12
AS IT RACED THROUGH THE WATER a hundred feet below the surface, the Barracuda looked more like a manta ray with stubby wings than a submarine — or even a barracuda, for that matter. About half the size of a compact car, her wedge-shaped snout narrowed, both horizontally and vertically, with a slightly bulbous expansion at the very tip.
This was a hydrodynamic feature that got the water moving smoothly around and over the vessel, reducing the drag and increasing both her ability to accelerate and her top-end speed.
In addition, her stainless steel skin was covered in microscopic V-shaped grooves, too small to be seen from a distance except as a sort of haze on the finish. The grooves were similar to the coatings used on the hulls of racing yachts, and they too added speed by reducing the drag.
Because she was eventually expected to do salvage work, an enclosed bay in the root of each wing held assorted equipment: cutting torches, grappling claws, and other tools. In truth, the Barracuda had been designed more like a stealth fighter than a submarine. The question was, could she fly like one?
With Kurt and Joe sitting in tandem, Kurt at the controls and Joe just behind him monitoring all the systems, the Barracuda surged through the water at 34 knots. Joe insisted she could make 45, but that would rapidly drain the battery. To make two laps around the race’s fifty-mile course, 34 would be the best they could do.
“Coming up on a depth change,” Joe mentioned.
The race was not just a horizontal affair, where the submarines could run at top speed and come home. It required maneuvers to be fulfilled: depth changes, course changes, even a section that required them to weave through a group of pylons, charge forward to a certain point and then back out, before turning around and racing off to the next buoy.
The competition itself was a three-stage process, with a hundred-thousand-dollar prize being offered to the winner of each stage and a cool ten million to the overall victor.
“Can you believe these guys are offering ten million to the winner?” Joe said excitedly.
“You realize NUMA gets that money if we win,” Kurt replied.
“Don’t depress me,” Joe said. “I’m dreaming. Gonna get a ranch in Midland and a truck the size of a small earthmover.” Kurt laughed. For a moment, he considered what he might do with ten million dollars, and then he realized he would probably do exactly what he was doing right now. Work for NUMA. See the world. Sometimes save an ocean or two.
“Again, who put up the money?”
“African Offshore Corporation,” Joe said. “They’re big into continental-shelf drilling.” Kurt nodded. The supposed point of the whole competition was to develop submersibles that could be used to operate quickly, safely, and independently at depths of up to a thousand feet. Kurt guessed that publicity had more to do with it than anything else.
Still, even if he wouldn’t get the money, Kurt liked to win.
“In fifteen seconds, begin descent to two hundred fifty feet,” Joe said.
Kurt put his hand to a keypad, typed in 2-5-0, and held his finger over the “Enter” button. Either Kurt or Joe could change the depth manually if they wanted, but the computer was more precise.
“Three… two… one… mark.” Kurt hit “Enter,” and they heard the sound of a small pump as it pushed oil from the rear into a forward chamber of the sub. This caused the nose to grow heavier and pitch down. With no need to take on water, to angle dive planes, or to adjust power, the Barracuda continued at flank speed, descending, and actually accelerating as it dove.
Around them the light began to fade, the color changing from a bright aquamarine to a darker blue. Up above, it was a beautiful sunny day, with high pressure all around.
“How we doing?” Kurt asked.
“Four miles to the outer marker,” Joe said.
“What about the other contestants?”
It was a timed race, the subs having left at ten-minute intervals to keep them apart, but Kurt and Joe had already passed one vessel. Somewhere up ahead they would catch another competitor.
“We could ram them if they get in our way,” Joe said.
“This isn’t NASCAR,” Kurt replied. “I’m thinking that would be some kind of points deduction.” As Kurt kept the Barracuda precisely online, he heard Joe tapping keys behind him.
“According to the telemetry,” Joe said, “the XP-4 is a half mile ahead. We should see his taillights in about ten minutes.” That sounded good to Kurt. The next depth change was in seven minutes. They would come up to one hundred fifty feet, cruise over a ridge, and race along near the top of an underwater mesa — a flat plain that had once been an underwater lava field.
“Easier and more fun to pass people when they can see you go by,” he said.
Seven minutes later, Kurt put the Barracuda into a climb, they zoomed up over the ridge and leveled off at one hundred fifty feet. A moment later the radio crackled.
“… experiencing elec—…—blems… batteries… system malfunc—…” The garbled low-frequency signal was hard to make out. But it rang alarm bells in Kurt’s mind.
“You get that?”
“I couldn’t make it out,” Joe said. “Someone’s having problems though.” Kurt grew quiet. All the subs had been equipped with a low-frequency radio that, theoretically, could reach floating buoys along the race path and be retransmitted to the referee and safety vessels stationed along the route. But the signal was so weak, Kurt couldn’t tell who was transmitting.
“Did he say electrical problems?”
“I think so,” Joe said.
“Call him out,” Kurt said.
A moment later Joe was on the radio. “Vessel reporting problems. Your transmission garbled. Please repeat.” The seconds ticked by with no response. Kurt’s sense of danger rose. To make the submarines fast, most had been built with somewhat experimental technology. Some even used lithium ion batteries that, in rare circumstances, could catch fire. Others used experimental electrical motors and even hulls of thin polymers.
“Vessel reporting problems,” Joe said again. “This is Barracuda. Please repeat your message. We will relay to the surface.” Up ahead, Kurt saw a trail of bubbles. It had to be the wake of the XP-4. He’d forgotten all about it and was now driving right up its tailpipe. He banked the Barracuda to the left and then noticed something odd: the trail of bubbles arced down and to the right. It didn’t make any sense, unless…
“It’s the XP-4,” he said. “It’s got to be.” “Are you sure?”
“Check the GPS.”
Kurt waited while Joe switched screens. “We’re right on top of him.” “But I don’t see him anywhere,” Kurt said.
Joe went right back to the radio. “XP-4, do you read?” Joe said. “Are you reporting trouble?” A brief burst of static came over the radio and then nothing.
“We’ll lose if we turn,” Joe said.
Kurt had considered that. The rules were strict.
“Forget the race,” Kurt said, and he banked the Barracuda into a wide right turn, slowing her pace and manually taking over depth control. Throwing on the Barracuda’s lights, he searched for the trail of bubbles.
“What’s the XP-4 made of?” he asked. Joe knew the other competitors far better than he did.
“She’s stainless steel like us,” Joe said.
“Maybe we could use the magnetometer to help find her. A thousand pounds of steel ought to get us a reading from this distance.” Kurt spotted what he thought was the line of bubbles. He turned to follow the curving, descending trail. Behind him Joe booted up the magnetometer.