"That's no SPCC," I said to the Skipper.
The Skipper nodded. "I got it," he said.
"There's another cable-hose bundle out there somewhere," I said to Devon. "But leave it for now. Drop back down to just visible, and hang out with your light off." As an afterthought I added, "Careful that you don't get wrapped around the cable."
"Never happen, Sir." Even over the sound-powered phone, Devon sounded insulted.
"Dive Control, Red Diver, visibility is beginning to clear… whoa — they got divers in the water!"
"Back off, Red Diver. Don't let them see you."
The Skipper picked up another sound-powered phone handset. "Sonar," he said, "any other activity?"
"There's a tender on the surface, Sir. He's stationkeeping with thrusters. Too damn much noise to hear anything else, Sir."
"Red Diver," I said, "ascend to twenty feet over bottom." They were at exactly 600 feet. "Watch your ceiling," I added, "don't get shallower than five-hundred seventy-five. Keep that five-foot margin."
"In this visibility they're not going to look up," I said to the Skipper. "I'm going to move the Basketball in closer, so we can watch from above. If they actually glance up, their minds won't interpret what they see as something manmade."
"Okay," the Skipper said, "but be careful."
I gave the appropriate instructions to Devon, and a minute later we had a bird's eye view of two divers about ten feet below the Basketball, trudging along the bottom, dragging mesh bags, partially filled with missile debris. The visibility moved in and out, but once your mind got the idea, the picture became fairly clear as the brain integrated the flashes of clear with the grainy turbidity.
I instructed our three divers to move over and above the Basketball, and to hang off to one side for the time being. The Soviet divers were emitting bubbles, which meant they were not using closed-cycle rigs. They were burning a lot of helium this way, and the bell displayed no exterior gas bottles, so their breathing supply was being piped down through the cable bundle. I tried to determine if they were using hot water rigs, but couldn't really tell. Their umbilicals were thinner than ours, and dragged on the bottom.
"Red Diver, I said, "are they using hot water?"
"Doesn't look like it, Sir. Umbilicals are too thin, and the suits are too tight. Looks like heavy-weight neoprene."
That was interesting. That meant their bottom time was drastically limited by the cold. Unless they had a way of heating up the bell interior, they would develop hypothermia rather quickly. I looked at their movements. They appeared to move their arms as little as possible, a clear indication that their suits constricted their movement — as heavy-duty wetsuits would do.
The Soviet divers appeared to be using weighted shoes, but they each also had a pair of fins tied to their waists, and seemed to sport a come-home bottle as well. The bell had several large mesh bags attached to the outside that were partially filled with missile parts, large and small. One of the divers dragged his full bag to the bell and began to unload it into the bell's mesh bag.
"What's your bag load right now?" I asked the guys. I had instructed them to retain their bags while investigating the Soviet divers. Visibility was too bad to park the bags on the bottom. They would never have found them again. And the lift bags were to unpredictable to tie them off from the umbilical behind them. So they toted the bags with them. Let's face it. No missile parts, wasted trip.
"Red Diver — half full."
"Green Diver — three-quarters."
"Blue Diver — 'bout two-thirds."
Blue Diver, Dive Control, take control of all three bags and bring them back to Mama," I ordered.
As I gave the order, the Soviet diver at the bell finished emptying his bag and turned to head back to his companion. His mesh bag caught on something on the bell, and as his momentum pulled his feet forward, his torso remained where it was. In two seconds flat, he was on his back looking straight at my divers. At just that moment, the visibility cleared dramatically, and the diver had a full view in the reflected light of three divers hanging a few feet above him, a round tethered ball off to one side, and mesh bags just visible towering above them.
We were unable to see his facial expression, but we did get a glimpse of his eyes. They were wide open with shock. Then, apparently his training took over. He kicked off his weighted boots, stripped his fins from his waist and donned them in one practiced maneuver, and then — to our collective total surprise — grabbed what turned out to be a gas-powered spear gun from a rack on the outside of the bell. In one smooth motion he brought the gun up and fired.
"God damn! The sonovabitch shot me!" Ski yelped. "Right through my fucking arm!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"Skipper?" This was a decision I couldn't make.
"Take them out, Mac!"
"Ski — are you mobile?" I asked.
"I'm fine, I just got a fucking spear in my arm." Ski didn't sound too happy.
"Listen all of you," I said. "First, kill the coms! Cut their main cable bundle. Watch out for spear guns. Move it, Guys!"
We had perhaps a minute or so before someone down there thought to call topside. Perhaps they already had, but we needed to move.
"Dive Control, it's Bill. I'm at the bundle. It's three pieces — gas, comms, and strength member. I'm sawing the comms."
Suddenly the Basketball monitor cleared up and I could see Bill cutting away at the comm cable.
"I'm watching, Bill," I told him.
"I'm through the skin, Dive Control…" Grunting and panting. "Okay — it's cut."
Just then the Basketball monitor went crazy.
"Something jerked the Basketball," Devon said urgently. "I zoomed away, but I think they grabbed the Basketball cable."
"Harry, take care of it!" I ordered. "Devon, try to give me a view."
The monitor swirled, and then a beam of light cut a swath across the monitor. The image swung wildly, and then we were looking into the mask of a stranger. He had a knife in his hand, and was trying to strike the Basketball. Then a hand reached across his mask from behind and ripped it off. The image jerked and went wild again. Then it stabilized.
"I've got control again, Mac," Devon said over the sound-powered phone.
I watched, fascinated. The Soviets were using some pretty basic stuff — plain facemask and a regulator in the mouth. The diver had the presence of mind to keep his eyes open, but he didn't do the next most important thing. He forgot to protect his regulator, and in a heartbeat Harry had ripped it out of his mouth. Instantly, it was a life and death struggle.
The Russian's right hand flashed across the monitor holding a ten-inch serrated blade. But where Harry's hand had been was just empty water, and a moment later Harry's blade sliced across the Russian's neck, and the water turned black.
I turned to the Skipper. "Skipper, we need an explosive cutter fast. With comms gone, they're going to pull the bell up in a bit. They'll get the divers back in the bell somehow, and then bring her up." I gestured to Ham who turned to talk to the guys in the Can.
The Skipper grabbed the 1MC. "Engineer to Control." And he left for Control himself.
Ham had Jer ready to go by the time the explosive cutter arrived at the Dive Console. Ham passed it through the medical lock, and six minutes after I asked the Skipper for the cutter, it was in Jer's leg pocket on its way to the bell.
"Ski, what's your condition?" I asked.
"Hurtin', but I'll live, El-Tee," he answered.
"Then follow your umbilical back. Jer's bringing an explosive cutter to cut the bell cable."
"Right on — I'm on my way," Ski answered.