Or would they?
In those few seconds, a sudden realization hit Alison like a brick over the head. Dirk and Sally’s melon or “sound lens” must be far more sensitive than they thought.
Which returned her to a question she’d pondered several days before. With the larger size and folding of a dolphin brain over a human’s, just what else were Dirk and Sally truly capable of that they didn’t yet know about?
It was an exhilarating thought — one that was promptly interrupted when Dirk began moving again, pulling Clay and Angelo along with him.
Unfortunately, several sections of Dirk’s new path were too tight to pass through smoothly. Twice, Clay had to fade back and briefly unsecure their tanks, allowing them to float behind each person to reduce their girth. Only then were they able to squeeze through and continue forward.
To make matters worse, there was no way for Clay or Alison to communicate with Demos or his son, except by hand signals. Of which they didn’t seem too familiar. And each minute of delay meant more air their frightened lungs were consuming.
Once they were out, the ascent would help reduce the pressure and expand the air in their lungs. But until then, it was a race that left Clay hoping desperately that Dirk knew what he was doing.
The last thing he wanted to do was to end up returning two lifeless bodies to the surface.
So when they finally burst out of the caves and into the rays of shimmering light from above, an excited Clay turned and smiled at Alison.
She grinned and pulled hard on her rope to bring Dimitris into view and ensure he was still lucid. He was. And grateful beyond words.
Angelo, his son, was grinning widely despite the bulky regulator between his lips. And as he ascended slowly, he reached out his hand and swept it through a small school of silver fish, all of which darted quickly away.
When they all finally breached the surface, both Dimitris and Angelo Demos wasted no time removing their mouthpieces and breathing in a lungful of fresh, cool air.
Dimitris kicked forward and immediately wrapped his arms around his son, weeping as small, ocean swells gently washed over them.
“I thought I would lose you!” he sobbed. “Please forgive your father and know that I am so very sorry!”
Angelo embraced his father just as hard and cried into his neck.
Clay raised his head, squinting at the bright sun as he scanned the horizon. Less than seventy yards away, their gleaming aluminum boat was clearly visible and lashed to the side of a chartered catamaran. And peering desperately over one of its hulls was a mother and a young girl.
Dimitris’s wife, clearly at her wit’s end, clung tightly to her daughter and, upon seeing both her son and husband, she began to weep.
“Alina!” her husband called out in a trembling voice. “We are all right!”
At that, his wife simply collapsed, falling backwards onto one of the boat’s fiberglass benches, dazed and covering her face with her hands. Standing next to them, Lee Kenwood smiled and watched the young daughter wrap her tiny arms around her mother.
Both Clay and Alison followed as the father and son swam breathlessly to their boat. Dirk and Sally remained nearby with heads still bobbing out of the water.
Them happy.
Alison turned to Dirk. “Yes, they are happy. Thanks to you.”
Them want metal Alison.
She smiled. “You could say that.”
Metal close.
Alison nodded and turned back to the boat. “Yes, it is. Thank goodness.”
Old metal. No far.
Dirk stared at her for a long moment. Soon dozens of dolphins appeared above the waves.
Clay smiled warmly at Alison. “Well, I guess you were wrong.”
“About what?”
He nodded toward the boats, where Lee was reaching down and awaiting the teenager. “About everything you’ve done. All your work, all the achievements. And IMIS. You were beginning to feel that none of it made a difference.”
“And?”
Clay was still smiling. “It sure made a difference to them.”
47
Less than an hour later, the chartered sailboat was visible only as a tiny shape over their wake, perched atop the brilliant blue water of the Caribbean.
The hum of the Teknicraft’s engines was unable to drown out the sound of the splashing swells against their own aluminum hulls as the boat motored forward at full speed.
Trinidad Island and the Pathfinder were now less than a day away.
Alison sat resting in the shade at the stern of the boat, watching the sailboat behind them. It grew still smaller until it was eventually indiscernible from the sun’s sparkles upon the water. An amazing scene that was also teaming with dozens of dolphins, all swimming excitedly behind them.
With a look of contentment, she breathed deeply and looked down at her feet extended out in front of her. Clay was right. It wasn’t all for nothing. And it didn’t have to happen all at once. Changing the world took time. Years. Sometimes decades or even longer.
She knew it wasn’t up to her. How things changed, and how quickly, would be driven by events and circumstances beyond her control.
For her own sanity, she just had to remember her part in all they had achieved.
48
But the changes would not take decades. Nor would they happen in a way anyone could possibly foresee, or even imagine.
It was how all human history occurred. Important events creating ripple effects through an unfathomably complex minefield of social and political consequences. Ending with what could only be described as unexpected and unpredictable results. Only to be recorded later, by thoughtful but biased individuals, as “history.”
And the events unfolding now would be no different. For the Americans or the Russians.
Dubbed as “Black Holes” for their ability to virtually disappear from sonar, the Kilo-class submarines were a leap forward in modern Russian stealth technology. And while considered one of the quietest diesel-electric submarines on the planet, they paled in comparison to Russia’s newest Lada-class sub. Utilizing a next-generation, anti-reflective acoustical coating and lower profile, the newest Sea Ghost prototype was all but invisible to even the most modern sonar systems. It was another leap that left Western militaries scrambling.
Onboard the Sea Ghost, billionaire Dima Belov uncomfortably sat three decks below in a gray metal chair. He rested quietly, massaging his wrists which were still sore from the handcuffs. It had now been more than twenty-four hours since they had departed Dakar, the nearest and largest city on the West African coast. It was also the one by which the brief presence of a Russian submarine would draw the least attention. The remainder of the trip would be made beneath the surface to avoid detection, putting them in range of the Valant oil rig in less than three days.
Belov actually relished the peace of being submerged. There were, of course, the sounds from the rest of the crew going about their business, planning for their offensive. Nonetheless, there were also many long periods of near-silence in which he heard practically nothing. He even thought he could feel the barely perceptible motion of the submarine as it slid noiselessly through the cool waters of the mid-Atlantic.
Belov looked down at his watch to remind himself what time it was. The rest of the crew knew instinctively, given how much they’d spent underwater, but not Belov. Between the stale overhead light and simple isolation, he struggled to keep his internal clock in sync.