Death danced before me once more as the hairline fracture worked its way slowly, inch by crooked inch, across the acrylic bubble. The fear in my gut seemed to suck me in like a black hole.
Lacombe grabbed desperately for his radio. "Ace, where's that goddamn ROV?!"
"She just passed twenty-two hundred feet."
"Not good enough, Control, we're in serious trouble down here!"
I fell back in my chair again, then I was up on my feet, unable to sit, unable to keep still, the pressure building inside the cabin, building inside my skull, as the crack in the acrylic bubble continued spider- webbing outward, and the depth gauge crept below 4,230 feet.
I closed my eyes, my breathing shallow, insane last thoughts creeping into my mind. I imagined David Caldwell reading my eulogy at a grave site. "… sure, we'll miss him, but as the Beatles said, oh blah dee, oh blah da, life goes on… bra—"
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, the Grim Reaper proved me wrong. With a sizzling hiss, the sub's batteries short-circuited, casting the three of us in a sudden, suffocating, claustrophobic darkness.
Panic seized me, sitting on my chest like an elephant. I gasped for air, I couldn't breathe!
Neon blue emergency lights flashed on as the blessed backup generator took over.
I wheezed an acidic-tasting breath, then another, as I watched the blue lights begin to dim.
"Just hang on, just hang on, we'll be all right." Lacombe was hyperventilating, clearly not believing his own lie.
The aft compartment's five-inch aluminum walls buckled in retort.
All of us were losing it, waiting our turn to die, but poor Hank couldn't take any more. Limbs shaking, his eyes insane with fear, he announced, "I gotta get out of here—" then lunged for the escape hatch.
Paralyzed, I could only watch the drama unfold as Donald Lacombe leaped into the rear compartment and tackled the cameraman, pinning him to the deck. "Kid, get back here and help me! Kid?"
But I was gone, my muscles frozen, my mind mesmerized, for staring at me from beyond the cockpit's cracking acrylic windshield was a pair of round, sinister, opaque eyes… cold and soulless, unthinking eyes of death… mythic and nightmarish, eyes that burn into a man's mind to haunt him the rest of his days… as final as a casket being lowered into the earth and as unfeeling as the maggots that reap upon the flesh.
It was death that stared at me, brain-splattering, final as final can be death — and I screamed like I've never screamed before, a bloodcurdling howl that halted Hank Griffeth in his delirium and sent Donald Lacombe scrambling back over his seat.
The dragon can sense yer fear, Zachary, he can smell it in yer blood. "What? What did you see?"
I gasped, fighting for air to form the words, but the creature was gone, replaced by a blinking red light, now closing in the distance.
Lacombe pointed excitedly, "It's the ROV!"
The mini torpedo-shaped remotely operated vehicle homed in on the sonic distress beacon emanating from our tow hook. Within seconds, the end of the tow-cable was attached, the line instantly going taut. Our submersible groaned and spun, then stopped sinking.
I closed my eyes and continued hyperventilating, still frightened beyond all reason.
"Control, we're attached, but the pressure's cracked the bubble. Take us up, Ace, fast and steady!"
"Roger that, Don. Stand by."
Tears of relief poured from my two companions' eyes as the crippled Massett-6 rose. As for me, I could only stare at the depth gauge as I trembled, counting off seconds and feet as we climbed. 4,200 feet… 4,150… 4,100 …
To my horror, the cracks in the acrylic bubble continued radiating outward, racing to complete the fracture.
3,800 feet… 3,700… 3,600 …
My mind switched into left-brain mode, instantly calculating our constant rate of ascent against the pattern of cracks and declining water pressure squeezing against the glass.
No good, the glass won't hold… we need to climb faster!
A pipe burst overhead, spewing icy water all over my back. Leaping from my seat, I attacked the shut-off valve like a madman. "Faster, Control, she's breaking up!"
3,150… 3,100… 3,050…
The pipe leak sealed, I curled in a ball, allowing Hank to replace me up front.
2,800 feet… 2,700… 2,600 …
The first droplets of seawater appeared along the cracks in the bubble. "Come on, baby," Lacombe chanted, "hold on… just a little bit longer."
1,800 feet… 1,700… 1,600 …
We seemed to be rising faster now, the ebony sea melding around us into shades of gray, dawn's curtains filtering into the depths.
The pilot and cameraman giggled and slapped one another on the back.
Hyperventilating, I exhaled and inhaled, preparing my lungs for the rush of sea I prayed would never come.
"Thank you, Jesus, thank you," Hank whispered, crossing himself with one hand, wiping sweat and tears from his beet-red face with the other. "Praise God, we're saved."
"Told you we'd make it," Donald said, his cockiness returning with the light.
"My kids… I can't wait to hug them again."
What were they talking about? Didn't they realize we were still too deep, still in danger?
"Hey, Zack, hand me my camera, we need to document our triumphant return."
Like a zombie, I reached to the deck and picked up the heavy piece of equipment, passing it forward, confused about why we were still alive.
See, you're not such a genius, you can be wrong. Now lighten up. As Lisa would say, enjoy the ride.
1,200 feet.
1,000 feet.
800 feet…
David's voice blared over the radio. "Dr. Wallace, you still with us?" Hank swung his camera around, but I pushed the lens away. "Dr. Wallace? Hello? Say something so we know you're alive."
"Fuck you."
600 feet… 520 feet… 440 feet…
The ocean melded from a deep purple into a royal blue as we passed the deepest depths a human had ever ventured on a single breath.
The second deepest point, only a few feet higher, had resulted in death.
365 feet…
Good… keep going, the water's weight subsiding every foot, the cracks slowing now.
310 feet.
I wiped away tears, my face breaking into a broad smile. Hank slapped me on the back and I giggled. Maybe we were going to make it.
"Control to Six, divers are in the water, standing by. Welcome back, team."
Lacombe winked at Hank. "Hey, Control, wait until you see what we've got on film."
Life is so fragile. One moment you're alive, the next, a semi-tractor trailer plows into you and it's all over, no warning, no final words or thoughts, everything gone.
At 233 feet, the bubble exploded inward, the Sargasso roaring through our sanctuary like a freight train, blinding us in its suffocating fury.
I saw the pilot's face explode like a ripe tomato as shards of acrylic glass riddled his harnessed body like machine gun fire. Hank appeared out of the corner of my eye, and then the Atlantic Ocean lifted me from my perch and bashed me sideways against the rear wall. Only the sudden change in pressure kept me conscious, squeezing my skull in its vise. Buried beneath this howling avalanche, I lashed out blindly in the darkness, my muscles lead, my hands groping… my mind recognizing the rear hatch even as it ordered my spent arms to turn its wheel.
I felt the surface ship's support cable snap beneath the weight of the sea. My hands held on desperately to the hatch as the freed submersible tumbled backward, falling once more toward the abyss.
The sudden loss of pressure tore at my eardrums.
And then, miraculously, the hatch yawned open.