“Mike, what the fuck’re you doing, man?” said Dex. “Give me the picture.”
“Can’t…”
“He’s just about out of air,” said Kevin. “I see a lot of bubbles, Dex.”
“Okay, who’s closest to his position?”
“That’d be me,” said Doc.
“Can you get him your respirator on a buddy-share?”
“I don’t know,” said Doc. “The torpedo room’s a mess. Crap everywhere. Mike forced his way through it. He’s about eight, maybe ten feet past the bulkhead. But I don’t see how I can get in there and not get hung up in the junk myself.”
“Don’t try it,” said Dex. “Just stay with him and keep him conscious if you can. Keep him focused. I’m coming back down with some stuff.”
“We have about twelve minutes,” said Kevin. “Then Doc’s on his own.”
“I’ll be there way before then,” said Dex.
He turned and practically jumped through the hatch to the deck ladder. Tommy was right behind him. As he pulled on his gear, Tommy set him up with fresh tanks. He grabbed a utility belt and the small cutting torch, unhooked the sample bag.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Tommy. “Don’t let it out of your sight.”
“Got ya.”
Dex moved smoothly, quickly, but he had this really bad feeling he wasn’t going to be fast enough.
As he dropped into the still, cool water, he felt a terrible tightness in his chest — his body’s way of telling him things were not going to work out very well. Better not to think like that. He forced himself to concentrate on what he might be needing. In addition to the cutting torch, he carried an extra tank of air with extra lengths of hose, and a ten-foot grappling arm with a simple mechanical hand. It better be good enough.
But he hoped he wouldn’t need any of this crap at all.
“Doc, you there?” he said through his mask mic.
“Yeah, where are you?”
“More than halfway down, should be there any second. How’s he doing?”
“Can’t tell… he’s not moving.”
As the submarine’s features took form through the murky water, Dex kicked harder, propelling himself towards the stern and the open hatch. The bright colors of Kevin’s and Andy’s dry suits were like beacons as he headed for them.
“Doc, get clear of the hatch,” said Dex. “I’m coming in.”
They helped him feed the gear into the aft section, which was looking more narrow and tight and dark despite the light from everybody’s torches. Dex followed headfirst and oriented himself toward the bulkhead and open hatch into the torpedo room.
“Hurry up,” said Doc.
As Dex cleared the bulkhead, he could see Mike’s pale yellow suit defining his body, which floated parallel to the deck, arms and legs outstretched like a store mannequin. No more bubbles exited his regulator. There wasn’t the spaghetti bowl of wires and cables he’d expected — just a single, loose bundle of stuff that had rotted through its tubing and hung down like the tendrils of a man-o-war. Mike had somehow gotten his hoses fouled in the lines and split one of them trying to slip free. He wasn’t moving as he drifted in the chamber, but seemed barely attached to the wires holding him.
It didn’t look like big trouble, but that’s exactly why wreck diving was so dangerous. A lot of the things that looked harmless were exactly the ones waiting to turn you into a deader.
Not needing the grappling arm, Dex dropped it and lifted the extra air tank into position as he closed the distance on Mike’s still form. There was plenty of crap dangling down around him, but he’d been through worse.
Through the faceplate of his mask, Mike’s eyes remained open, looking very empty.
“Mike, you hear me, buddy?”
Nothing.
Dex inched closer. He could avoid the tangle of wires by staying beneath Mike, who hung closer to the ceiling. In one smooth, coordinated motion he pulled Mike’s regulator from his slack lips and replaced it with the one from the fresh tank. He slapped him hard in the temple and thought he saw the suggestion of a blink, but nothing more. Hard to tell how long he’d gone without taking a breath but it wasn’t looking too good.
Dex fired up the cutting torch and adjusted the flame to a fine point. It sliced through everything like going through cobwebs, and Dex had him free in less than fifteen seconds. He passed him out to Doc, who eased him through the escape hatch to Kevin and Andy.
“Take him up as fast as you can,” said Doc. “I’m right behind you.”
Dex emerged from the hatch as they ascended, pushing his gear out ahead of him. The bends weren’t an issue, and even if they were, they would still be the least of Mike’s problems at this point. If Doc couldn’t get him breathing it was all over anyway. The idea of losing Mike started to hit Dex — now that he wasn’t running on adrenaline. All those years in the Navy had produced its statistical share of fuck-ups and weird accidents, but it never made it any easier to see one of your men go down and never make it back.
By the time he scrambled over the aft gunwale, they had Bielski supine on the deck in front of the dive salon. Doc was leaning over him doing CPR.
“How is he?” said Dex as he dropped his tanks and rushed to join the circle. As he took a reading of their faces, he could see mixtures of fear and relief — worrying about Mike and realizing it could have been any one of them, and an unspoken gladness it was not.
“I’m getting nothing,” said Doc, breathing hard.
“C’mon, Bielski…” said Kevin.
“Mikey, you hear me!” Andy Mellow was actually yelling at him. “Come on, you fuck!”
Tension enveloped everybody like a noxious cloud, a cloud tinged with the stench of death. Infecting them, making them angry and crazy.
Dex stood behind the small circle with Donnie, who moved closer, spoke very softly. “I got the Coast Guard on the radio. They’re on their way.”
Pump, pound, blow. Over and over Doc tried everything he could to get a response out of him, finally looking back at Dex. “Time for something drastic! Get me that battery charger! Hurry!”
Kevin moved so fast, it was like he’d had the charger and its dolly in his pocket. Suddenly he was right there, wheeling right up to Mike with the gear, and Doc grabbed the big, oversized alligator clips.
“Is it on!?”
“Go!” yelled Andy.
Like he was trying to goose a big diesel into life, Doc jammed the clips into each side of Mike’s ribcage. There was a sound like a dry piece of wood snapping in half and Mike’s whole body arched and spasmed galvanically. Doc repeated the charge a couple more times before finally throwing down the clips.
“Turn it off…” he said. Schissel fell back on his folded knees, wiped the sweat and tears from his face. “Shit…”
“Oh, man… are you kiddin’ me?” Tommy spoke so softly as if he were in church.
“I can’t believe this,” said Kevin. “I can’t believe it.”
Dex felt like somebody was trying to yank his stomach inside-out. He knew he had to keep himself busy, keep from letting this take him over and turn him into something useless. “Somebody get a blanket,” he said.
Everybody except Doc drifted away; he remained out of respect or duty, or maybe he was just a little stunned. Tommy came back with a big beach towel, handed it to Doc, who ignored it as he went through the motions of CPR. No way he wanted to drape it over Mike Bielski’s long, oddly serene face.
“He didn’t even act like he was in trouble,” said Andy. “Almost like he accepted his fate, you know?”
“I’ve seen guys do that,” said Dex. “They kind of give up. Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.”