Since the tunnel was draining, that meant Prichard was successful, and that, at least, was encouraging. The Old Man had forewarned me that this would last for several minutes. The effect of the backwashing was that the water coming back down the tunnel pushed seaweed and small fish off the screens and back out through the bar racks. As we clung to the bar racks, the water around us got cloudy from all the accumulated debris that the screens collected. Because the other circulating water pump in the adjoining bay was still running, much of this was going to be sucked up in its suction. I didn’t know if that was a problem or not.
I hadn’t anticipated the water being so cloudy. If the reduced visibility didn’t improve soon, it’d make cutting the bar racks more difficult. Fortunately, after a few minutes I felt the back surge slow and saw less debris clouding the water.
I reached into the equipment bag strapped to my belt and took out the highly proprietary military laser torch. I’d been trained on how to use it but didn’t have a lot of experience with it. If that wasn’t bad enough, the cold water was starting to numb my fingers. My gloves were also thin to allow me the flexibility to work the gear. It’s surprising how quickly cold can debilitate you. In northern latitudes, where the seawater was actually below freezing, if you fell in without the proper protection you’d be dead before someone could pull you out two minutes later. I happened to know that because I’d trained off the coast of Scotland putting together a take-back strategy for an oilrig. I hated the cold.
Despite the temperature, I was able to get the torch set up and turned on. A bright red light shot forward like an angry demon, vaporizing the water around it. I guided it toward the bar racks.
Within minutes, I had cut through two of the huge bars, providing a hole sufficiently big enough to let the two of us swim through. I turned off the laser and put it back in the bag. I might need it again — perhaps to get out of the tunnel.
I looked at my regulator to check on my air supply. We were okay but needed to get moving. I looked back at the Old Man and just nodded. I turned back and worked my way through the hole, careful to avoid ripping my wet suit or catching my gear on anything.
I made it through easily enough. Little successes are often encouraging; though I knew the challenging parts were yet to come. Once through, I turned and motioned for the Old Man to follow me. He, too, got through without incident. We were now both passed the bar racks. I unhooked us from the rope but coiled it back up — keeping it in ready reserve.
A few feet ahead of us were the traveling screens. The Old Man told me that part of the process for turning off the circulating water pump involved shutting down the screens. So the screens stand there, motionless in the dark water. I swam down to the bottom of them. According to the prints, the screens do not go all the way to the bottom. Most everything the station personnel are worried about that could be in water was buoyant and tended to float up more toward the top half of the screens. So room was left at the bottom to ensure the screens didn’t catch on something heavy that may have gotten through the bar racks. I was hoping this space was enough for us to slide under and get into the suction of the massive pump. According to the prints, this should be possible. There were clearly a lot of fail points to this plan.
At the bottom of the screens, I found that the space between the screen and the bottom runner was not as big as I’d hoped. My only chance of getting through was to take my tanks off and try to wiggle underneath it. I snapped the bungee cord to make sure the Old Man knew where I was. He was only two feet away, but visibility was still pretty bad and it would be easy to get disoriented in the cloudy water. He moved over to me and saw what I was doing. I assumed he was going to figure out why. It didn’t take him long. I saw him giving me a thumbs up, indicating that he understood what I was trying to do.
I rolled over onto my back and, with my tanks off, tried to slide underneath the screen headfirst. It was a tight fit and I would have had a much harder time if I were any bigger around. It was at times like this that I was glad I wasn’t a bulkier guy. It took a minute of wiggling, but I was able to make it underneath, with my tanks in tow.
On the other side of the screen, it got even darker, causing my heart to start to beat a bit harder. I was exerting myself and I found myself in a closed space that could clearly take my life if I wasn’t careful. I’d been put through a battery of physical tests to see if I could handle tight spaces, and passed all the exams, but I couldn’t say I enjoyed them. If anything, confined spaces like this were what I struggled with the most. So it was natural that I worried now about the Old Man. I didn’t know how he was with confined spaces. He hadn’t been through the same kind of training I’d had, so he may not really know. Sometimes it’s like that. You didn’t know how you would do until you were tested. Some people adapt well and quickly. I hoped the Old Man was one of them.
I looked down at my regulator again. Tick, tock. I couldn’t waste a lot of time worrying about it now. We’d find out soon enough as I saw the Old Man follow my lead. With his tanks off, he wiggled on his back and moved under the screen. I kept my flashlight on him through the still-murky water. Having that ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ often helped the next guy by letting him know he wasn’t alone. That expression would be put to the test before we were done tonight.
It took the Old Man a little longer than it took me, but he finally emerged on my side of the screen, where he looked around, saw me, and gave me another thumbs up. If the Old Man had a problem with small, tight spaces, he wasn’t showing it. Besides, it was too late to do anything about it now.
Once we were both on the inside of the screens, we put our tanks back on and checked our air gauges. We were exerting ourselves, which caused us to use up our air more quickly than we’d wanted, and we had a long way to go yet.
I reached over to the Old Man and put one hand on his arm in the dark cage we were in. I didn’t bother with a thumbs up at this point. I just squeezed his arm, letting him know I was there with him. I didn’t know if he needed it, but it never hurt to take care of your team. He looked over at me and nodded his head slowly in acknowledgment. That also gave us a few seconds to slow our breathing to conserve our air. So far, so good.
From what I could see, we were in a man-made area that I assumed was the suction plenum of the pump. You could look at prints and all the pictures you wanted to, but often times the real thing looked different. In this particular case, it didn’t matter because I couldn’t see much of anything anyway. The water was still very murky, and visibility was limited, flashlights notwithstanding. We’d have to go with a mental picture of where we were. I took the lead and started swimming up, away from the direction we had just come. Swimming was a misnomer. I really just sort of pulled myself along as best I could. With my light shining ahead of me, I soon came across the smooth metal of the pump impeller. It was a bit of a surreal sight. The impeller was a huge spiral that wound upward. I reached out and touched it gingerly, as if to satisfy myself that it really wasn’t moving. I only hoped it stayed that way. If the pump started right now, I’d be crushed inside this impeller. That was another cheery thought that lingered briefly in my subconscious. I’d feel a lot better when we were safely through and on the other side.
From the schematics we looked at before we came, I knew it was about twelve feet high, and I’d estimated I’d have to bend around the impeller at least twice before I came out on top. If I got stuck, I’d run out of air and drown. In the back of my mind, I kept hearing Prichard saying it can’t be done. I thought of all the times I’d heard that before. Bullshit! With grim resolve, I put that out of my head. Never quit, my dad would tell me when I was small. Just don’t quit.