and lowered his head underwater, blew into the snorkel to make sure its airway was clear, and began to swim toward shore, his legs loose and straight behind him, his fins stroking smoothly, gliding unseen beneath the surface of the bay.