“But the 688 is still down there,” countered Valerian.
Andrei Petrov dejectedly shook his head.
“I told you that we should have waited. But you wouldn’t listen, and now we’ve gone and possibly destroyed one of our very own submarines.
“I won’t accept that!” shot back Valerian.
“Maybe this 688 is a vessel other than the Rickover. Or perhaps our sensors are inaccurate. Whatever be the case, we must act on this find. Prepare to recharge the power grid. Doctor.”
“Absolutely not!” shouted Andrei.
“This insanity has gone too far already.”
“You fool!” spat Valerian disgustedly as he roughly pushed the physicist aside and made his way to the firecontrol console.
“If you won’t do it. Doctor, then I’ll hit the switch myself.”
Ignoring the spilled tea that had scorched his hand, Andrei rushed over to stop Valerian.
“Please, Admiral,” implored the physicist. “You’re only opening us up to yet more tragedy.”
Igor Valerian attacked the keyboard with a vengeance, and as the atoms of the nuclear pile once more went critical, he triumphantly voiced himself.
“The only tragedy here is your cowardly recalcitrance, Doctor. Because your inaction could have very well cost the rodina another chance at future greatness.”
Before pressing the final input key to trigger the power grid, the one-eyed veteran looked up at Andrei Petrov and cried out boldly.
“What you’re about to witness is history itself in the making. For the glory of the motherland!”
At the moment that Admiral Igor Valerian pressed the final input key, the first of the Rickover’s Mk48 torpedoes slammed into the wall of the trench with a blistering blast. The torpedo that followed made a direct hit on the lead generator, and as the concussion from this explosion tore apart the power coupling, a reverse surge of electricity shot up the frayed cable. In a microsecond, this ultra powerful burst of raw energy made its way to the surface, where it streamed into the Academician Petrovsky’s engineering spaces. No one there even had the time to know that anything was wrong, when a tremendous explosion tore the ship apart at the waterline.
No sooner did this secondary detonation fade on the tropical wind, when the Rickover’s electrical systems returned to normal. No one was more relieved than John Walden, who wasted no time ordering his submarine to the surface.
By the time they completed their ascent, and Walden made his way up onto the open sail, the Academician Petrovsky was nothing but a torn hunk of smoldering debris. Yet hopes for survivors from this unexplained tragedy brightened when one of the lookouts spotted what appeared to be the captain’s gig floating in the distance.
Expectations were high as Walden ordered the Rickover to rendezvous with this vessel. They found only three survivors, confused members of the U.N. observer team. Walden took them aboard and sent them below, thus freeing the Rickover for yet another search. Somewhere below, the depths held the secret of the DSRV Avalon, its valiant crew, and the five aquanauts that it had been sent to rescue.
Epilogue
Al pulled himself over the Sunshine’s transom and plopped onto the deck feeling chilled to the bone and momentarily dizzy. The fog was so thick that he could barely see his hand in front of his face, and as his dizziness passed, he heard in the background a strange sound that was disturbingly familiar. The air itself smelled alien, and he couldn’t help being reminded of his childhood.
His hand brushed up against a large straw hat that lay on the wooden deck before him. Having completely forgotten about his two passengers, he stiffly stood and tentatively called out.
“Doc? Missy? Where are ya?”
The only sound to greet him was the monotonous humming noise that he had initially heard as he pulled himself out of the water. This steady, pulsating chorus reminded him of the racket produced by the swamp frogs and crickets, and with this odd comparison in mind, he began a thorough inspection of the trawler.
It didn’t take him long to find out that he was all alone. He searched everywhere, including the galley, storage locker and engine spaces. The only evidence that he found of his passengers was their luggage, and a few personal items such as toiletries and clothing.
As he returned to the open stern he realized that even the cat was missing. Fearing that they had fallen overboard during the brief storm that had engulfed them, he peered out into the fog-enshrouded waters and called out forcefully.
“Doc! Missy! It’s Captain Al. Are ya out there?”
His words reverberated throughout the veiled dusky twilight, only to be answered by a strong male voice.
“Hello over there!” cried this nearby stranger.
The powerful beam of a light cut through the fog, and Al anxiously leaned over the port gunwale as the ghostly outline of another vessel took form. It was a strange-looking ship, shaped much like a fat cigar. An open hatch was situated on its rounded upper deck, where the upper torso of a man could just be seen. He held a flashlight in his hand, and used this source of illumination to scan the Sunshine.
“Boy, are we ever glad to see you!” he shouted.
“Our engines are out of commission, as well as our communication and navigational systems.”
“What kind of vessel is that, mister?” asked Al.
“And where ya headed?”
“This is a U.S. Navy Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle, and right now our destination is the nearest port.”
Supposing that this was some kind of newfangled submarine, Al readily responded.
“That would be Nicholls Town, mister. My cousin Sherman runs a fishin’ camp there, and he’ll take care of ya. If you’d like, I’ll give ya a tow.”
“That would be most appreciated.”
Before turning for the wheelhouse to crank over the engine, Al asked one more question.
“Say mister, you didn’t happen to pick up two women and a cat out of the water? It looks like I lost a couple of my passengers during that storm that just passed.”
“I’m sorry to say that we haven’t seen any sign of them,” returned the crew-cut stranger.
“Though with all this fog and all, they could have floated right by us and we’d never have known it.”
With his heart heavy with disappointment, Al turned for the wheelhouse. He was in the process of passing by the card table, when a warm, humid breeze hit him full in the face. The scent of this gust had a fetid ripeness that smelled vaguely of decaying vegetation.
With its arrival, the fog momentarily lifted, and he spotted another vessel floating in the water directly in front of the Sunshine’s bow. This sleek ship was of tremendous size, and sported the distinctive sail of a submarine, with a five-pointed red star emblazoned on its side. There was an unusual-looking pod on the protruding rudder, and not a soul visible on its wide deck.
The breeze also temporarily uncovered a patch of tree-covered shoreline beyond. Supposing that they had drifted to the eastern shore of Andros Island, he rushed for his binoculars and turned them on the shore before the fog returned. What he saw there caused the hairs on the back of his neck to raise. It seemed unbelievable — the trees were not mangroves at all, but tall swamp cypresses, with thick, green moss hanging from their limbs.
His hands were slightly shaking as he focused on a small collection of buildings set at the base of these trees. He knew that it wasn’t possible, but spread out before him were the distinctive outlines of Port Mayaca, the town he had grown up in! And it was then he identified the familiar smells and sounds that surrounded him as belonging to Florida’s Lake Okeechobee.
Disturbing question remained to haunt him. How in heaven’s name did he ever end up in this landlocked body of water, along with the two oceangoing submarines, a good two hundred miles from the waters off Andros?