“That’s impos-” Doc Brady began.
“Tomorrow!” Mitchell bellowed. “Set up the conference room as an infirmary.” He turned to Reinheiser. “See what you can do about cleaning up this air.” He looked at Corbin. “You and I will get this room back in order. I want those forward viewing screens working as soon as possible.”
Mitchell didn’t slow the pace of his growing momentum. “Thompson,” he called, “what’s your situation?”
“I’m a little banged up, sir. I sprained my wrist pretty bad, but I can work.” He sounded a bit steadier.
“Then get the damn engine room back in shape and give me as much power as you can!” Mitchell ordered, using just the right timbre of anger in his voice to convey two messages: that he had faith in Thompson’s ability and that he held Thompson solely responsible for getting the job done.
“Aye aye, sir!” came Thompson’s enthusiastic reply.
Del stared incredulously at the captain. He hated the man, but he couldn’t deny Mitchell’s effectiveness as a leader. Under Mitchell’s command, nobody dared surrender. They all had jobs to do, and under the captain’s demands they had no time to worry about the implications of their situation.
A few hours later, Del was tossing uneasily on a makeshift cot, his dreams a lament for the security he had left behind. In that distant world, Debby celebrated her seventieth birthday huddled with her grandchildren in a placebo called a bomb shelter.
“Doc says I can go back to work,” Billy announced to Del the next day. “I’m on my way to the bridge now. How about you?”
“R and R for at least another day,” Del replied with a sly smile, clasping his hands behind his head.
“I’ll come back and see you later,” Billy said, and despite his feigned contentment, Del envied him. Sitting around idly allowed too much time to worry.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Corbin said with a shrug of surrender, for in truth, he had no answer to Mitchell’s obvious doubts. “It seems to be operational.”
“How can we be in a hundred feet of water?” Mitchell snapped, despite his grumbling, a twinge of hope found its way into his tone.
“That gauge operates by measuring the pressure on an inch-long wand protruding off the side of the hull,” Martin Reinheiser mechanically explained, as if reading out of a book. “It’s a new design, untested, really. Perhaps the wand was snapped off and the equipment has been fooled, taking the total pressure on the remaining piece and calculating it over the whole expected length.
“Or perhaps we are in a place sheltered from the pressure of the ocean depths,” he added, his analytical mind searching out every possibility.
“Not possible,” Corbin replied.
“How deep could we be without the hydraulic system?” Mitchell asked, ignoring his first officer.
“About seven thousand feet,” Billy answered from the door. The men turned to him. “Reporting for duty, sir.”
“Where’s DelGiudice?” Mitchell demanded, a sour look on his face, as if merely speaking Del’s name left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Doc wants him to rest another day,” Billy explained.
“I’ll deal with that jerk later,” Mitchell whispered under his breath. “Get going on that viewing screen, Shank.”
Billy moved to the intercom, knowing he would need some help from the engine room to test the power levels to his panels. “Thompson,” he called.
An empty pause.
“Engine room, come in.”
Still silence. Mitchell grew worried and reacted with typical anger. He grabbed the com away from Billy. “Thompson!” he shouted.
“Here, sir,” came the unsteady voice, much like the tone they had first heard the day before.
“What’s the matter?” Mitchell demanded.
“Sinclair’s dead,” Thompson muttered. The men took the news stoically. Corbin rubbed his face to brush away any intruding emotions, and Billy Shank let out a resigned sigh.
Thompson’s voice came with sudden determination. “How deep are we?”
Mitchell rarely felt sorry for anybody, but he pitied the man on the other end of the intercom, trapped alone in the steamy engine room. “We’re not sure,” he replied calmly. “The gauge says a hundred feet; we think it’s broken.”
“Then mine must be broken, too,” Thompson said, again stubbornly. “I’m going out. I’ll be up front soon.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Mitchell shouted. “If that gauge isn’t right-”
“I’ll be killed,” Thompson interrupted with a resigned, almost sedated, laugh. “So what?”
Mitchell started to reply, but merely shook his head, for there seemed nothing to say, no arguments to refute the man’s choice.
“I’m alone back here with no food or water,” Thompson went on. “I’ll be dead soon anyway.” He ended any further arguments by shutting off his mike.
There wouldn’t have been any arguments forthcoming anyway. “His right to choose the way to die,” Ray Corbin remarked.
“He’ll never make it,” Reinheiser muttered.
“Unless the gauge is right,” Billy snapped, not appreciating the physicist’s too-sure pessimism in an already dismal situation.
They went back to work halfheartedly, unable to concentrate on their tasks as each of them, even Reinheiser, waited and prayed that somehow Thompson would make it through, that the gauge would indeed be right. But as minutes passed, the miracle seemed less likely, and finally Reinheiser took it upon himself to defuse the tension.
“Gentlemen,” he said with his customary formality. “Since Seaman Thompson hasn’t yet arrived, we must assume that he is dead. So let us concentrate on our assigned duties and get this ship back together.”
Corbin and Billy exchanged helpless glances. They hurt at the loss of yet another companion, but once again they had to push their emotions deep inside and refuse to acknowledge the pain.
“How’s that screen coming?” Mitchell snapped, trying to bring everyone back into the tasks at hand.
“Good, sir,” Billy replied. “I should have something for you in a few minutes.” He focused on his work and tried to forget that a friend of his had just died, taking what was possibly their last hope with him.
“We aren’t going to see much without the outer searchlights,” Reinheiser remarked. “Let us hope they’re still working.”
“Even if they are, all we’re going to see is dark water and gray stone,” Billy mumbled to himself, too low for anyone else to hear. But he, too, hoped that the equipment would work. At least then something would be fixed.
Billy restarted his computer once more, then double-clicked on the appropriate icons, and the screen crackled sharply and filled with snow. He stood up, grumbling, reached over to the back of the panel and jiggled the connector behind his personal monitor. The picture came clearly into view for just a split second, then returned to snow.
“Did you see that!” Corbin cried.
“I’m not sure what I saw,” Mitchell gasped. “Shank, get that damned picture back!”
“Trying,” Billy replied, confused as to why they were so excited. He hadn’t seen.
“The hull of an old warship,” Reinheiser said.
“But did you see its condition?” Corbin cried. “It looked like it just went down!”
The screen flickered a couple of times, the picture came clear again, and the four men gaped at the eerie sight. Settled on a rocky reef less than twenty yards ahead loomed the spectacle of an old frigate, the lettering on its side naming it as the USS Wasp.
“Explain that,” Mitchell challenged Reinheiser.
“We should get Del-I mean Mr. DelGiudice, sir,” Billy offered. “He’s always reading books about naval history.”
“Go,” Mitchell said, and Billy was off. He returned moments later with Del and Doc Brady.
“Well, mister, what do you make of it?” Mitchell asked.
It took Del a minute to find his voice. “The Wasp?” he said aloud, trying to jar his memory. “The name sounds familiar.”