Diving Deep

by P D Singer

  “Can’t promise that, but I’m not saying never. I didn’t want to leave in the first place, but I didn’t see a lot of other choices I could live with.”

  The water lifted them as high as Lee’s hopes. “Sleep in the captain’s cabin tonight.”

  The wave trough dropped them as low as Bobby’s next words. “No. We’re both still working on this.”

  But he held on a long time, enough for Lee to curse the world in his craving for two things he couldn’t have.

  Two things he maybe couldn’t have ever, not after he caught a look at Bobby’s face while they were scrounging for breakfast the next morning. Frozen waffles sounded good to someone. The clink of the liquor bottle hitting the deck when Bobby pulled them out sounded like doom.

  Lee chucked the bottle into the sea and damn near wept for the splash.

  Chapter 11

  LEE STAGGERED the divers into the water. “Guys, you get one dive today, and then we need to head home. Bobby, Chuck, I need you to hold off fifteen minutes because before you head up from 140 feet, you’re going to have to clear the anchors.”

  “Why?” Chuck paused with his dry suit half-zipped. “Weather’s turning?”

  Everyone except Bobby glanced north with Lee’s explanation. “Yeah. We’ve got a storm front coming, and I want to be most of the way back to shore before it gets here. The swell may pick up by six feet well in advance of the front.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to get back on the boat without incident.” Stuart shrugged his tanks over his shoulders. “See you below.”

  “Are we going to get back out here soon?” Chuck asked. “I really want to penetrate, not just survey.”

  “I gotta check the calendar and the long-range forecast, but yeah, I want to know what this boat is bad as you do.” Lee spoke to everyone, but his eyes were on Bobby. Bad enough to keep trying. Because it would be so much easier to say “fuck it” and gulp down some courage while you’re below.

  Bobby pulled on metal mesh gloves over his neoprene gloves. “Let’s see what we find today.” Lee was pretty sure Bobby wasn’t talking about anything underwater. Tip steadied him on the short trip to the dive platform, and he toppled into the sea.

  BOBBY MARKED his whiteboard with the numbers he read off his marked line. He and Chuck had measured everything they could think of at 140 feet and then swum upward twenty feet. This had to count partly as deco, but they’d have to drop back down on the other side to loosen the anchors. In the meantime, though, they’d use their reels to measure whatever stuck out, dropped down, or otherwise looked like a feature. Because who knew when they’d get out here again?

  Lee was trying. He really was, but how many more little bombs lurked around the Bottom Hunter, all ready to torpedo his sobriety?

  Damn it, MacArthur, keep your mind on the dive.

  He kept a good eye on his watch, ever aware of their short bottom time. The others would be heading up soon so as not to leave a huge clump of divers jon-roping on the end of a loose anchor line. Better use them while he had them. Bobby waved the group over to the gash in the hull where they’d gotten movement yesterday.

  Everyone had mesh gloves today. The mussels and barnacles wouldn’t deter them from spreading that gap wider, though they looked like a fucking circus. Stuart and Eddy stood on Chuck and Darrell’s fins, protecting their feet. The fin donors had to hang on to avoid flipping over, which made them look like they were synchronized-fucking. Kent gleefully filmed from a safe distance. A guy didn’t shake that much underwater if he wasn’t laughing his ass off.

  One, two, three, heave! Bobby signaled with fingers and a wave. The heavers strained, an oxygen debt waiting to happen, and the gap widened a good two feet. More than enough to make it worth bringing jacks down, all right. For right now, he’d stick nothing more than his head in, since he’d gone back to his mask-mounted camera. Maybe he should have used the wrist mount, but this was working. He aimed the powerful flashlight in.

  Someone’s grip slipped. The opening snapped partly shut. Not small enough to decapitate him—Bobby’d made sure of that before he put himself in harm’s way—but more than enough to scare him. He yanked back, but something fell from the bulkhead above him, big enough to see even in the shower of silt. Snatching it meant dropping the flashlight and hoping he wasn’t misjudging distances in the uneven light. The flashlight dangled from its strap, but Bobby couldn’t stare downward.

  Something small bounced off his wrist—he’d overshot, but it fell slowly enough he had another chance. Got it! And only enough light to know that he’d found something too even not to be an artifact. He held it up for everyone to get a glimpse and parked the mysterious item in his leg pocket. He couldn’t dawdle taking his place as fin donor behind Eddy, not that hanging on to the mouthy kid was any great treat. More like a piss-poor imitation of what he’d had with his captain. They had to be fast to let everyone have a look, but Stuart waved his turn away and pointed to the surface.

  Yeah, time for most of them to head up. They’d be done with their first deco stop when he and Chuck got the anchors dislodged, and then the long, slow time off-gassing would let him look at his prize. If he could get his mesh gloves off without dropping one or both or fumbling his prize with cold, undexterous fingers. Damn—couldn’t risk the only trophy they had to bring to Lee.

  Bobby’d never been so anxious to be done with bottom time.

  GETTING THE first group of divers back on board didn’t much quench the acid in Lee’s gut, especially when the conversation among the undressing divers was all about Bobby and the guillotine. “But he’s okay, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Lee, he’s fine!” Eddy trilled more than snarled. “Holy fuck, no wonder he calls you Ma.”

  “Yeah, Eddy, no wonder we call you the little brat,” Stuart snapped. “Have you ever been concerned for anyone but yourself?” He tossed his suit into the equipment locker and marched down the hatch.

  “What crawled up his ass and died?” Eddy stared after their companion, his mask dangling.

  “Try growing some empathy, kid.” Darrell swished his fins in the freshwater well hard enough to splash the deck. “Lee worries about Bobby. Hell, he worries about all of us, but Bobby was the one with the near miss. And you already knew Stuart wasn’t jazzed about the war and bodies part. So why don’t you shut up if you can’t actually understand?”

  Fucking hell, would they all just shut up and leave be? Lee stared down at the water, demanding it yield his diver. Fifteen minutes between groups? Hell, more like fifteen eons.

  Finally Chuck popped through the surface like a seal, and seconds later, so did Bobby. He let his mouthpiece drop in favor of the snorkel while the waves slapped him in the face, and once he’d handed over his tanks and scrambled aboard the bouncing dive platform, there was nothing to impede his blinding smile.

  “What’re you celebrating?” Ought to throw his arms around Bobby and smack him a wet one on the mouth for coming back with that “cat got the canary” look. Yeah, right. When they were a couple, they didn’t get that open and affectionate on a charter. And now—even after Bobby’d held him close, that didn’t put them on dating terms, let alone PDA terms. Lee sluiced the tanks.

  “Oh, had a little something fall into my hand, you might say.” Bobby shucked out of his gear in record time. “Don’t smudge the slate. We got measurements of everything we could measure.” He stuck his hand in his armpit beneath the fleece, squeezing tight. “The mesh makes my hands so damned cold. Um, Lee? Fish in my left leg pocket, would you? And be careful.”

  Not much of an invitation for a groping, but the closest he’d had in a long time. Be careful not to grab any nads or thigh? Like he would in a group. Lee ripped the Velcro open.

  “It might be sharp.”

  Oh. Lee reached cautiously, bringing out something cylindrical with a flat head at one end. “We need to keep this wet.”

  “What is it?” Bobby’s hand must have warmed up enough to risk removing it from its haven
—he reached out. “It fell off the hull when we slipped, and I didn’t even see what it was, just grabbed it.”

  “Don’t know. Clean it up, we should be able to figure it out.” Lee passed the recovered treasure, slimy with sea growth, from hand to hand until Tip reappeared with a covered plastic kitchen container. Bobby dropped his prize in the fresh water and popped the lid on.

  Someone would have to drive this boat instead of ogle the souvenirs—the weather wouldn’t wait for Lee to gawk his fill.

  “Okay, guys, time to blow this pop stand.” Lee’d been monitoring the sky, which still sported streaks of cloud and no threatening storm front. If he could see it from here, they were already too late.

  Choruses of “Fuck!” followed him up to the wheelhouse. “It looks fine.”

  “It looks fine now,” Lee called back. “It’s going to look pretty bad about an hour before your next dive.”

  “It’s not storming down below” didn’t deserve a response. A seventy-foot dive boat riding waves high enough to come over the gunwales? No way. They’d never get anyone back aboard.

  His crew knew the drill—they had the enormous orange inflated balls on the anchor lines before he had the big diesels warmed up. He eased forward on the throttles, keeping a careful eye on his angle versus the lines, and the anchor balls slid down the lines until they submerged. Just a little more and the anchors would come sliding up sweet as you please, unable to sink the balls.

  Stuart materialized behind him. “Raising anchor like that is just physics, but it seems like magic every time.”

  Lee chuckled. “Yeah. Wouldn’t work with those old-timey anchors, though. You’d have to go below and winch with the rest of the galley slaves.”

  “I can do without that.” Stuart shuffled uneasily. “Um, Lee. Hate to tell you, but I think I can do without any more diving on this particular site.”

  Not that Lee hadn’t expected this, just not so soon. “Sorry to bring you out here, then.”

  “It’s just, well, you don’t want the long version, but my family runs toward Navy for service, and….”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. All I need is you to not talk about the site until we can identify the wreck.” Lee glanced over his shoulder. “You understand why we need to keep at it.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve been telling myself that I should help with that, but…. Just knowing what boat this is would bring some kind of closure to the families….” Stuart trailed off. “But I can’t dive here. Maybe if you need to hit the naval archives in DC, you can stay with us, but that’s about as much help as I can be on this.”

  “Since I didn’t know there were archives to paw through until just now, I’d say you helped a lot already. Damn it.” Lee aimed his invective at the orange anchor balls, now drawn together and showing slack in one of the lines. “How’d they get snarled?”

  “Maybe I was distracting you. Sorry. I can pop the Zodiac and bring them in.”

  “Nope, don’t worry about it. Tip’s got the gaff. He’ll have it sorted before you have the Zodiac inflated.” Lee adjusted the throttle, changing the engine’s deep rumble. He’d be damn careful not to jolt Tip over the bow.

  “Even with the CO2 cartridges? Pow! Pow! Pow!” Stuart shot with thumb and finger over Lee’s shoulder. “And you have a boat.”

  “Yeah, well, if Tip goes in the drink we might have to, but this isn’t an emergency.” The 74 gram cartridges were twelve bucks apiece, and the Zodiac ate a full case with every fast inflation. The electric pump only took time. Lee held the Bottom Hunter steady on the tension while Tip snagged the chain and brought up the orange balls and anchors. “See? All good.”

  Except it wasn’t, because even though they were underway well before the storm, Lee was up here, and Bobby was down there. And so was the artifact, whatever it was.

  Chapter 12

  GENTLE RUBBING while keeping his prize submerged kept Bobby’s hands too full for his mug of tea. His audience crowded around the dining table, bringing a new pan of water whenever the current one grew cloudy.

  “How much shrimp shit is stuck to that?” Kent grumbled after the fifth paper towel went to shreds.

  “Not much now.” Bobby took a last swipe at the underside of the T’s crossbar and held his prize up for everyone to see. “Gentlemen, I believe we have a safety razor here.”

  To a chorus of oohs and aahs, he examined all angles. “Metal head, some kind of plastic for the handle….”

  “Probably Bakelite,” commented Chuck. “That stuff’s pretty indestructible and common for the era.”

  Eddy reached for the razor. Grabby punk—Bobby wasn’t ready to turn loose yet. “Wait a sec.”

  “Come on, we all want to see!” He tried grabbing again.

  “Back off, brat.” Bobby yanked the razor away. “You’ll get a turn.” Finder got a good look first, and then the rest could see. “We have three hours back to port. You’ll have lots of time.”

  Didn’t seem to matter. Kent elbowed Eddy aside but didn’t take the razor; instead he grabbed Bobby’s wrist to bring the prize into close range. “What’s this scratching?”

  “Let the fuck go, and we’ll see.” Bobby yanked his hand back. Turning the razor over, he found the scratches. “Get out of my light, Kent.”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch.” But Kent moved.

  “You’ll get your own artifact next dive, just chill for a minute.” Darrell schooled Kent and Eddy so Bobby didn’t have to.

  With enough light to cast some shadows, Bobby could see letters gouged into the handle. “Um, looks like an A, S, B…. I believe we have the late Kriegsmariner Asbeck’s razor here.”

  He swallowed hard. The owner had a name, and his razor had survived the years where he had not. This blade had scraped the cheeks of someone whose body might still be inside the hull. Abruptly ready to not be holding his artifact, Bobby dunked the head into the pan of water and handed it to Darrell.

  Darrell in turn dunked the head twice before he finished his examination and handed the razor to Chuck. No one on this boat needed to be told to keep steel long submerged in the sea wet to keep it from disintegrating. Probably all of them had a bottle of nitric acid at home to preserve their finds.

  Chuck took his sweet time handing the razor over to Kent, making a point of reaching right past Eddy. The kid might wet his pants before he got his hands on the razor.

  Keep thinking of it as an artifact and Bobby wouldn’t have to think too hard about a similar implement now resting beside the sink at home. He’d been graced to not end up in his generation’s wars and was probably older than anyone on that sub, possibly including the captain. Thirty-four wasn’t all that old, except when it was a thousand.

  Mortality didn’t seem to be on Eddy’s mind—he griped over how long a proper turn was.

  “Give it a rest, Eddy.” Military discipline sounded real good for guys his age. Aside from the small problem of what to do with the resulting army. Or navy. “We have a couple of hours.”

  Time to spend pondering the wreck and comparing notes on all the divers’ videos. Bobby set up a data dump while they watched Stuart skim the hull to the propellers, one half-jammed into the bottom, Kent’s survey of the exposed torpedo tube, and Eddy’s solitary assault on the damage.

  “That section might not even be attached now, if the damage corroded,” Darrell observed.

  “That could peel the sub open,” Bobby thought out loud. “I’m not thrilled about altering the hull in a big way.”

  “There’s a route into the Andrea Doria that the sinking didn’t put there,” Kent reminded him. Of course he would; he’d been on Rafe’s team when they placed the grate. “I don’t see a problem.”

  “I do,” Bobby shot back. “Different circumstances as to how the vessel ended up on the bottom, for one.”

  “I don’t plan to explain my vandal ways to a foreign government.” Darrell fixed Kent with a hairy eyeball. “They’re going to be involved sooner or later.�
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  “Later works for me.” Eddy stopped the video and pointed. “If we jack this section back about three feet, we’d have a clear shot.”

  “Assuming it moves.”

  “We get a big enough jack, it moves.”

  “Big enough” might be the sort that righted the Costa Concordia, and Eddy sounded like he’d find one to rent. “You don’t get it. We’re not making major alterations just to get in and sight-see.”

  “It’s not just sight-seeing.” Eddy turned an aggrieved glare on the divers. “We want to ID the boat. So we need to get in and find stuff.”

  “Nothing in there is ‘stuff.’ There’s a right way and a wrong way to go about it.” Wiping that self-serving righteousness off Eddy’s face with a wrench seemed like a good idea. “We are civilized human beings.”

  “We’re divers, we got a boat, we’re gonna dive.” Eddy clicked the video back into motion. “That’s why you brought us out here, isn’t it?”

  “Lee asked you on this trip because he and I thought you’d be respectful of whatever we found, asshat,” Bobby snarled. “Sounds like we were wrong.”

  “You’re making way too big a deal out of this.” Eddy popped another beer. “We need a decent entrance.”

  Bobby disconnected the last camera from the iPad and handed it back to Darrell just in time to surprise Lee coming into the lounge. “It’s not ‘too big a deal.’ Maybe you just think wars are like first-person-shooter games. They’re not.”

  “Wait, what?” Lee stopped short, probably because the atmosphere in the lounge was thick enough to use for concrete.

  “We’re debating the ethics of getting into the sub,” Bobby clarified, mostly for Eddy. Didn’t the kid have a clue? “There are acceptable ways and there are not so acceptable ways.”

  “There are safe ways and not-so-safe ways,” Eddy shot back. “Safe would be a permanent opening. You’re the guy who dives with torches. How long would it take to carve off about three feet of hull at that edge?”