“That’s the break in the shoals,” said Pete. “The one place they can pass at periscope depth. Somehow they knew.”
Moody nodded grimly, her thoughts confirmed once again: they’d been betrayed.
The enemy submarine glided easily through the break in the shoals. It crept closer and closer to them; he could just barely make out the small V of water it left in the periscope’s wake. Pete imagined Jennifer Carlson looking at him through the scope, magnified, with the crosshairs of the reticule on his chest. Soon it looked so close that Pete could see the glass of the scope lens. He was worried the two ships might collide.
Then suddenly, the giant submarine rose from the water.
The enemy boat rose faster than the water could fall from it, so the sea poured off it in sheets as it surfaced. Just as Carlson had told him in shaft alley, the ship had been at sea for years; its paint was chipped, and starfish adhered to the hull. It looked like an ancient ghost ship that the sea was relinquishing to them.
Instantly the drones adjusted their flights, a contingent of them peeling off the Polaris and swarming over the enemy boat.
But none dropped their bombs.
“Shit,” said Moody.
“They’re too close,” said Pete. “Inside the five-mile line, just like us.”
“So now what do we do?”
“We have to make them back up,” he said. “Just a few feet.” He thought for a minute, thought about what little he knew about Carlson, her fearful voice on the radio in shaft alley. Now that they knew they were safe from the drones, an armed boarding party was starting to climb out of the Typhon submarine, methodically loading two small inflatable boats and putting them over the side.
“How…” she said, but Pete was already climbing back down the ladder to enter the Polaris.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“Take this,” he said, handing Moody his shirt. “I have to make a call.”
He ran aft, aided by the angle of the ship, running downhill all the way. The angle had grown steeper, and the smell of seawater, and the sound of it rushing in, permeated the ship.
Through the missile compartment and into the engine room, almost falling as gravity aided his sprint aft. He opened the door into the tunnel and ran into the turbine room.
Water was up to the deck plates. Some of the turbines were still running, but the noises were unhealthy. The symphony of machinery he’d heard earlier, machines lovingly maintained by Ramirez, was now discordant. Gears were grinding, and steam was hissing from the turbines and pumps that were in their death throes. Pete continued running aft, to the ladder to shaft alley. Looking down, he saw there was just about a foot of space remaining above the water; he hoped the radio was still dry and functional.
As he stood at the top of the ladder, he also considered that the water might not be seawater — it could be coolant leaking from a damaged reactor, which would be lethally radioactive. It might also be alive with electricity, through the bared wires or deranged generators that were submerged beneath it. But there was no time to check, and he was running out of options. He took a deep breath, and dropped down the ladder.
The water was up to his chest, and got deeper as he fought his way aft. When he got to the alcove where the radio was hidden, only his head was above water. He reached in and pulled it out. He pressed the red button and spoke. “Typhon, this is Polaris.”
He waited a moment, hearing nothing but static. He was about to give up when a response came.
“Hamlin, this is Captain Carlson. Is that gushing water I hear? Are you coming around now that you’re about to sink?” The voice was clearer than he remembered it, perhaps aided by their proximity.
“No time to argue,” he said. “You need to surface and send a boat over here so we can surrender to you. Moody is ready.”
“I see her waving that flag. A boarding party is on the way.”
“Thank god,” said Pete. “We’ve got sick people onboard. Very sick.”
There was a pause. “Nice try, Hamlin,” she said. “I’ll have to see that for myself.”
“Send your doctor.”
“I’ll see if he’s available,” she said. “I think today is the day he golfs.” She disconnected.
He shut off the radio and climbed out of shaft alley. He ran forward, through an engine room that was now almost completely dark.
At the watertight door, Doctor Haggerty met him: somehow he always knew when Pete was in shaft alley. He looked panicked. “Are we sinking?”
“Looks that way,” said Pete.
“We’ve got to get out of here! Aren’t we right next to Eris Island?”
“How did you know that?” asked Pete.
The doctor shrugged nervously. “I’ve been paying attention, glimpsing at our position on the chart when I can. We’ve got to get to that island!”
Pete stared hard at him.
“And we need to help Finn,” the doctor added.
“You’re right. Let’s go.”
They ran forward to the escape trunk, uphill all the way, fighting the steep angle of the ship. When they got there, they found Finn sitting calmly on his steel bench, seemingly resigned to going down with his ship. He looked awful; his days locked in the dark had taken their toll. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken. He looked, Pete confirmed, like a very sick man.
“Wake up, Captain,” said Pete.
“Look who’s here,” he said, opening his eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Port call,” said Pete. “The doctor and I thought we’d take you out for some fresh air.”
“I don’t know if I can today, I’m pretty busy.”
Pete was already unbolting the grid that had kept Finn captive. He was dripping wet, and water pooled around his feet as he worked. The grate dropped to the deck with a clang. The captain started to climb down.
“No,” said Pete. “We’re going to use your little room here, if you don’t mind.”
The doctor climbed up the ladder. Pete handed up three hoods from the locker, followed by a tightly packed inflatable raft.
“Grab that one, too,” said the captain, pointing to a tightly bundled canister wrapped in the same Day-Glo orange nylon. “That’s the motor.”
Soon all three men crowded into the escape trunk with the two bundles. Pete pulled up the bottom hatch behind them and turned the locking ring until it was tightly shut. It was suddenly quiet as they were sealed off from the rest of the noisily sinking ship.
“How far below the surface are we?” said the captain. “I can feel the angle.”
“I think about twenty feet right here,” said Pete. “The forward trunk is completely out of the water. The engine room is almost completely flooded. And we’re getting deeper.”
The captain moved deftly around the trunk, verifying that all the valves were lined up correctly, then he handed each of the men a yellow hood. “Put these on. They’ll help you get to the surface.”
Soon they each had a hood on, and gave a thumbs-up. Finn opened a valve, and the trunk began to fill with water.
“We’ll fill it up first!” he shouted above the noise. “Then we’ll equalize pressure, and we’ll swim out.”
The water was soon up to their knees, and it was hard not to feel panic as they sat in a small steel chamber that was rapidly filling with water. Pete felt his heart pounding as the waterline reached his neck. The doctor looked even more stricken, his eyes wide with fright through the clear plastic of his hood.
“Will that raft hold all three of us?” Pete shouted over the sound of rushing water.
“It should,” said the captain. “I used to look at that thing when we were eight hundred feet deep in five thousand feet of ocean — always made me laugh. I couldn’t think of a situation where it would ever be useful.”