by Steve Alten
"She's only after the fish," I declared, praying I was right. The creature tore the lid off the steel basket as if it were a child's toy, releasing 200 pounds of salmon to the sea.
As we watched, one of the two longer feeding tentacles deftly corralled a fish, while the others resealed the collection basket, preventing more fish from drifting away.
The pilot shook his head, amazed. "Now that's impressive."
"Yes," I agreed, trying to mask my concern. "Her brain's large and complex, with a highly developed nervous system."
"Control to Six." This time it was the surface ship's radioman who sounded urgent.
Lacombe and I looked at one another. "Six here, go ahead, Control."
"We've detected something new on sonar. Multiple contacts, definitely biologics, not a squid, and like nothing we've ever heard. Depth's seven thousand feet, range two miles. Whatever they are, they've just adjusted their course and are ascending, heading in your direction. Feeding the acoustics to you now. Dr. Caldwell seems to think it's just a school of fish, but we're officially recommending you surface immediately, do you concur?"
Lacombe turned the volume up on his sonar so Hank and I could listen.
Blee-bloop… Blee-bloop… Blee-bloop… Blee-bloop…
The pilot looked at me, waiting for a verdict.
"Way too loud to be a school of fish," I whispered, my mind racing to identify the vaguely familiar pattern. "Sounds almost like an amphibious air cavity."
"Must be a whale," offered Hank.
"At seven thousand feet? Not even a sperm whale can dive that deep." I plugged my own headset into the console to listen privately.
Blee-bloop… Blee-bloop… Blee-bloop …
It was a freakish sound, almost like a water jug expelling its contents.
And suddenly my brain kicked into gear. "I don't believe it," I whispered. "It's the Bloop."
"What the hell's a Bloop?"
"We don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?" the pilot shot back. "You just called it a Bloop."
"That's the name the Navy assigned it. All we know is what they're not. They're not whales, because of the extreme depths, and they're not sharks or giant squids, because neither species possesses gas-filled sacs to make noises this loud."
"Are they dangerous?" Hank asked. "Will they attack?"
"I don't know, but I sure as hell don't want to find out this deep." Lacombe got the message. "Six to Control, we're out of here."
Grabbing his control stick, he activated the thrusters, adjusting the submersible's fairwater planes.
We began rising, crawling at a snail's pace.
"Look!" yelled Hank. The giant squid had abandoned the catch basket and was now scampering up the bubble, its tentacles wrapping around the cockpit glass, blocking much of our view. "She knows it's out there, too."
"What scares a giant squid?" I wondered aloud, then grabbed my arm rests as the submersible was jolted beneath us and the sound of twisting metal echoed throughout the compartment.
Lacombe swore as he scanned his control panel. "It's your damn octopus. It's wedging itself beneath the manipulator arm."
"She's frightened."
"Yeah, well so am I. That sound you're hearing is our oxygen and air storage tanks being pried away from the sub's sled. We lose that and the Massett-6 becomes an anchor." The pilot repositioned his headset as he dialed up more pressure into the ballast tanks. "Six to Control, we've got an emergency—"
Another jolt cut him off, followed by an explosion that rattled our bones and released an avalanche of bubbles. Thunder roared in our ears as the sea quaked around us. Red warning lights flashed across Lacombe's control panel like a Christmas display, and the once cocky pilot suddenly looked very pale. "Six, we just lost primary and secondary ballast tanks. Internal hydraulic system is off-line. Propulsion system's failing—"
And then, my lovelies, the Massett-6 began falling.
It fell slowly, tail first, but it was worse than any thrill ride I'd ever been on. Metal groaned and plates shook, and my hair seemed to stand on end, rustling against the back of my chair.
The rest of me just felt numb.
The pilot glanced in my direction, his expression confirming our death sentence.
Ace Futrell's voice over the radio sent a glimmer of hope. "Control to Six, hang in there, guys, we're readying an ROV with a tow line. What's your depth?"
Lacombe's perspiring face glistened in the control panel's translucent light. "Three-three-six-four feet, dropping fifty feet a minute. Better get that ROV down here quick!"
I felt helpless, like a passenger aboard an airliner that had just lost its engines, accompanied by an inner voice that refused to shut up. What are you doing here? God, don't let me die… not yet, please. Lisa was right, I should've lived a little. Lord, get me out of this mess, and I swear, I'll—
The sub rolled and rattled, shattering my repentance, and I fell back in my seat, my sweaty palms gripping the armrests, my eyes watching the depth gauge as I tensed for our one final, skull-crushing implosion.
"Jesus, there's something else out there!" Hank cried, pointing between the squid's thrashing tentacles.
I leaned forward. Several long, dark figures were circling us, stalking the squid. I could see shadows of movement, but before I could focus, our bubble became enshrouded in clouds of ink.
The Bloops were launching their attack.
Through my headphones, I could hear them as they tore into the giant squid, their sickening high-pitched growls, like hungry fox terriers, gnawing upon their prey's succulent flesh.
My mind abandoned me then. Too terrified to reason, I squeezed my eyes shut—and was suddenly hit with a subliminal image from my childhood.
Underwater.
Deathly cold.
The darkness—pierced by a funnel of heavenly light!
Get to the light… get to the light—
"The light!" Opening my eyes, I tossed aside my shoulder harness and twisted the knob on the control station panel, changing the arc lights from red back to normal.
The sea appeared again, and we could see the torn hydraulic hoses and the sub's mangled manipulator arm dangling from its ravaged perch, along with the severed remains of lifeless tentacles, all swirling in a pool of black soup.
"Control to Six. The ROV's in the water. Hang in there, Don, we're coming to get you."
"Huh?" Lacombe pulled himself away from the spectacle outside to check our depth. "Control, we just passed thirty-eight hundred feet. Put the pedal to the metal, Ace, we're living on borrowed time."
I was on my feet now, looking straight up through the bubble cockpit at a lone tentacle still wrapped around the sub's tow arm. The arm's death grip was preventing the rest of the dead squid's gushing mantle and head from releasing to the sea.
Lost in the moment, I stood and watched that lifeless appendage as it slowly unfurled. The remains of the giant squid's torpedo-shaped body released, drifting up and away, away from our light.
They were upon it in seconds, long brown forms darting in and out of the shadows, each maybe twenty to thirty feet in length, ravaging the carcass like a pack of starving wolves.
They were dark and fast and were too far away for me to identify, but their size and sheer voracity intensified my fear. I was witnessing a gruesome display of Mother Nature—it was pure animal instinct— and for a brief moment I felt relieved I'd be dead long before their voracious jaws ever tore into my flesh.
Craaaaack…
Death danced before me once more as the hairline fracture worked its way slowly, inch by crooked inch, across the acrylic bubble. The fear in my gut seemed to suck me in like a black hole.
Lacombe grabbed desperately for his radio. "Ace, where's that goddamn ROV?!"
"She just passed twenty-two hundred feet."
"Not good enough, Control, we're in serious trouble down here!"
I fell back in my chair again, then I was up on my feet, unable to s
it, unable to keep still, the pressure building inside the cabin, building inside my skull, as the crack in the acrylic bubble continued spider- webbing outward, and the depth gauge crept below 4,230 feet.
I closed my eyes, my breathing shallow, insane last thoughts creeping into my mind. I imagined David Caldwell reading my eulogy at a grave site. "… sure, we'll miss him, but as the Beatles said, oh blah dee, oh blah da, life goes on… bra—"
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, the Grim Reaper proved me wrong. With a sizzling hiss, the sub's batteries short-circuited, casting the three of us in a sudden, suffocating, claustrophobic darkness.
Panic seized me, sitting on my chest like an elephant. I gasped for air, I couldn't breathe!
Neon blue emergency lights flashed on as the blessed backup generator took over.
I wheezed an acidic-tasting breath, then another, as I watched the blue lights begin to dim.
"Just hang on, just hang on, we'll be all right." Lacombe was hyperventilating, clearly not believing his own lie.
The aft compartment's five-inch aluminum walls buckled in retort.
All of us were losing it, waiting our turn to die, but poor Hank couldn't take any more. Limbs shaking, his eyes insane with fear, he announced, "I gotta get out of here—" then lunged for the escape hatch.
Paralyzed, I could only watch the drama unfold as Donald Lacombe leaped into the rear compartment and tackled the cameraman, pinning him to the deck. "Kid, get back here and help me! Kid?"
But I was gone, my muscles frozen, my mind mesmerized, for staring at me from beyond the cockpit's cracking acrylic windshield was a pair of round, sinister, opaque eyes… cold and soulless, unthinking eyes of death… mythic and nightmarish, eyes that burn into a man's mind to haunt him the rest of his days… as final as a casket being lowered into the earth and as unfeeling as the maggots that reap upon the flesh.
It was death that stared at me, brain-splattering, final as final can be death—and I screamed like I've never screamed before, a bloodcurdling howl that halted Hank Griffeth in his delirium and sent Donald Lacombe scrambling back over his seat.
The dragon can sense yer fear, Zachary, he can smell it in yer blood. "What? What did you see?"
I gasped, fighting for air to form the words, but the creature was gone, replaced by a blinking red light, now closing in the distance.
Lacombe pointed excitedly, "It's the ROV!"
The mini torpedo-shaped remotely operated vehicle homed in on the sonic distress beacon emanating from our tow hook. Within seconds, the end of the tow-cable was attached, the line instantly going taut. Our submersible groaned and spun, then stopped sinking.
I closed my eyes and continued hyperventilating, still frightened beyond all reason.
"Control, we're attached, but the pressure's cracked the bubble. Take us up, Ace, fast and steady!"
"Roger that, Don. Stand by."
Tears of relief poured from my two companions' eyes as the crippled Massett-6 rose. As for me, I could only stare at the depth gauge as I trembled, counting off seconds and feet as we climbed. 4,200 feet… 4,150… 4,100 …
To my horror, the cracks in the acrylic bubble continued radiating outward, racing to complete the fracture.
3,800 feet… 3,700… 3,600 …
My mind switched into left-brain mode, instantly calculating our constant rate of ascent against the pattern of cracks and declining water pressure squeezing against the glass.
No good, the glass won't hold… we need to climb faster!
A pipe burst overhead, spewing icy water all over my back. Leaping from my seat, I attacked the shut-off valve like a madman. "Faster, Control, she's breaking up!"
3,150… 3,100… 3,050…
The pipe leak sealed, I curled in a ball, allowing Hank to replace me up front.
2,800 feet… 2,700… 2,600 …
The first droplets of seawater appeared along the cracks in the bubble. "Come on, baby," Lacombe chanted, "hold on… just a little bit longer."
1,800 feet… 1,700… 1,600 …
We seemed to be rising faster now, the ebony sea melding around us into shades of gray, dawn's curtains filtering into the depths.
The pilot and cameraman giggled and slapped one another on the back.
Hyperventilating, I exhaled and inhaled, preparing my lungs for the rush of sea I prayed would never come.
"Thank you, Jesus, thank you," Hank whispered, crossing himself with one hand, wiping sweat and tears from his beet-red face with the other. "Praise God, we're saved."
"Told you we'd make it," Donald said, his cockiness returning with the light.
"My kids… I can't wait to hug them again."
What were they talking about? Didn't they realize we were still too deep, still in danger?
"Hey, Zack, hand me my camera, we need to document our triumphant return."
Like a zombie, I reached to the deck and picked up the heavy piece of equipment, passing it forward, confused about why we were still alive.
See, you're not such a genius, you can be wrong. Now lighten up. As Lisa would say, enjoy the ride.
1,200 feet.
1,000 feet.
800 feet…
David's voice blared over the radio. "Dr. Wallace, you still with us?" Hank swung his camera around, but I pushed the lens away. "Dr. Wallace? Hello? Say something so we know you're alive."
"Fuck you."
600 feet… 520 feet… 440 feet…
The ocean melded from a deep purple into a royal blue as we passed the deepest depths a human had ever ventured on a single breath.
The second deepest point, only a few feet higher, had resulted in death.
365 feet…
Good… keep going, the water's weight subsiding every foot, the cracks slowing now.
310 feet.
I wiped away tears, my face breaking into a broad smile. Hank slapped me on the back and I giggled. Maybe we were going to make it.
"Control to Six, divers are in the water, standing by. Welcome back, team."
Lacombe winked at Hank. "Hey, Control, wait until you see what we've got on film."
Life is so fragile. One moment you're alive, the next, a semi-tractor trailer plows into you and it's all over, no warning, no final words or thoughts, everything gone.
At 233 feet, the bubble exploded inward, the Sargasso roaring through our sanctuary like a freight train, blinding us in its suffocating fury.
I saw the pilot's face explode like a ripe tomato as shards of acrylic glass riddled his harnessed body like machine gun fire. Hank appeared out of the corner of my eye, and then the Atlantic Ocean lifted me from my perch and bashed me sideways against the rear wall. Only the sudden change in pressure kept me conscious, squeezing my skull in its vise. Buried beneath this howling avalanche, I lashed out blindly in the darkness, my muscles lead, my hands groping… my mind recognizing the rear hatch even as it ordered my spent arms to turn its wheel.
I felt the surface ship's support cable snap beneath the weight of the sea. My hands held on desperately to the hatch as the freed submersible tumbled backward, falling once more toward the abyss.
The sudden loss of pressure tore at my eardrums.
And then, miraculously, the hatch yawned open.
My kids… I can't wait to hug them again …
Hank!
The left side of my brain screamed at me to get out, my chances of making it to the surface already less than 10 percent, but it was my right brain that took command, suddenly endowing me with the courage of Sir William Wallace himself.
I groped for Hank. Grabbed him from behind his shirt collar, then pushed his inert 195-pound body out the hatch, into the Sargasso's warm embrace.
A laborious twenty-five seconds had passed, and I was struggling to haul an unconscious man topside through 245 feet of water.
Get to the light …
I kicked and paddled, forcing myself into a cadence so as not to excessively burn away those precious molec
ules of air.
You'll never make it, not with Hank. Let him go, or you'll both drown.
But I didn't let go, not because I wanted to be a hero, not because I actually believed we would make it, but because, at that moment, I knew in my heart that his life was more important than mine.
My lungs seemed on fire, my beating heart the only sound I could hear.
Was I even making progress? My legs were lead… were they even kicking?
Scenes from my adolescence flashed before my eyes. My inner voice took over the play-by-play: This should be the last play, Princeton down by four. Here's the snap, the quarterback pitching to Wallace. He escapes one tackle, then another, and he's heading for daylight.
The light… so precious. Get to the light.
He's across mid-field… he's at the forty…
Get… to… the… light …
Wallace's at the thirty… the twenty …
The liiiiii …
He's at the ten, with just one defender to beat …
Shadows closed in on my peripheral vision. I saw death's dark hand reach for me… reach for Hank.
Oh, no! Wallace's tackled at the goal line as time expires.
Out of air, out of strength, out of heartbeats, my willpower gone, I slipped out of my body, and drowned.
Again.
Chapter 2 Quotes
It is hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head.
—SALLY KEMPTON
Chapter 2
FLOAT.
Just float to the light …
Mmmmmm. So soothing, when all of life's pain and stress and fears finally wash away. In the vacuum of existence, the soul floats …floats along heaven's silky stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream …
Was my life a dream?
More like a bridled storm, its fury long overdue to be unleashed.
My winds of despair could be traced back to Loch Ness and my ninth birthday—the day of my first drowning. That's right, I'd died once before, dead as a doorknob… until my savior had come in the form of my best friend's father, Alban MacDonald, the only man I knew who could scare death away. Since the moment I'd been revived, my mind had harbored a dark secret, bottling it for my own protection. It was always there, following my existence like a shadow, but since my child's mind had created this false reality, how could I have known it was all a lie?