“I think I spotted them on the horizon.” Summer strained her neck to peer over the rolling waves. “They still look to be a few miles off.”
She reached for the transmission button on her radio, then froze. “Dirk, what are they doing?”
Her brother was already tracking the patrol boat, which approached at an uncomfortably high speed. The steel-hulled vessel was less than a hundred feet away. It should have begun to slow or veer off, but it didn’t.
“They mean to ram us!” Summer shouted.
Dirk had the thrusters engaged, but with a top speed of only three knots the submersible couldn’t outrun a sea turtle. With no chance to elude the patrol boat, and insufficient time to dive, Dirk reacted the only way he could. He turned the submersible directly toward the oncoming vessel.
Summer looked at him as if he were insane and braced for the collision. Dirk kept his eyes glued on the boat, maneuvering toward its sharp bow as if on a death wish. He waited until the craft was nearly upon them, then turned the joystick hard over while reversing the starboard thrusters.
The submersible responded as if mired in quicksand, and Dirk feared he had reacted too late. But after a brief hesitation, it veered to starboard, narrowly slipping past the boat’s charging prow.
As Dirk hoped, the patrol boat’s helmsman had locked on course and reacted too late to the last-second maneuver. Instead, the boat struck the submersible with only a light blow.
Dirk and Summer heard a bang and felt their craft shudder as the contact crushed one of the rear thrusters. The impact briefly disrupted the power supply, shutting down the sub’s electrical systems. As Dirk frantically repowered the thrusters, he glanced out the spherical window as the patrol craft tore by. A man in green fatigues stood at the rail, pointing an assault rifle at the sub. But the gunman didn’t shoot, instead just offering a menacing grin.
Summer fought off the urge to flash him an obscene gesture. “That was close.” She turned her attention to the radio. “Can you get us submerged?”
“Trying.” Dirk had started flooding the ballast tanks even before the collision but had to reactivate the pumps after the power failed. They had only a matter of seconds before the patrol boat would swing around for another pass.
“Still no power to the radio,” Summer said, resetting the breaker switches behind her seat. When that failed, she took a quick peek out the bubble. The ballast tanks had resumed filling, pulling the submersible almost beneath the waves.
“She’s already turned. Nearly upon us,” she said matter-of-factly.
She jumped back into her seat and cinched the lap belt tight.
“C’mon, get down.” Dirk pressed the yoke all the way forward. With half their thrusters disabled, it did little to speed their descent.
They could hear the patrol boat’s charging engines—and then the boat was upon them. The submersible had made it a few feet underwater, but the boat’s pilot had drawn a careful bead. Its sharp prow skimmed over the submersible, but its lower hull hit home.
The crunching impact produced an explosion of bubbles as the acrylic bubble cracked and the ballast tanks were ripped free. The submersible bounced under the hull, battered in a series of punishing blows, until finally getting swept aside.
The mangled shell wavered a moment before tumbling into a lazy death spiral that carried it all the way to the seafloor.
45
THE SUBMERSIBLE MOANED LIKE AN ANGRY GHOUL as it plunged through the pressured depths. It struck the seabed with its nose, kicking up a thick cloud of brown sediment. The bottom current soon dispersed the plume, revealing the submersible’s hulk.
Dirk felt like he had taken a ride in a washing machine. With its ballast tanks crushed, the submersible had flipped too many times to count as it sank. A monitor screen had torn loose during the tumble and struck Dirk in the head. He gently touched the top of his forehead and rubbed the length of a nifty gash. Other than the cut and some assorted bruises, he was unhurt—and thankful to be alive.
The submersible’s rear frame had taken the brunt of the collision with the patrol boat, mangling the thrusters, battery compartment, and oxygen tanks. Despite numerous hairline cracks, the cockpit’s acrylic bubble had somehow survived intact, sparing the occupants a quick drowning. A dozen tiny leaks were filling the cabin with icy water, but the craft had survived the plunge still filled with air.
“You okay?” Dirk asked across the dark interior. He reached for a penlight clipped to the console, but it had broken free.
“Yeah,” Summer said in a shaky voice, “I think so.”
Dirk released his harness and fell forward into a foot of cold water. The craft had landed on its face, creating an odd disorientation. Hissing erupted from several points around the submersible. Dirk couldn’t tell if it was water spraying in through tiny fissures or the remnants of one of the oxygen tanks. He climbed over the back of his seat and groped for a side storage panel where another light was kept.
Wading through a cold, black, steadily flooding submersible would have led most people to panic, but Dirk felt an odd calmness. Some of his composure came from having trained for just such an emergency. But there was also a personal component.
He had lost a woman he loved in a terrorist attack in Jerusalem the year before, and that had changed him. Since then, joy had become a harder attitude to embrace, and he had taken to viewing the world in a colder, more cynical manner. More than that, death had become a companion he no longer feared.
“We’ll have to wait for the cabin to flood before we can pop the hatch,” he said matter-of-factly. “The pony bottles should get us to the surface.”
He located the storage compartment and retrieved a small flashlight. He flicked on the beam and aimed it at his sister.
One look at Summer’s face told him something was seriously wrong. Her eyes bulged in a look of pain and fear, and her lips were set in a grimace. She released her harness and tried to stand but could only hunch over at an awkward angle.
Dirk aimed the beam toward her right leg, which was pinned against the seat. A small stain of blood marked her pant leg just above the ankle. “It’s no time to get attached to this place,” Dirk said.
Summer tried to move, squeezing her eyes shut as she pulled at her leg, but it was no use. “My foot is pinned,” she said. “Tight.”
Dirk crawled over for a better look. The collision had driven forward one of the oxygen tanks, which in turn had mashed the lower floorboard. A plate of reinforced steel had curled up, catching Summer’s ankle against the seat’s housing.
Water had already risen past her calf when Dirk reached down to examine the buckled plate. “Can you pull forward?”
She tried, and shook her head. “No good.”
He maneuvered past her. “I’ll try to move the housing.”
With his back braced against the acrylic bubble, he placed his feet against the housing and pressed with his legs. Because of the awkward angle, he could apply only a fraction of his full strength. The housing rocked slightly, but nowhere near enough to free Summer’s leg. Dirk tried a few other angles, attempting to rock the housing, but without success.
“I just can’t get enough leverage,” he said.
“It’s okay.” Summer spoke calmly, trying to mask her own fear and not place undue pressure on her brother. “Water’s rising. Better get the dive tanks.”
Dirk saw the water was already up to Summer’s waist. The leaks had increased, and the cabin was filling quicker. He dropped his legs into the water, which stabbed his skin with an icy bite, and climbed past the seats to the rear of the submersible. He reached for a rack next to the hatch that held emergency evacuation gear—two dive tanks fitted with regulators and masks.
He passed one tank down to Summer and looped the other over his shoulder. Then he rummaged around a compact toolbo
x, cursing that its wrenches and pliers were designed for small electrical repairs. The largest tool was a ball-peen hammer, which he grabbed, along with a short hacksaw blade. The blade summoned up the image of Aron Ralston, the courageous mountain biker who cut off his own arm after becoming trapped under a boulder near Moab. Amputating Summer’s foot with the hacksaw blade might become a gruesome last measure to save her life.
“Any ideas?” Summer asked when he climbed over with the tools.
“I’ll try and wedge the seat frame apart so you can slip out.” He passed her the light and hoped she didn’t notice the saw blade.
“Okay,” she replied, shivering as the cold water swirled around her chest.
Dirk slipped on his mask and regulator and ducked underwater. Jamming the hammer handle in the gap by Summer’s ankle, he could tell right away that it offered too little leverage. Still, he pressed himself horizontal and jammed his weight against the handle. The frame wavered but refused to bend or buckle. Further attempts yielded the same result. To force the heavy plates apart he needed more force, but there was nothing available. In frustration, he flipped the hammer around and banged on the frame, creating a tiny dent.
When he surfaced, he saw the water lapping at her chin. She had her mask on as she handed him the flashlight with a disappointed look. He turned the light toward the entry hatch. At any moment, it would become flooded. As he swung the light around, its beam played on an object beyond the exterior canopy. He felt Summer grip his arm, and she tilted her head out of the water to speak.
“Go on without me.”
There was no anger or panic in her voice, just resignation. She knew Dirk had tried everything. As twins, they shared a bond unknown by most siblings. They trusted each other implicitly. She knew if the situation dictated, he would readily give up his own life for hers. She was thankful that at least he would survive.
Dirk looked in her eyes and shook his head.
“Then cut it off,” she cried. “Now!” She had seen the hacksaw blade all along. Dirk could only admire her bravery, particularly as she pulled a bandanna from her jumpsuit pocket, twisted it into a tourniquet, and tied it around her lower calf.
Dirk had to wait for her to stick her head above water before replying. “I’m not ready to play Dr. Kildare just yet,” he said, forcing a grin. “Wait right here.”
Before she knew it, he had opened the hatch and swum out of the submersible, leaving her trapped and alone in the dark.
46
SUMMER COULD NOT REMEMBER WHEN SHE HAD FELT so terrified. Trapped alone in the blackness of the ocean depths, she felt her heart racing. Once the submersible’s interior had flooded, Dirk had opened the hatch and swum away with the waterproof flashlight. She shivered uncontrollably, from the fear and the cold water, as her fingers and ears turned numb.
But the worst was the near silence. Crouched on the overturned seat, she could hear only the pounding of her heart and the sporadic sucking and gurgling of her breath through the regulator. As her mind began inventorying her fears, the act of breathing rose to the top of the list. Her air consumption at the current depth was much higher than near the surface. The cylinder might provide her only a few minutes of air. But what if it hadn’t been filled to capacity? A devilish voice in her head asked whether each breath from the tank would be her last.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to relax, extending the time between inhalations and forcing a steady breathing rhythm. When she felt her heartbeat slow, she pried open her eyes, but still found herself surrounded by a cloak of blackness. Never prone to claustrophobia, she still couldn’t help feeling like she was locked in a very small, very dark closet.
She began to wonder if her brother had changed his mind and headed for the surface—then she saw a dull glow outside the canopy. The light grew brighter until she could make out the flashlight’s beam as it drew closer. Though it seemed he had been gone for hours, it had been only a few minutes.
When Dirk climbed through the hatch a second later, she saw he was wielding a five-foot steel pole with a brass ball affixed to one end: the severed flagpole from the shipwreck. The submersible had struck bottom alongside the wreck, which Dirk had recognized through the bubble.
Dirk crawled forward and wedged the pole between the seat frame and the housing that clamped against Summer’s foot. Grabbing the opposite end, he pulled like an Olympic oarsman. The metal supporting the seat buckled immediately, allowing Summer to free her foot. She gave Dirk a hug, then signaled “Ascend” with an upraised thumb.
Dirk shined the light at the open hatch and gave her a shove. They had spent a dangerous amount of time at a depth close to three hundred feet and knew not to linger.
Summer waited outside the submersible for him, and they linked arms and began their ascent together. They kicked in a slow, measured pace, using their rising exhaust bubbles as a speedometer. Ascending too quickly would be a surefire recipe for the bends, and Dirk made sure they lagged behind the fast-rising bubbles.
It seemed to take forever. Summer was glad for the exertion, which slightly warmed her frozen bones, but her mind still wanted to play tricks on her, telling her they weren’t actually ascending or that they were actually falling back to the depths. It was the cold, she told herself, making her senses numb along with her extremities. She clung to Dirk, who moved like a robot, seemingly immune to the cold and dark.
At a depth of one hundred and fifty feet, the waters noticeably lightened as the surface light began to penetrate the deep. At one-twenty, they passed through a thermocline, and the water temperature warmed. And at eighty feet, Dirk ran out of air.
He wasn’t surprised. Because of his exerted swim to the wreck and back, he knew his air would fail before Summer’s. Drawing his hand across his throat to signal Summer, he jettisoned his tank and regulator. She passed her regulator over, and they began alternating breaths, unconsciously kicking more quickly toward the surface.
Dirk looked up and saw a faint ripple of silver far above their heads. They were now close enough to reach the surface if Summer’s air failed. But now they had another problem.
Exposure to the pressurized depths allows tiny nitrogen bubbles to form in the body’s tissue. If not allowed to dissipate via a gentle reduction in pressure, the gas bubbles can lodge in the body, creating the agonizing and sometimes fatal malady of the bends.
Dirk estimated they had spent close to fifteen minutes on the seafloor. The Navy Dive Tables called for multiple decompression stops, but they had no such luxury. They ascended to what Dirk guessed was about twenty feet and then held their position. Their natural buoyancy and the swift current made it a challenge, but he kept his eye on the surface and fought to keep them in place.
They milked the tank for another ten minutes before Summer spat the regulator out of her mouth and pointed up. They both shot to the surface, exhaling as they swam.
Their heads broke the surface amid a choppy sea dotted with whitecaps. The sun had already vanished, leaving the sky a darkening shade of pewter. The combined effects would render them almost invisible to a passing ship, even one that was searching for them. Yet that wasn’t first on Summer’s mind.
Sucking in a deep breath, Summer turned to her brother. “A flagpole?”
“Best I could do, under the circumstances. How’s the foot?”
“The foot’s okay, but I have a painful cramp in my ankle.” She shot him a concerned gaze. “I don’t think we came anywhere close to covering our deco time.”
Dirk shook his head. “No, we were well short. Do you feel any tingling anywhere?”
“I’m too numb to feel much of anything.”
“We might be sleeping in the Alexandria’s decompression chamber tonight.” He scanned the horizon. “Our next problem.”
They finally spotted the NUMA vessel far to the west. The dark band of the Madaga
scar shoreline was visible a bit closer, to the north.
“The Alexandria is up current,” Dirk said. “No way we can swim to her.”
“They’ve probably swept by already and are backtracking with a sonar survey to locate the submersible. We’ll have drifted to Australia by the time they get back this way.”
“Then to shore it is,” Dirk said. “Are you up for the swim?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She eyed the coastline, put her face in the water, and started swimming. They were both excellent swimmers in fit shape. Under normal circumstances, the open-water swim to shore would have been little more than a tiring challenge. But the mental strain of their escape from the submersible, combined with their cold-water exposure, turned it into a life-or-death task. Fatigue struck both swimmers almost immediately. Summer couldn’t believe how quickly her arms and legs felt like they had turned to lead.
The turbulent seas didn’t help. The waves frequently tossed them about and filled their mouths with salt water. Swimming toward the coastline meant they were working across the current. Each stroke to shore carried them a nearly equal distance to the east, and that much farther from the Alexandria.
The pair swam side by side, stopping to rest every ten minutes. While treading water, Dirk would fish the flashlight out of his pocket and waggle its beam at the research ship. On their third rest, the light slipped from his numb fingers, dropping into the depths like a candle down a well. By now, the NUMA ship appeared even farther away, just an occasional dancing light on the horizon.
Dirk turned toward Summer. “C’mon, less than a mile to go.”
She willed her limbs forward, but they had a mind of their own. A deep pain began burning in her left leg, then gradually vanished, along with all feeling in the limb. She began resting at shorter and shorter intervals, and Dirk could see she was beginning to fade.
“Pretend we’re in Hawaii,” he said. “I’ll race you to Waikiki.”
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