Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Looking off the starboard side, Dex watched the marker buoy with Kevin’s radio beacon bobbing in the light chop. The sky was high and clear which made the Chesapeake look more blue than a muddy green. In the distance, made clear by the lack of haze, the double-spanned Bay Bridge ribboned toward Maryland’s Eastern Shore, and a flotilla of sailboats speckled the seascape with brushstrokes of color.

  “We’re just about on top of her,” said Don. “First team ready, Dex?”

  “Just give us the word.”

  Leaning over the rail outside the entrance to the bridge, Don looked down and gave a thumbs up. “Get your headgear on and we’ll go on link.”

  Tommy was already twisting his mask and mic into the most comfortable position as Dex tugged his own into place.

  “Mic check—one two three,” he said.

  “Copy, Dex.” Don’s unmistakable drawl filled his earpiece. “Ready anytime you are.”

  With a nod of his head, Tommy acknowledged he could hear everything, then both of them flipper-waddled to the aft end of the crewboat’s long flat rear deck. When they reached the gunwale, they leg-slung themselves over the side and down to the custom-built grated platform that was almost at sea level. Dex grabbed a mesh samples collection bag off the rack, and nodded to Tommy. From there, they tilted back and entered another world.

  Dex watched Tommy’s red suit come clear of the impact bubbles as he drifted beyond the black hull of the Sea Dog toward the safeline. Shoulder to shoulder, Dex moved with him and grabbed the thick nylon cord—one end attached to the buoy, the other running down past the wreck’s conning tower.

  “Let’s go, boss,” said Tommy.

  Without a word, Dex angled down, pointing his head toward the bottom. Despite the water warming up from a high, clear sun, the Bay appeared to be almost totally algae-free. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the usually brackish water so clear, but that wasn’t saying visibility was actually good—just better than usual.

  “Okay,” said Dex. “Twenty feet…”

  “Pretty clean down here,” said Tommy. “You can really see today.”

  “Good copy,” said Don. “Sea Dog standing by…”

  Descending the rest of the safeline’s length, they reached the topmost masts of the sub within several minutes. Dex was feeling good about the increased water-clarity—that meant higher margins of safety. You were always better off when you could see more of what was going on around you.

  “Clearing the con,” he said into his Divelink. “We’re ready to move clear of the safeline and check out the aft hatch.”

  Dex had decided against bringing the videocam down on the first dive. When you didn’t have the diving environment down cold, it was a bad idea to be distracted with the bullshit of running a camera. The light, the focus, worrying about the width or the tightness of the shot…all the little things that can keep your attention from the primary one of staying alive.

  No way.

  After he and Tommy had the next phase of their exploration checked out, then he’d start recording things. Maybe Kevin and Andy could bring the cam down on their dive, but Dex would just have to see how things were going. He floated slightly ahead of Tommy who was, at least till this point, playing by the rules.

  Checking his Ikelite, Dex watched the depth numbers click past sixty-six feet, and was once again reminded of how fate had a way of making things as tricky as possible. Sixty-six feet was one of those magic numbers for divers. Under water, for every thirty-three you descend, the pressure on your body increases by one atmosphere. Which meant once you passed the sixty-six foot threshold, you were subjecting yourself to three atmospheres. And that’s when things got very interesting for all those nitrogen molecules in your bloodstream, which dissolved under the pressure and worked their way into every little space in your brain, muscle, organs, joints, and everywhere you never thought of.

  Two things can happen after that. One is all that nitrogen makes divers get a little less cautious or observant. If you go to four or five atmospheres pressure, divers can get absolutely loopy and start hallucinating. Second thing is you can’t head to the surface too fast, before all that nitrogen can be passed out of the system in the form of microscopic bubbles. To make this happen, divers have to pause in their ascents, and give the process time to occur naturally.

  At the depths where they found the sub, nitrogen narcosis, or “the bends” remained an issue of concern, but it was not as life-threatening as deeper dives could be.

  At seventy feet, Dex felt almost totally weightless and the smallest kick or arm pull changed his position in the water. He’d spent so much time under the sea, he didn’t need to consciously be aware of the endless adjustment a diver made to maintain a depth, angle, attitude. There was a serenity, a sense of powerful isolation, that made him feel so…so complete, so in control of everything necessary to stay alive. If for no other reason, Dex loved diving for that sense of being so sharply attuned to your thoughts and the sealed-off hull that defines you as an individual, a singularity in the universe.

  A universe largely out to get you.

  They hovered over the conning tower and the small observation bridge in front of the superstructure. “Hold on,” said Dex, as he probed the deck of the bridge with his torch beam. The hatch leading below appeared to be breached, which made sense if the boat had been sent to bottom in a controlled scuttle.

  He would have liked to have tried to inspect the sub at midship, but he knew—even though nobody was saying—they all wanted to find out what Tommy thought he saw through the rear hatch.

  Motioning with his torch, Dex led his dive-mate toward the aft section. “Hey,” said Tommy. “Somebody left the door open…”

  His partner’s attempt to be clever pulled Dex from his concentration, and he looked ahead of them to see the aft hatch peeled back like the lid of a garbage pail. They cleared the swollen hump of the boat’s rear deck and homed in on the opening to the hull.

  “Okay,” said Dex. “Let’s take a look down there. Get out your torch.”

  He and Tommy unhitched their watertight flashlights from their utility belts, and switched them on. Despite their compact size, the devices put out a tight, sharp beam. Dex hovered over the dark circle of the open lower hatch, then pierced it with a burst of light, revealing a ladder leading down to a grated deck.

  “Tommy, listen up. I’ll go in first. You stay topside till I see what kind of room we have down there.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Donnie, you copy that? We’re going in.”

  “Gotcha,” said Don, his voice modulated by the little earpiece headphone. “Standing by…”

  Following the path cut by his torch beam, Dex angled head first into the hatch. Experience from previous dives into openings of similar dimensions alerted him to how much clearance his tanks allowed him. He had to move with deliberate caution in case there was something sticking out that might foul his hoses or snag his suit.

  Dex tilted over, headfirst, and slid through the hatch, keeping his chest close enough to the ladder to clear his double tank. Halfway down, he craned his neck around to see what might present possible problems. The passageway directly beneath him appeared to be clear of obstacles or debris.

  As he righted himself, his torch played across the grated deck, touching steel and brass fittings, and Dex had a brief moment in which he felt like an intruder to a place better left untouched. Like a grave robber or a cat burglar. To the left, in the direction of the aft torpedo room, he saw what looked like a single brick laying up close to the bulkhead.

  Tommy’s “gold bullion,” no doubt.

  “See anything?” said Tommy. “I’m ready to follow you in.”

  “Come on. Just take it slow.” Dex drifted over to the brick-like object. As he drew closer, he could see it wasn’t the treasure Tommy had imagined. There was no gold sheen about it. He
reached out, picked it up and was surprised to feel how heavy it was—some kind of really dense material. Rubbing it, he was surprised to see no thin rime of algae sticking to its surface. The color looked like a dark pewter.

  Whatever it was, the Nazis probably had some use for it. Lying nearby were the rotted remains of what might have been a canvas rucksack. No way to tell if there’d even been any more bricks here or if this was the only one. Dex opened the throat of his collection bag, slipped the heavy object into it. As he was doing this, Tommy floated over to him. “Hey, so was I right?”

  “You mean is it gold?”

  “Yeah…”

  “I don’t know what this thing is, but it’s not gold.”

  “Hey, guys,” said Don’s voice through his earpiece. “You wouldn’t want to clue us in up here, would you?”

  “Sure,” said Dex. “We’re not rich, okay?”

  He briefly summarized their findings, then listened to Don bemoan their bad luck. The water in the flooded chamber was clear enough to see the closed hatch in front of them—leading toward the center of the boat. Other than their breathing, amplified through their hoses and communications gear, the normal silence of being under the sea morphed into something more eerie, more oppressive in the sub’s cloudy interior.

  “We’re going to work our way aft towards the conning tower now,” said Dex. How’s Team Two? They ready?”

  “Been ready,” said Don.

  “You can get them in the water on schedule,” said Dex. “Everything looks okay so far.”

  “Any sign of damage?” said Don.

  “Not yet. Looks like the Jerries scuttled this thing but they didn’t use charges.”

  “Jerries?” said Tommy. “Why they called that?”

  “No idea… I’ve always wanted to say the word, that’s all.”

  Moving to the hatch, Dex checked the wheel-lock. It was frozen, as often happened to moving parts in seawater, but in the open position. He put his shoulder against it, and it swung inward, away from him easily. Beyond this bulkhead, they entered a surprisingly open section of the boat, which housed two long, lean diesels. The salt water had failed to eat much of the formidable engines, and in tribute to the German engineering that created them, they still looked clean and powerful enough to be refurbed and push this boat along at a good clip. Flanking the diesels on the outer walls of the hull were banks of batteries to power the electric motors. To them the sea had been less kind, reducing them to crusted piles of corrosion.

  “Pretty big rig,” said Tommy.

  “This was a big boat.” Dex paused to study the path ahead, making sure there were no obstacles that might be a problem.

  Between the two engines, a ladder headed up to a wider than usual hatch, which appeared to be locked down. Dex played his torch beam over it. “That’s probably the access to the second level.”

  “We goin’ up?” said Tommy.

  “Not yet. I want to see what the control deck looks like. Plenty of time to check that out later.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Tommy.

  “Hey, Dex…” Don’s voice in his earpiece. “Andy and Kevin are ready to go.”

  “Check. They need to bring the camera.”

  “They got it.”

  “Good.” Dex paused for a second. “Kevin? Andy? You guys copy that?”

  “Just hit the water,” said Kevin Cheever. “What’s up, Boss?”

  “We’re about midway down the aft section. When we get there, we’ll see if we can get the hatch on the bridge open. That leads down to the control deck, which is where we’re headed. We can meet you there.”

  “Sounds like you worked this out pretty good,” said Andy. “We’ll be there.”

  Dex checked his chrono—they were making pretty good progress. He’d have a little time to poke around in the captain’s area before having to head up. And he felt good about having the second team nearby when he did it. He was starting to feel confident, and even a little comfortable as they moved along, and he had to remind himself he was floating through the center of a rusting hulk at the bottom of the bay. A dark, congested coffin that hadn’t yet given up all its secrets.

  In other words: still watch your ass.

  Next came a section of the hull filled with bunks so neatly and closely stacked, he could almost see them still occupied by fresh-faced German sailors. What had happened to them? If any were by the oddest chance still alive, they would be stooped and shrunken old men. From the looks of the number of racks, the sub had supported a larger crew than the Type VII boats.

  “Just cleared the crew quarters,” Dex reported to Don. “Nothing unusual.”

  He was looking for anything that might help explain the boat’s size and oddly shaped hull, but so far Dex hadn’t noticed a damn thing.

  “Hey, Dex,” said Tommy. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

  “Yeah?” he said as they floated past the bunks, heading ever closer to the center of the boat.

  “You think everybody got out of this thing? I mean, what if we find…you know…some bodies?”

  “Like I said, my first impression is they scuttled her, which means everybody jumped ship way before she ended up down here.” He paused as they approached the next bulkhead door, slowing their motion to see if there were any potential problems. But nothing revealed itself in the beam of their torches and he tried to relax.

  “Sounds like a ‘but’ coming…” said Tommy.

  “Kind of. Any bodies exposed to seawater this long would be pretty much just gone. But if we did find some poor bastard holed up somewhere—protected somewhat—well, we’d have to give him a proper burial.”

  “Gives me the creeps,” said Tommy.

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  Dex motioned him to move closer as they were within reach of the next bulkhead. The hatch here was also unlatched, but this one swung in toward them, to reveal a collection of tables and benches, which defined the crew’s mess and the galley beyond it. This deep into the boat, the metal surfaces looked cleaner than Dex would have expected. The incursion of endless variations of sea life was everywhere, of course, but not with the ravenous reclamation he’d seen in other wrecks.

  “Everything looks so small,” said Tommy. “How many guys get to scarf in here at a time?”

  “Fifteen. Twenty, maybe.”

  “I don’t know if I could’ve stood this shit.”

  “Lot of guys can’t,” said Dex.

  They drifted over the tables and benches, past the entrance to the compact, efficiently designed little galley.

  “You ever sail in a sub?”

  “Not as duty,” said Dex. “Had to be inside on a couple of rescue ops. Before they’d refined the DSRVs.”

  “The whats?”

  “Deep Submersible Rescue Vehicles.”

  “Oh yeah…”

  “I’m sure the latest ones are kind of half-assed classified.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet…”

  Playing the beam of his torch on the next door, Dex could see it was sealed, and he hoped it would open as easily as the others. Despite its larger size, this U-boat had been laid out in similar fashion to its smaller, older siblings, and Dex figured the control deck would be the next chamber.

  “Hey, guys,” said the familiar voice of Kevin Cheever. “We’re about halfway down the safeline. Sounds like you haven’t made the conning tower yet.”

  “Just about there,” said Dex. “Be careful when you enter the bridge—watch out for the antenna and the snort, okay?”

  “Got it covered,” said Andy.

  The bulkhead door loomed in front of them. Its steel facade, encrusted in a thin layer of sea scum, seemed to absorb their torchlight. Dex gestured to Tommy to grab the wheel-lock on the door and give it a good, hard turn. But it was already in open position, the door
ajar.

  Now they were entering the heart and mind of the boat. Dex knew if there were any secrets to be found, they would probably be found here. He announced their entry on the Divelink’s open channel.

  “We’re right above you,” said Kevin. “Looks like we have a clear path to the bridge.”

  “You still with us, Donnie?” Dex said.

  “I’m hanging in there,” said Don through the base unit. “Be careful, guys.”

  The bulkhead door to the control deck swung inward, and Dex had the sensation of a curtain being pulled back as the beams of their torches passed the threshold ahead of them.

  “You first,” said Tommy.

  Dex nodded, leaned forward and lightly flippered through the opening. Above him the hull thumped and echoed the arrival of Kevin and Andy on the bridge.

  “Okay, we’re in…” he said.

  The control deck was wider and longer than any vintage sub he’d ever seen. The only thing similar was the low ceiling, crammed with piping, cables, and wires. The periscope array hung from the center of the chamber, but there was ample room all around it for a chart table, an instrument pedestal, and communication bay. The aft end comprised the helm and fire-control panels; the prow of the conning tower was dominated by a striking innovation—a viewing port.

  “Look at that,” said Tommy as he played his light over the thick glass of the port. It was a horizontal slash in the conning tower, like the gun-port in a pillbox. The German engineers had obviously solved the problems of pressure and maintaining an efficient seal. Impressive.

  “Dex…?”

  “Yeah, Andy?”

  “We’re right above the deck hatch. It’s locked down tighter than a crab’s ass.”

  “We’ll give it a go in here.”

  Motioning to Tommy, Dex directed him to the ladder leading to the bridge above their heads. He watched his partner’s red suit glow briefly as he passed through his torch beam. Floating up to the wheel-lock, Tommy muscled it open with little effort. As the lid peeled back, Dex saw Andy Mellow’s faceplate framed in the circular aperture.