Even Uncle Albert had abandoned her, the barracuda being conspicuously absent from his usual haunt outside the galley’s porthole. Certain that he’d be back in time for leftovers, she breaded the defrosted fish filets in cornmeal, and went to work on the casserole.
It was while cooking the rice that she became aware of a gathering headache. Beginning in her temples, it quickly expanded, until her whole head seemed to be throbbing with pain. She felt slightly dizzy, and decided that a couple of Tylenol were in order. This medication was stored in the bathroom, and as she left the kitchen, she spotted a small green object on the floor beside the dining room table. Her pain-clouded thoughts were unable to identify it at first, and it wasn’t until she bent down that she realized what she was looking at.
“Oh my God, Uige!”
The parrot was gasping for breath, and seemed to be barely hanging onto life. With Lisa’s exclamation, it opened its eyes wide, then began shaking uncontrollably.
Seconds later, it was dead.
Lisa’s first instinct was to pick up and cuddle the poor creature. But then a sudden realization dawned in her consciousness. Uige hadn’t been there just for his company, but had been included with a definite purpose in mind. She suddenly found herself panting for breath, and knew in an instant what had killed their mascot. The air had gone bad!
Every couple of days, Commandant Lenclud would surprise them with an unannounced drill. The scenarios ranged from fire to a loss of their life-support systems. The Frenchman had insisted that these training sessions be adhered to with the strictest of realism, and they were constantly repeated, until they could practically react to each worst-case scenario in their sleep.
Though the constant throbbing pain in her head made the mere process of thinking difficult, the long hours of repetitive training paid off, and she instinctively dragged herself into the ready room. She was fighting for each breath as she reached for her scuba tanks, turned on the regulator, and put the rubber mouthpiece of the air hose into her mouth. The relief was almost instantaneous. She no longer had to struggle to breathe, and even her headache seemed to dissipate.
With her thoughts now clearing, she proceeded to put on her wet suit, weight belt, and dual tank harness.
Then with mask and fins in hand, she began her way into the water to warn the others.
Lisa found her four scuba-clad associates outside, working on the fish pens. Dr. Petrov held a white plastic clipboard in hand and waterproof pen, that they used to communicate with, and Lisa borrowed these objects to spell out the warning.
Air Emergency!!! Uige dead!!!
This dreaded message prompted an immediate response.
It was the Frenchman who led the way over to Habitat One. With their air tanks still in place, they climbed inside to check the compressor. They found it in perfect working order, which meant only one thing.
It was the air mixture itself that was at fault. While Karl Ivar and Tomo went back into the storeroom to see what they could do to rectify this catastrophic problem, Lenclud grabbed the clipboard. He expressed himself with a frantic scrawl.
Gather all emergency scuba tanks. Am returning to Starfish House to issue SOS.
Lisa signaled with a thumbs-up, and she worriedly watched the Frenchman as he turned for the access way to get on with this task.
Thomas Moore had been pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to locate the submerged cables. They located them on active sonar, at a depth of two hundred and fifty feet, almost directly beneath Academician Petrovsky. With the invaluable assistance of the Avalon’s bow-mounted video camera, they verified this find, and began following the snaking cables into the black depths below.
At four hundred and twenty-seven feet, the Avalon appeared to stop dead in the water, and it was Ned Barnes who surmised that it was the thermocline that was most likely impeding their way. To penetrate this dense liquid barrier, additional salt water ballast was brought aboard, and the DSRV was able to continue its descent.
The depth gauge was just about to pass five hundred feet, when the radio activated with a burst of static, followed by a firm male voice.
“Alpha, Omega, Bravo, this is Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot. Do you read me, over?”
Barnes pulled down his chin-mounted microphone and responded.
“Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot, this is Alpha, Omega, Bravo. We copy you loud and clear. How can we help you?”
“Alpha, Omega, Bravo, we need you to break off your current op at once, and head to chart coordinates three-five-zero-one. We’ve just been notified of an emergency aboard the Mir habitat that requires your immediate presence.”
“I copy that. Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot. Let them know that the cavalry is on its way.”
“Well don’t that take the cake,” added Ned Barnes as he pushed the microphone out of his way.
“Looks like it’s a good thing that we were down here snooping after all.”
He yanked back on the joystick, and the Avalon pulled out of its descent, until its bow was steeply angled upwards.
“Thomas, I need you to access the navigation plot. If I remember right, that habitat is located almost due west of us, at a depth of about sixty feet. It’s well within our range, and I can only wonder what in the hell’s happening to warrant this abrupt change in orders.”
“Captain, I’ve got increased propeller revs on the DSRV,” reported the Pantera’s senior sonar technician.
“I believe they’ve just pulled out of their dive.”
“Right now that’s inconsequential, Comrade,” returned the zampolit, who stood directly behind the sonarman, with Alexander Litvinov close beside him.
“Because as the captain here will attest, our proper quarry is not the DSRV, but its mother vessel. What is the status of the 688?”
The bearded sonar operator readjusted his sensors, and answered Dubrinin somewhat tentatively.
“I believe it’s turning on a new course, bearing two-five zero.”
“Why weren’t we made aware of this course change sooner?” barked the enraged Zampolit.
“While you wasted your efforts on that DSRV, our prey almost slipped right out of our fingers!”
“Please get control of yourself. Comrade Dubrinin,” interjected Litvinov.
“Raising your voice like that will accomplish us nothing.”
Redirecting his remarks to the technician, the captain spoke out in a calm, reassuring tone.
“Isolate the 688, Misha, and interface its signature directly into the firecontrol system.”
“Will we be launching a torpedo at them. Captain?” asked the concerned technician.
“I certainly hope not,” returned Litvinov.
“Though all six of our tubes are currently loaded with weapons, our intention here is not to start World War III, Misha.
We’ve only been ordered to scare the American submarine away. And to accomplish this, I think that our first task should be to let them know that we’re here. We shall do this by hitting them with a deafening burst of active sonar, that’s bound to get their attention and put fear in their hearts.”
17
“I sure am sorry about da delay. Doc,” apologized Al from the open confines of the Sunshine’s wheelhouse. “It sure ain’t like Sunshine to fail me like that.”
“All that matters is that we safely made the crossing, Al,” returned Dr. Elizabeth, who stood beside him, with her hands on hips.
Andros Island was passing on their right, and the psychic looked out at the lowlying mass of mangrove trees and sand. The sun was already inching towards the western horizon, yet it still radiated unmerciful warmth. With the brim of her straw hat long since soaked. Dr. Elizabeth redirected her gaze to the boat’s interior cabin, when Mimi Slater emerged into the sunlight.