by Todd Tucker
“Are we good?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. Through the scope, he felt like he could almost reach out and touch land. “Somehow.”
Pete rotated and searched behind them—no sign of the Typhon boat. He knew now precisely where the five-mile line was, having seen the drones relent. But Carlson was out there somewhere. He had an idea.
“Keep backing up,” he said.
“Why?” said Moody.
“We want to get close to that five-mile line,” he said. “As close as possible.”
“Without going over.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“All back one-third,” she said.
He watched through the scope, trying to fix in memory the exact point where the drones had relented. “Here!” he said as they approached.
“All stop!”
The ship slowly drifted to a halt, dead in the water. Only the nose of the ship, and the tower, was above the surface, the aft end of Polaris weighed down by the flooding. Pete knew they were inside the five-mile radius—because the curious drones swooping above them weren’t dropping their bombs. But he hoped they were very close to that line.
“They’re out there somewhere,” said Pete. “Watching us. They could kill us now if they wanted.”
Moody shook her head grimly. “Those shoals might protect us—not sure how well their torpedoes would navigate over them. And they may not want to shoot us now. They could have done it long before. They may want to board us—seize us. Save their man McCallister. Find out what we know. Dissect every piece of technology onboard. There’s no way I’m going to let that happen.”
“We’ll fight?”
“Not in this condition,” she said. “But I’ll scuttle the ship before I let those bastards have us.” She started heading aft, and Pete yelled after her.
“We might not have to. We’re safe here. But they’re not safe where they are.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’re right on the line. Maybe we can lure them to the surface, let the drones attack them.”
“Well,” Moody said as a new flooding alarm shrieked and the Polaris continued to take on water. “I don’t have any better ideas.”
* * *
They hurried to the forward hatch, walking up a steep angle to get to it. As they left the control room, they could hear the rushing of water behind them as it flooded into the ship. They didn’t have much time. Moody spun open the hatch, and together they muscled it open and climbed topside.
The sun blinded Hamlin at first; he hadn’t realized how dark it was inside the ship. The equatorial heat, as well—the humidity, the sea breeze—it was almost too much to bear. He found himself gasping, his body starved for good air. As he breathed it in, he could feel himself getting stronger. Seagulls swooped overhead, their shadows crisscrossing the battered deck of the submarine.
But they weren’t gulls; they were the drones. Agitated, like bees, and the Polaris had approached too close to the hive. They swooped overhead, buzzing Pete and Moody so closely that they ducked. Each one clutched a bomb in its talons, but obedient to their coding, they didn’t drop them. Hamlin noticed that they looked old, their wings battered in some cases and frayed, their bodies no longer shiny. But they still flew with deadly, precise alacrity.
“Out there,” said Pete, pointing. “The Typhon boat is out there somewhere.”
“They won’t surface. They know better, with all these drones out.”
“When they see the drones are avoiding us … maybe they’ll think they’re safe. Maybe they’ll think the shoal line is the safety barrier. If we’re right on the line and they surface out there—”
“The drones will get them.”
“That’s my plan,” said Pete.
“So what are they waiting for?”
“Our surrender,” said Pete. He quickly stripped off his uniform shirt, and then his white T-shirt. He waved it in the air. He did it for five minutes, hoping someone on the Typhon boat was observing him through their periscope. The sun pounded on his shoulders, and soon he was sweaty with exertion.
“There!” said Moody, pointing. Pete stopped waving his shirt momentarily, and looked in the direction Moody was pointing.
It was a periscope.
But instead of driving straight at them, the submarine adjusted course, and drove to the south.
“What are they doing?” said Moody.
“Not sure,” said Pete. He could see them driving south a few hundred yards before turning back toward them.
“Which way is north?” Pete asked Moody, the realization dawning on him. She pointed forward.
If the direction north was twelve o’clock, the Typhon boat had driven itself to seven o’clock. Precisely the location of the break in the shoals.
“That’s the break in the shoals,” said Pete. “The one place they can pass at periscope depth. Somehow they knew.”
Moody nodded grimly, her thoughts confirmed once again: they’d been betrayed.
The enemy submarine glided easily through the break in the shoals. It crept closer and closer to them; he could just barely make out the small V of water it left in the periscope’s wake. Pete imagined Jennifer Carlson looking at him through the scope, magnified, with the crosshairs of the reticule on his chest. Soon it looked so close that Pete could see the glass of the scope lens. He was worried the two ships might collide.
Then suddenly, the giant submarine rose from the water.
The enemy boat rose faster than the water could fall from it, so the sea poured off it in sheets as it surfaced. Just as Carlson had told him in shaft alley, the ship had been at sea for years; its paint was chipped, and starfish adhered to the hull. It looked like an ancient ghost ship that the sea was relinquishing to them.
Instantly the drones adjusted their flights, a contingent of them peeling off the Polaris and swarming over the enemy boat.
But none dropped their bombs.
“Shit,” said Moody.
“They’re too close,” said Pete. “Inside the five-mile line, just like us.”
“So now what do we do?”
“We have to make them back up,” he said. “Just a few feet.” He thought for a minute, thought about what little he knew about Carlson, her fearful voice on the radio in shaft alley. Now that they knew they were safe from the drones, an armed boarding party was starting to climb out of the Typhon submarine, methodically loading two small inflatable boats and putting them over the side.
“How…” she said, but Pete was already climbing back down the ladder to enter the Polaris.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“Take this,” he said, handing Moody his shirt. “I have to make a call.”
* * *
He ran aft, aided by the angle of the ship, running downhill all the way. The angle had grown steeper, and the smell of seawater, and the sound of it rushing in, permeated the ship.
Through the missile compartment and into the engine room, almost falling as gravity aided his sprint aft. He opened the door into the tunnel and ran into the turbine room.
Water was up to the deck plates. Some of the turbines were still running, but the noises were unhealthy. The symphony of machinery he’d heard earlier, machines lovingly maintained by Ramirez, was now discordant. Gears were grinding, and steam was hissing from the turbines and pumps that were in their death throes. Pete continued running aft, to the ladder to shaft alley. Looking down, he saw there was just about a foot of space remaining above the water; he hoped the radio was still dry and functional.
As he stood at the top of the ladder, he also considered that the water might not be seawater—it could be coolant leaking from a damaged reactor, which would be lethally radioactive. It might also be alive with electricity, through the bared wires or deranged generators that were submerged beneath it. But there was no time to check, and he was running out of options. He took a deep breath, and dropped down the ladder.
The water was up to his che
st, and got deeper as he fought his way aft. When he got to the alcove where the radio was hidden, only his head was above water. He reached in and pulled it out. He pressed the red button and spoke. “Typhon, this is Polaris.”
He waited a moment, hearing nothing but static. He was about to give up when a response came.
“Hamlin, this is Captain Carlson. Is that gushing water I hear? Are you coming around now that you’re about to sink?” The voice was clearer than he remembered it, perhaps aided by their proximity.
“No time to argue,” he said. “You need to surface and send a boat over here so we can surrender to you. Moody is ready.”
“I see her waving that flag. A boarding party is on the way.”
“Thank god,” said Pete. “We’ve got sick people onboard. Very sick.”
There was a pause. “Nice try, Hamlin,” she said. “I’ll have to see that for myself.”
“Send your doctor.”
“I’ll see if he’s available,” she said. “I think today is the day he golfs.” She disconnected.
He shut off the radio and climbed out of shaft alley. He ran forward, through an engine room that was now almost completely dark.
At the watertight door, Doctor Haggerty met him: somehow he always knew when Pete was in shaft alley. He looked panicked. “Are we sinking?”
“Looks that way,” said Pete.
“We’ve got to get out of here! Aren’t we right next to Eris Island?”
“How did you know that?” asked Pete.
The doctor shrugged nervously. “I’ve been paying attention, glimpsing at our position on the chart when I can. We’ve got to get to that island!”
Pete stared hard at him.
“And we need to help Finn,” the doctor added.
“You’re right. Let’s go.”
They ran forward to the escape trunk, uphill all the way, fighting the steep angle of the ship. When they got there, they found Finn sitting calmly on his steel bench, seemingly resigned to going down with his ship. He looked awful; his days locked in the dark had taken their toll. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken. He looked, Pete confirmed, like a very sick man.
“Wake up, Captain,” said Pete.
“Look who’s here,” he said, opening his eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Port call,” said Pete. “The doctor and I thought we’d take you out for some fresh air.”
“I don’t know if I can today, I’m pretty busy.”
Pete was already unbolting the grid that had kept Finn captive. He was dripping wet, and water pooled around his feet as he worked. The grate dropped to the deck with a clang. The captain started to climb down.
“No,” said Pete. “We’re going to use your little room here, if you don’t mind.”
The doctor climbed up the ladder. Pete handed up three hoods from the locker, followed by a tightly packed inflatable raft.
“Grab that one, too,” said the captain, pointing to a tightly bundled canister wrapped in the same Day-Glo orange nylon. “That’s the motor.”
Soon all three men crowded into the escape trunk with the two bundles. Pete pulled up the bottom hatch behind them and turned the locking ring until it was tightly shut. It was suddenly quiet as they were sealed off from the rest of the noisily sinking ship.
“How far below the surface are we?” said the captain. “I can feel the angle.”
“I think about twenty feet right here,” said Pete. “The forward trunk is completely out of the water. The engine room is almost completely flooded. And we’re getting deeper.”
The captain moved deftly around the trunk, verifying that all the valves were lined up correctly, then he handed each of the men a yellow hood. “Put these on. They’ll help you get to the surface.”
Soon they each had a hood on, and gave a thumbs-up. Finn opened a valve, and the trunk began to fill with water.
“We’ll fill it up first!” he shouted above the noise. “Then we’ll equalize pressure, and we’ll swim out.”
The water was soon up to their knees, and it was hard not to feel panic as they sat in a small steel chamber that was rapidly filling with water. Pete felt his heart pounding as the waterline reached his neck. The doctor looked even more stricken, his eyes wide with fright through the clear plastic of his hood.
“Will that raft hold all three of us?” Pete shouted over the sound of rushing water.
“It should,” said the captain. “I used to look at that thing when we were eight hundred feet deep in five thousand feet of ocean—always made me laugh. I couldn’t think of a situation where it would ever be useful.”
“Those engineers at Electric Boat think of everything.”
The water finally stopped pouring in. “The pressure is equalized,” said the captain. “We can open the escape hatch now.” He pointed down, into the water.
“I’ll go first!” said Haggerty, not giving them a chance to discuss it. He then dived below the waterline and disappeared. They heard a clank outside as the doctor egressed.
“You’re next,” said the captain.
“Are you sure?” said Pete.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the top.”
Pete took a deep breath, then stuck his head underwater. In the murk, and with the ship’s steep angle, it was difficult to find the escape hatch, even in the close confines of the trunk. He hit his head hard on the way under, and fought off the natural instinct to avoid diving into a dark, water-filled pipe.
But once he was inside, the natural buoyancy of the hood and his own body took over. He made his way through the open hatch and felt himself being pulled to the surface, and before he could even remember to say HO HO HO, he broke through, his head once again exposed to bright sunshine and clear air.
McCallister came up soon after. The orange raft popped up immediately after that, and began to unfold and inflate immediately with a hiss. They ripped off their hoods and paddled toward the raft. The captain pulled himself in first, then leaned over and pulled Pete in with a strong arm.
“Over there!” said the captain. The motor canister was bobbing a few feet away. They both leaned over and paddled toward it until the captain could pull it onboard.
He ripped off the protective casing and soon had the parts spread out on the floor of the boat. He popped out the blades of the propeller, pulled off a plastic tag that activated the battery. He then hung it off the back of the boat, on a mount that was designed for it. The final step was to thread together two small poles, the larger of which had a ribbed rubber grip: the till. It was done in minutes. He pushed a button, and Pete could hear the engine switch on.
“It’s got a high-capacity battery, and only one speed,” said the captain. “It’ll last about thirty minutes.”
Pete looked forward. Hana Moody was still standing on the front of the ship, waving his white shirt; she hadn’t noticed him escaping with Finn yet. And Haggerty, he saw, was eagerly swimming away. Toward the Typhon boat.
“Haggerty!” shouted the captain. “We’re over here!”
Haggerty looked back briefly but continued swimming toward the other submarine. It didn’t surprise Pete at all: a final confirmation.
“Head for the shore?” said the captain.
“No,” said Pete. “The other direction.”
“To rescue Haggerty?”
“No—screw him. I just want to get close to them.”
“Why?” said Finn. “Don’t they want to kill us?”
“Probably,” said Pete. “I’ll explain later. But do me a favor—lie down. And try to look sick.”
The captain did as Pete asked, and he turned the boat toward the Typhon sub, about one hundred yards from the Polaris. They were gaining on Haggerty, who was frantically swimming away from them. Pete looked down at the captain, who looked, for all the world, like a dying man.
Pete saw a woman on the main deck, looking shocked as they approached. She gave an order, and men with rifles trained their guns and shot—bullets whist
led over their heads. His gambit was having the desired effect. Pete began waving his arms frantically and pointing at the lifeless body of McCallister, as if begging Carlson to let them aboard. The small engine of the boat whined loudly, making it seem like they were approaching much faster than they were. In fact, they were moving against the tide and the waves, and were barely making progress. The distance and the motion of the waves, he hoped, would keep them out of the range of the riflemen.
A shot cracked against the casing of the motor, splitting it, but it kept running.
“Are you sure about this?” said the captain.
“Not at all!” Pete said. He kept the little boat pointed at Carlson.
They were close enough that he could see the concern in her eyes. Playing the part perfectly, McCallister began coughing violently, and leaned his head over the side to spit out a giant glob of phlegm. Carlson suddenly relented, shouted another order, and the ocean behind her began to churn as her submarine’s massive engines turned and pulled the submarine away from them.
She was backing away from them, panicked that a deadly epidemic was heading her way in an orange life raft. Just as Pete had intended.
The huge engines worked quickly, and the drones continued to fly in their seemingly random patterns overhead. Carlson wasn’t worried at all about the drones, Pete could see; she was fixated on the raft that seemed to be speeding toward her with a cargo of disease. She backed up twenty feet, then thirty. Even as they moved away, though, some of the sharpshooters’ shots came closer to the raft, as the men adjusted their aim. Pete could hear bullets whistling by them in the boat, and some shots hit the water so closely that spray hit them, and drummed against the side of the raft. Come on, thought Pete, cross that line.
The Typhon submarine continued to pull backward while the sharpshooters shot at them. The drones dived over both submarines and the raft without dropping their bombs.
Then finally, as Carlson and her ship crossed that invisible five-mile line in the ocean, the drones attacked.
The first bomb exploded on the main deck of the Typhon ship with a loud pop, seemingly causing no damage on the thick metal. It had landed on the aftmost part of the deck, far from where the men were boarding their inflatables—the part of the submarine, Pete realized, that crossed the five-mile radius first. Carlson’s crew looked at her in shock. She looked at Pete with a grim smile.