Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “Just passing through,” said Doc as he came into view from the cloudy water above them.

  “Kevin and Andy should be in the aft section,” said Dex. “I’m thinking you should use the rear hatch to hook up with them.”

  “No problem,” said Doc. He and Mike gave the thumbs up as they continued their descent.

  After staging their ascent, pausing to let any possible excess nitrogen leak from their bodies, Dex and Tommy broke the surface and climbed aboard the Sea Dog. The sun was climbing higher, burning off the early morning fog and haze, revealing a soft blue sky with only few scattered clouds. It was going to be a good day to be out on the Bay. Don, momentarily abandoning his post on the Divelink base station, was standing on the rear deck, waiting for them. He was sporting his usual lopsided smile as he helped Dex over the gunwale.

  “Okay, so what do we have down there?” he said.

  Dex pulled off his mask, sucked in another lungful of salty air. “Couple things I want to look at.” He reached into his collection bag, took out the steel box. “You have anything on the bench that will get this open?”

  Don looked at it, grinned. “One way or another. Might get messy, though.”

  “I’ll take it into the shed and see what gives,” said Dex. He followed Tommy across the open section of the boat to the equipment lockers and the dive salon amidships. They sat down, unharnessed their tanks and utility belts. Don eased past them, climbed back up to the bridge to keep an ear on the base unit.

  “You want me to start recharging the tanks?” said Tommy.

  “Yeah, good idea. But bring that stuff you found into the shed first.”

  They went inside the small deckhouse where Don had built in a workbench, and storage for all the tools and equipment a well-rigged diveboat should have.

  Opening his collection bag, Tommy laid out the items he’d found in the U-boat captain’s locker: some metal buttons, some clips and pins and several other pieces that had once been military medals. Dex picked up one of the two Iron Crosses on the bench, held it up to the light.

  “The Knight’s Cross,” he said. “You had to be a real hero-type to get one of these.”

  “Must’ve been pinned to something hangin’ in that closet, huh?” Tommy said. “Looks like our captain was good at his job.”

  “He brought a super-sized sub right up the gut of the Chesapeake Bay. I’d say he was real good.” Dex placed the steel box on the bench in front of him, then looked over the array of tools to see what would get him inside with a minimum of difficulty. There was always the cold chisel and hammer approach, or an oxy-acetylene cutting torch, but Dex didn’t want to get that physical if it wasn’t necessary.

  As Tommy left to re-fill the tanks, Dex finished his inventory of all the onboard tools and things that would pretty much destroy the steel box as well as open it. He nixed every one of them. Something as well-machined as this container just might be holding something very valuable or very fragile. He didn’t want to do anything too violent that might destroy the contents.

  Reluctantly, he replaced everything to the sample bag, and re-connected it to his belt. Despite its weight and unwieldiness, he figured it was safest close to his person. Dex had gotten this far in life listening to his gut and his hunches, and something was telling him to be very careful with the box and the brick.

  “Hey,” said Tommy as he re-entered the deckhouse. “You get it open?”

  Dex explained why he had not.

  Tommy shrugged. “You’ll figure somethin’ out, I gotta feelin’. But if you don’t, I got some stuff in the basement at my place. My uncle used to be a machinist at the Key Highway Ship Yard. Long time ago.”

  “Really?” Dex looked up with renewed interest.

  “Yeah, when he left me the house, a buncha his tools were down there. I never got around to doin’ anything with’em.”

  “Good to know. Maybe we can take a look later tonight.”

  “Yeah, no prob.”

  “You get the tanks going?”

  “Oh, yeah. All set.” Tommy walked over to the bench, hands in his pockets, head down. “Hey, listen…about yesterday, I—”

  “You already apologized. Just don’t do anything stupid again…or your diving career with me is going to have been a very short one.”

  Tommy leaned against the bench. “I know, I know. I just want you to know I was listenin’. You won’t have any trouble outta me. No more, I promise.”

  Dex looked at him. His lean, dark features were set in an all-business expression. “Okay, but like I always told my Navy swabs—don’t make promises, just do what’s expected, that’s all.”

  “Thanks, Dex. Exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Okay, okay. Now, let’s get up to the bridge and see how things are going down there.”

  When they reached the bridge, they found Don Jordan hunched over the Divelink base unit, his left hand holding the headset tightly to his ear, and his attention obviously locked on what he was listening to.

  “Don?” said Dex.

  Jordan gestured quickly to be quiet for a moment. “Hold it!” he whispered.

  Dex felt the muscles in his jaws tighten. Something was wrong. Moving quickly, he flipped a toggle on the base unit and the sounds in Don’s headset were now coming through the speakers. The divers were all talking at once, their voices edged with panic and fear. Andy Mellow’s voice seemed to penetrate the noise most efficiently: “—and get ’im the fuck outta there!”

  “What’s going on?” said Dex, trying to sound very calm, while his stomach had already started folding in on itself.

  For Dex, time had slipped its gears for an instant, grinding to a stop. Something was very wrong. For sure, somebody’d gotten their ass in a crack.

  Don Jordan’s face had lost a lot of color as he looked up at them. “Mike’s fouled up in a bunch of cables and wires. The aft torpedo section.”

  The base unit’s speaker blabbered with everybody talking at once.

  “All right, can it!” Dex yelled as he picked up the base mic. “Andy! Kevin! What’s going on?”

  “Not sure,” said Kevin. “Mike squeezed his way into the last compartment. Doc tried to stop him, but Mike didn’t pay any attention.”

  “What’s his status?”

  “He’s stuck in some lines, it looks like. The light’s bad in there and—”

  “I think I cut a hose…”

  Mike Bielski’s voice cut through the transmission like a dull knife. He sounded dreamy, exhausted, resigned.

  “Mike, what the fuck’re you doing, man?” said Dex. “Give me the picture.”

  “Can’t…”

  “He’s just about out of air,” said Kevin. “I see a lot of bubbles, Dex.”

  “Okay, who’s closest to his position?”

  “That’d be me,” said Doc.

  “Can you get him your respirator on a buddy-share?”

  “I don’t know,” said Doc. “The torpedo room’s a mess. Crap everywhere. Mike forced his way through it. He’s about eight, maybe ten feet past the bulkhead. But I don’t see how I can get in there and not get hung up in the junk myself.”

  “Don’t try it,” said Dex. “Just stay with him and keep him conscious if you can. Keep him focused. I’m coming back down with some stuff.”

  “We have about twelve minutes,” said Kevin. “Then Doc’s on his own.”

  “I’ll be there way before then,” said Dex.

  He turned and practically jumped through the hatch to the deck ladder. Tommy was right behind him. As he pulled on his gear, Tommy set him up with fresh tanks. He grabbed a utility belt and the small cutting torch, unhooked the sample bag.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to Tommy. “Don’t let it out of your sight.”

  “Got ya.”

  Dex moved smoothly, quickly, bu
t he had this really bad feeling he wasn’t going to be fast enough.

  As he dropped into the still, cool water, he felt a terrible tightness in his chest—his body’s way of telling him things were not going to work out very well. Better not to think like that. He forced himself to concentrate on what he might be needing. In addition to the cutting torch, he carried an extra tank of air with extra lengths of hose, and a ten-foot grappling arm with a simple mechanical hand. It better be good enough.

  But he hoped he wouldn’t need any of this crap at all.

  “Doc, you there?” he said through his mask mic.

  “Yeah, where are you?”

  “More than halfway down, should be there any second. How’s he doing?”

  “Can’t tell…he’s not moving.”

  As the submarine’s features took form through the murky water, Dex kicked harder, propelling himself towards the stern and the open hatch. The bright colors of Kevin’s and Andy’s dry suits were like beacons as he headed for them.

  “Doc, get clear of the hatch,” said Dex. “I’m coming in.”

  They helped him feed the gear into the aft section, which was looking more narrow and tight and dark despite the light from everybody’s torches. Dex followed headfirst and oriented himself toward the bulkhead and open hatch into the torpedo room.

  “Hurry up,” said Doc.

  As Dex cleared the bulkhead, he could see Mike’s pale yellow suit defining his body, which floated parallel to the deck, arms and legs outstretched like a store mannequin. No more bubbles exited his regulator. There wasn’t the spaghetti bowl of wires and cables he’d expected—just a single, loose bundle of stuff that had rotted through its tubing and hung down like the tendrils of a man-o-war. Mike had somehow gotten his hoses fouled in the lines and split one of them trying to slip free. He wasn’t moving as he drifted in the chamber, but seemed barely attached to the wires holding him.

  It didn’t look like big trouble, but that’s exactly why wreck diving was so dangerous. A lot of the things that looked harmless were exactly the ones waiting to turn you into a deader.

  Not needing the grappling arm, Dex dropped it and lifted the extra air tank into position as he closed the distance on Mike’s still form. There was plenty of crap dangling down around him, but he’d been through worse.

  Through the faceplate of his mask, Mike’s eyes remained open, looking very empty.

  “Mike, you hear me, buddy?”

  Nothing.

  Dex inched closer. He could avoid the tangle of wires by staying beneath Mike, who hung closer to the ceiling. In one smooth, coordinated motion he pulled Mike’s regulator from his slack lips and replaced it with the one from the fresh tank. He slapped him hard in the temple and thought he saw the suggestion of a blink, but nothing more. Hard to tell how long he’d gone without taking a breath but it wasn’t looking too good.

  Dex fired up the cutting torch and adjusted the flame to a fine point. It sliced through everything like going through cobwebs, and Dex had him free in less than fifteen seconds. He passed him out to Doc, who eased him through the escape hatch to Kevin and Andy.

  “Take him up as fast as you can,” said Doc. “I’m right behind you.”

  Dex emerged from the hatch as they ascended, pushing his gear out ahead of him. The bends weren’t an issue, and even if they were, they would still be the least of Mike’s problems at this point. If Doc couldn’t get him breathing it was all over anyway. The idea of losing Mike started to hit Dex—now that he wasn’t running on adrenaline. All those years in the Navy had produced its statistical share of fuck-ups and weird accidents, but it never made it any easier to see one of your men go down and never make it back.

  By the time he scrambled over the aft gunwale, they had Bielski supine on the deck in front of the dive salon. Doc was leaning over him doing CPR.

  “How is he?” said Dex as he dropped his tanks and rushed to join the circle. As he took a reading of their faces, he could see mixtures of fear and relief—worrying about Mike and realizing it could have been any one of them, and an unspoken gladness it was not.

  “I’m getting nothing,” said Doc, breathing hard.

  “C’mon, Bielski…” said Kevin.

  “Mikey, you hear me!” Andy Mellow was actually yelling at him. “Come on, you fuck!”

  Tension enveloped everybody like a noxious cloud, a cloud tinged with the stench of death. Infecting them, making them angry and crazy.

  Dex stood behind the small circle with Donnie, who moved closer, spoke very softly. “I got the Coast Guard on the radio. They’re on their way.”

  Pump, pound, blow. Over and over Doc tried everything he could to get a response out of him, finally looking back at Dex. “Time for something drastic! Get me that battery charger! Hurry!”

  Kevin moved so fast, it was like he’d had the charger and its dolly in his pocket. Suddenly he was right there, wheeling right up to Mike with the gear, and Doc grabbed the big, oversized alligator clips.

  “Is it on!?”

  “Go!” yelled Andy.

  Like he was trying to goose a big diesel into life, Doc jammed the clips into each side of Mike’s ribcage. There was a sound like a dry piece of wood snapping in half and Mike’s whole body arched and spasmed galvanically. Doc repeated the charge a couple more times before finally throwing down the clips.

  “Turn it off…” he said. Schissel fell back on his folded knees, wiped the sweat and tears from his face. “Shit…”

  “Oh, man… are you kiddin’ me?” Tommy spoke so softly as if he were in church.

  “I can’t believe this,” said Kevin. “I can’t believe it.”

  Dex felt like somebody was trying to yank his stomach inside-out. He knew he had to keep himself busy, keep from letting this take him over and turn him into something useless. “Somebody get a blanket,” he said.

  Everybody except Doc drifted away; he remained out of respect or duty, or maybe he was just a little stunned. Tommy came back with a big beach towel, handed it to Doc, who ignored it as he went through the motions of CPR. No way he wanted to drape it over Mike Bielski’s long, oddly serene face.

  “He didn’t even act like he was in trouble,” said Andy. “Almost like he accepted his fate, you know?”

  “I’ve seen guys do that,” said Dex. “They kind of give up. Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.”

  “Okay, guys, we’ve got company coming!” Don Jordan yelled down from the bridge as he pointed off the starboard side where an orange and white helicopter angled toward them. The whine of its turbines filled the air and within seconds it was hovering close enough to batter them in its prop wash. Tommy moved up next to Dex, nudged him. “Man, that thing is rippin’ it up pretty good,” he said.

  Dex watched the chopper’s side door open to reveal a guy in search and rescue gear—hood, goggles, and flippers. He was the “swimmer.” He stepped into the air, knifed down to the water and swam quickly to the little platform at the stern.

  Climbing on board, the guy didn’t say a word until he reached Mike’s still form. “Okay, we hoist him out of here, now! Is he breathing?”

  “Negative,” said Doc.

  “Decompression?”

  “We were just past 66 feet—some damage,” said Dex. “But he cut a hose. No air.”

  Signaling to the pilot, the Coast Guard swimmer then motioned everyone to stand back. Instantly, a steel basket began unreeling from the chopper toward the deck. “Watch out! Stand clear!”

  “Get back,” said Dex. “That thing can carry a static charge that can half kill you.”

  “What?” said Andy.

  “Stay away from the rail!” said Dex.

  “You got it,” said Tommy.

  When the basket brushed the Sea Dog’s rail, Dex thought he caught a small spark of discharge just as the s
wimmer grabbed it, then guided it down to the deck. They wrapped Mike in the blanket, eased him into the steel cradle, then the swimmer hoisted himself above it. Holding on as the rig was hoisted back into the belly of the chopper, he didn’t so much as wave at Dex and the others.

  “Oh, man, this is bad,” said Kevin.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Andy.

  Dex shook his head, fighting a feeling of total nausea, like a classic case of sea-sickness. “It’s not over yet, guys,” he said. “Look.”

  They followed his gaze as the prow of a Coast Guard Cutter cleaved the bay water at high speed. Its course would bring it alongside Don’s boat very quickly.

  “That thing can move,” said Doc.

  “What’re they going to want?” said Tommy. “We in trouble?”

  “Nah,” said Kevin. “They’re just following protocol. They’re government—gotta file a report. You know how that is.”

  The cutter slowed and made a sharp turn to come about on their starboard.

  “Good sailors, those guys.” said Dex. “My father was Coast Guard.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I never saw him all that much. But he did get me into boats and the sea.”

  “My old man worked at Sparrows Point,” said Tommy, shaking his head as if to get rid of a bad memory. “Steel yards. He came home so beat up, he never talked to us. Just dropped into his chair with a bottle of Natty Boh and the TV. That was it, man…”

  Dex was looking out toward the patch of sky where Mike had been taken. “How many kids did he have, I…I can’t remember. Or maybe I don’t want to…”

  “Two, I think,” said Kevin, shaking his head slowly.

  Doc folded him arms, watched several sailors on the cutter climbing down into a motor launch. “This is not going to be easy.”

  It never is, thought Dex. He had been forcing himself to think as clearly as possible. Mike’s death changed everything in ways none of the other guys had probably thought about. Dex knew how he had to deal with the emotional side of what happened—just start thinking about other stuff, the stuff you had some control over. No percentage in making yourself neurotic worrying about the immutable things already slipping away into that cold place we called the past. A career in the Navy had shown Dex how he was put together and what worked for him…what had marked him as a survivor…no matter what. He knew the key to keeping it together.