He nodded, then set out.
Every protective instinct urged her to follow him, but instead, she turned to the ship and their mission, like she’d told Tesla she would. At the range of a thousand feet, Mulcahy said they needed to keep the DPV’s motor off, so she’d have to swim the next leg. They were putting a lot of faith in a guy who spent more of his life listening to nonhuman sounds than to human speech.
The sub drone had a five-hundred-foot cable. Because radio signals don’t work underwater across long distances, the sub had to have a tether to send signals across. She had to get within the range of the tether to send the sub on its way. Once she was close enough, she hovered three feet underwater and set up the tiny device. Pretty straightforward — just drive the drone toward the yacht and sub. It had a camera mounted on top, and it would send the image back along the wire. She unwound the cable slowly, making sure there were no knots or kinks.
She turned the underwater drone on and sent it toward the sub. For the first two hundred feet, everything looked fine. Through the camera, she saw dark water flowing around the drone and a subtle brightening ahead that must come from the yacht. Just keep on going.
Then the video sent by the drone lurched to the side. The faint glow was replaced by complete darkness. She had no idea what direction the drone was heading in. A malfunction. Or it had hit something.
She’d have to start over.
Slowly, she pulled the cable back, one handful at a time. Nothing to worry about. But then she reached the end of the cable.
The remote-control drone was not attached.
The drone must have fallen off the cable. She’d never be able to recover the tiny sub. Tesla had set the sub to have negative buoyancy so it wouldn’t float to the surface if they lost control of it.
It was halfway to the ocean floor by now.
She looked down at her dive computer. She had plenty of air.
Decision time.
She could abandon the mission and follow Tesla back to the Voyager. The flying drones had captured plenty of pictures. She and Tesla had proven that the submarine existed. They could let the government take care of the situation.
On the other hand, the people on the submarine were going around killing innocents. They had sunk an oil tanker. They had killed the prince’s bodyguard and almost killed her and Tesla. If she put a transponder on the sub, it would be easy to find them and stop them. If she didn’t, or didn’t even try, wouldn’t the lives that they still might take be on her?
Unsure, she hovered in the dark water, the useless cable in her hand.
She remembered her terror in the submarine. Tesla’s determined face on the other side. He’d stuck with her. He hadn’t let her die down there. She couldn’t let him down. They had set out to tag the giant sub, and that’s what she was going to do.
But quietly.
She stabilized at three feet under the surface and kicked toward the sub, pushing the silent DPV in front of her with her good hand. She had two transponders left in her pocket. Two chances to attach one to the sub.
When she reached the back of the submarine, she was careful to stay away from the giant propellers. Captain Glascoe had told her they’d “chew her up to chum” if she got too close when they were on. Trying to put that mental image out of her head, she swam on.
She drifted up next to the sub’s hull. Almost close enough to touch. She kicked back a stroke and took out a transponder. Painted black and about the size of a coaster, but fatter, it was supposed to be so tiny the people on the sub would never notice it. Step one was to not drop the transponder into the depths of the sea.
Step two was to stick it to the sub. Before she could attach it to the hull, a light from above cut through the water and overwhelmed her night vision.
Chapter 38
Joe bounced through the ocean behind the DPV, trying to decide if it would be easier to just die. He’d never been so sick. He didn’t have any way to rinse out his regulator, so his mouth tasted of seawater and vomit every time he took a breath, and it felt like he was getting stabbed in the side every time he took a breath. He’d long since run out of things to throw up, but that didn’t stop the dry heaves.
Worse, he’d left Vivian behind.
But she was efficient. She’d probably already carried out her mission. She was a better navigator and lighter than he was. She’d probably reach the Voyager before he did.
He pointed the DPV east. Cold water pressed against the outside of his suit. At a depth of three (red) feet, waves lifted him up and down, and pale starlight shone on the surface. Just enough to trigger a light panic attack.
The compass heading was all that mattered. He used breathing exercises to ignore rising nausea, pain in his ribs, increasing light-headedness and guilt. He had to focus on one (cyan) thing — getting back to the ship. There’d be time to feel everything else later.
Eventually, a bright blue spot beckoned. Captain Glascoe must have dropped a light into the water. Joe made for it. The boat was moving more slowly than he, and he kicked to speed up the DPV. Harder and harder to hold on.
He headed toward the light. Safety. But he hadn’t practiced getting onto a moving boat. He’d planned, but he’d been too sick.
The most important thing was to keep clear of the propeller on the stern. He knew that much. Unfortunately, that’s where the swim platform was. He had no idea how he’d scale the smooth sides of the boat. He swam around, looking for something.
On the port side, he found it. A fishing net trailing into the ocean. But he knew from pictures he’d seen that once he got to the surface, it was at least a six-(orange)-foot climb until he’d reach the railing and someone could pull him in. Six (orange) feet. Above the water.
He latched on to the net and hung on. The wake banged him against the boat, knocking the wind out of him, and the pain from his side was so bad, he almost passed out. His DPV smacked his other side, but he couldn’t do anything to adjust it. He lifted himself up until his head was just below the waterline and started doing breathing exercises. Part of him wanted to let go and drift off into the sea. Quit fighting and rest.
But he had to get on board and make sure Vivian was OK. He hung on.
Then the net started to move. He threaded his feet through the holes and curled his fingers around the rope. Only then did he notice the cold. His fingers were claws. He shivered so hard he worried he’d fall off the net. How long had he been shivering?
Unseen figures lifted the net out of the water. Hands helped him over the side and dragged him until his back settled against the inside of the boat. Someone tugged off his hood and regulator. A warm tongue licked his cold face.
“Vivian’s back there,” he said. “She stayed behind to attach the transponder.”
“I know.” Captain Glascoe’s deep voice rumbled out.
Joe tried to push himself up into a standing position but collapsed against the wall.
“Sallow complexion.” The captain peeled back his wetsuit and put warm fingers on his neck. “Pulse fast but weak. Get him on an IV, saline, and an antiemetic. And warm him up.”
Joe’s brain was having trouble parsing what the captain had said.
“Vivian. Vivian OK?”
“I don’t know.” The captain gestured to someone Joe couldn’t see. “Get him inside.”
“Yes, sir,” said Marshall.
The captain turned to someone else. “Increase speed along the submarine’s last heading.”
“Vivian. She’ll never find us if we change course.”
Someone heaved Joe over his shoulder. Pain lanced up from his side, and he screamed.