Otsuka sat in a chair drawn up next to Dokey and listened to Thomas’s voice on the speaker. “Depth now six-one-four-four, Dane. I’d like to use the video.”
“Not just now,” Mayberry cut in. “You’d need the lights, and I don’t want that draw.”
“Try the sonar,” Brande told her.
A few minutes later, Thomas said, “Not good. He’s directly aft, fifty yards away.”
Dokey glanced at the sonar, then at Emry’s chart on the screen next to him.
“I need her to turn left, Chief. Ten degrees.”
“Turn left by ten points,” Dane ordered.
“Turning now,” Thomas reported.
“Right there!” Dokey yelled.
The screen showed Sneaky Pete’s view. It was a dark, empty sea, illuminated by the halogen floodlights. Otsuka estimated a range of visibility of perhaps thirty yards. At first she didn’t see it, but then DepthFinder emerged from the murk, headed directly at the ROV.
“We’ve got you on-camera,” Brande reported. “Maintain your heading.”
“You look good,” Dokey added.
Otsuka didn’t think so. As the ROV approached, quickly at a combined closure rate of fifteen knots, the lights and camera picked up the evidence of the collision. The starboard side of the sub was heavily damaged, with fiberglass chunks protruding from what once had been a sleek hull.
Dokey didn’t slow down Sneaky Pete a bit. He angled back the descent and passed directly over the on-coming submersible. Her tail fins disappeared from view at the bottom of the screen, and Dokey nudged the nose down again.
Seconds later, the alien sub appeared on the screen.
“It’s one of AquaGeo’s,” Dokey said.
“I think we knew that,” Brande said.
“Yeah, but now we’ve got her on video tape, Chief.”
“And film,” Otsuka said.
“I don’t think so,” Dokey said. “We aren’t likely to get the film back.”
The AquaGeo sub, like DepthFinder, was not moving under power, but coasting upward on buoyancy. As they watched, the twin propellers began to rotate.
Alarmed, Otsuka said, “They’re going to catch her!”
“How do you feel about a quarter-million dollars, Dane?” Dokey asked.
“Spend it!” Brande said.
Dokey picked out the port propeller as his target and dove Sneaky Pete into it.
The screen went black.
DepthFinder reached the surface with its typical urge, as a result of her momentum, to fly clear of the surface, then bounced back.
Svetlana Polodka could tell that the weather had gotten worse since they first submerged. The thirty-ton sub rocked and pitched in the waves. It made her roll back-and-forth in her seat.
“I want to get out,” she said.
It was something she had to do.
“Won’t be long now, Svet,” Emry told her. “Hang on for a few more minutes. It’s raining out there.”
She did not really hear him. She was aware that she was not tracking well, that concentration was difficult. It seemed as if only minutes had passed since they had launched, but she knew that could not be right.
She did not worry about it.
There was something about another submersible, but she did not remember the details. It seemed strange that another submersible was on her mind. Maybe she was supposed to be aboard it.
She did know that she was sick. Her stomach was rebelling, churning. She had a terrible headache. Her head throbbed, pain racing between her temples. It was caused by the stale, dry air of the sphere’s environment.
She knew that.
“I must breathe,” she said.
She turned to look at Emry. “Please. I will die if I do not breathe.”
Emry looked at Thomas.
Thomas’s face was very white in the dimness. The dimness came and went.
“Let’s just crack the hatch open,” Thomas said.
“I will do it,” she yelped and then scrambled up out of her seat.
Emry settled back to let her pass, but held up both of his arms to steady her. She got her feet up on her seat back, felt Emry’s hands gripping her calves. Stood up and found the hatch wheel with her own hands.
She spun the wheel, the locks released, and she shoved it open.
The wonderful ocean air rushed in. It was accompanied by big splashes of cold rain drops that felt very good on her face. Even the saltiness was welcome. She stuck out her tongue to taste it.
The sub was pitching back and forth, shunting her from side to side. She shook one foot free of Emry’s grasp, got her toe hooked on the steel rung, and pushed upward.
A large waved rolled under the sub; it heeled, and she banged into the side of the hatch, spreading the sealing grease over her sweater.
Her sweater?
It was yellow. She did not recognize it.
Hooking her elbows through the hatch and on the deck, she levered herself out of the sub, got her knees under her, then stood up and gripped the edge of the sail.
God, it felt so good.
The rain pelted her, stinging a little, but she did not mind.
Below, she heard Emry telling Kaylene Thomas, “I’ll go up with her.”
Drinking deep gulps of the fresh air, she spun around, almost dancing. The deck bucked under her.
There was the ship.
It was so close, and getting closer.
Her vision tunneled, and her head seemed to contract.
Darkness encroached, then ebbed away.
It was going to be all right.
Mark Jacobs was on the bridge with Overton and Debbie Lane. Dickie Folger had the helm, and Jacobs and Overton both leaned against the forward bulkhead, peering through windshield, scanning the misty day for something.
“There!” Overton exclaimed. “Off to the left!”
Jacobs saw running lights, barely flickering in the distance.
“Come port a few degrees, Dickie,” he said.
A few minutes later, the ship took form.
“That’s her,” Overton said, “the Orion.”
Jacobs recognized the silhouette. “You may have been right, Wilson.”
“Of course, I’m right. My instincts are good.”
Folger eased back on the throttles as they closed the distance to the research ship.
Jacobs noted that the area under the big yoke on the stern of the ship was vacant. He also saw that there were a lot of people on the starboard and aft decks. They were all concentrating on something forward and starboard of the ship.
He followed the track of their interest and soon spotted the small submarine bouncing in the troughs.
“Let’s stay back a little, Dickie. It looks as if they’re about to recover their submersible.”
“Sure thing, Mark,” Folger said and took a slight turn to the north.
“There’s somebody on top of the sub,” Overton said.
Jacobs could make out the figure, dressed in yellow. It seemed to be weaving about, but that might have been the result of the rough seas and the way the submersible was being tossed around.
And as he watched, the figured slumped, pitched forward, and went over the sail. The body bounced once on the deck, and then slid into the sea.
The minute he saw Polodka collapse forward onto the sail, Brande ripped off his slicker.
When the submarine lurched and threw her over the sail, he stepped over the railing, leaned forward, and dove into the sea.
Otsuka yelled behind him, “Dane!”
It wasn’t one of his best dives. He hit the surface of the sea almost flat, and an on-coming wave slapped him off-course, rolling him sideways. He went under only a few feet, kicked his shoes off, and emerged on the surface swimming hard, knifing his hands into the water, pulling until his muscles hurt. His shod feet flailed behind him.