"Well, Ms. Holbrook, let's round up your crew, 'cause we're sure as hell gonna make a run for it."
Most of the things Gibby gave me — momentos, keepsakes, trinkets of affection — have worn out with the passage of time. One of the things that hadn't, however, was my trusty old Pulsar. Despite its corroded case and scratched crystal, it dutifully records the passing of time. That's how I knew it was three minutes till high noon when we beached the PC-13A on a narrow strip of angry rock and sand the natives called Meechie. It was little more than a sand bar off of one of the smaller islands called Edora Ben. Deechapal was, if I remembered correctly, less than seven miles due east of where we were standing. We were going strictly on guesses and guts at this point. The heavy, oppressive cloud of gray mist that had at one time only shrouded Big Doobacque now seemed to be enveloping the entire Cluster.
Huntington stumbled up on the craggy surface and surveyed his surroundings. "I'll never understand how you can tell one of these godforsaken rocks from another."
Hannah was inspecting the submersible, which was no longer submersed. When she finished, she walked up on the crest of the outcropping. Her smudged face had "dire concern" written all over it. "Ready for a damage report, Skipper?"
"Break it to me easy. I'm still full of boyish hope."
"Both fuel tank indicators are on the big 'E.' That's one. Secondly, we are now operating solely on the backup system."
"Any other good news?"
"We've developed a sizable leak. I just discovered why. Somewhere along the line, we sliced a hole in the old girl's gullet. She's been taking on water for quite a while."
"Play 'what if' with me," I insisted.
She stared off into the gray distance at what we both hoped was Deechapal. "How far is it?"
"No closer than five, no further than seven."
She shook her head. "It's academic, isn't it? We've got a cracked battery, virtually no fuel and the backup system is fritzed. The whole thing could give up the ghost at any minute. What's that tell you?"
I might as well admit that fear was at the heart of the issue. Ranking right along with fear of sharks and high places is a very real concern that develops when I think about such unpleasant things as starving to death or dying of thirst. Neither is appealing, both are to be avoided at all costs. The real problem was that fate or whatever had suddenly and fiendishly piled all my phobias into one.
I looked at Hannah, then Huntington. They were waiting for a decision.
"Well," I drawled, "as Cosmo Leach always says, 'no guts, no glory'!"
"No risk, no reward," Hannah offered.
When Huntington added, "No balls, no bullion!", I knew it was time to go.
We launched what was left of the battered submersible. Hannah was at the controls. Byron, ashen and terrified beyond the point of protest, was crammed into the second seat along with a few water-soaked charts and some odds and ends from the PC-13A's emergency stores. Hannah had decided to take them out of the tiny locker because it was leaking. I was straddling the bluish metal beast, atop and aft the second seat.
I grew up on a lake, a gemlike little body of crystal clear water, nestled amongst the gently rolling hills of middle America. There were steamy Sunday mornings when, in the early pre-dawn hours, the surface was like fine glass. The lagoon between Meechie and the Deechapal beach reminded me of that now. Only the ominous, choking cloak of gray was different. The PC-13A was gliding silently, rapidly spending its last bit of energy, limping across the last great obstacle to Deechapal. The course was 047 on the compass, the only instrument on Huntington's situation display panel that was still working.
"How about it, E.G., see anything?"
"Lots of fog, lots of mist." I knew there wasn't any reason to do anything but level with the lady. Either way she was going to coax as much out of the submersible as she could get.
The words were no more out of my mouth when the metal monster lurched.
"First surge," Hannah said calmly. "She's given us all she had. It's only a matter of time till she starts to overheat."
I could see Huntington stirring nervously in his cramped little cubicle. I could feel the sweat start to trickle down my temples. Another drop or two traced an erratic pattern down the middle of my back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something in the water.
"I think we've got us a visitor." I was doing everything I could to keep my voice calm. "How much longer?"
"Can't tell. I've shut everything down but the propulsion system. Even the pumps are off." Hannah's voice was icy cool.
Byron had started to panic, his breath coming in short, shallow gulps.
There was another lurch, this one more pronounced then the first.
"Intermittent power now."
"What if the damn thing blows up?" Huntington sputtered.
"It won't. The ignition is run by the onboard computer. It'll shut itself down. It's got more ways to try to preserve itself than we have." There was a dimension of technical admiration in her assessment.
"More company," I announced, hoping my count was wrong.
"How many?"
"Two confirmed, maybe three." So far I hadn't seen any big ones, but they were all going to look small after the six giller we had tangled with off the reef.
Another surge.
"The computer wants control. It thinks I'm screwing up."
Huntington was hunched forward over his control panel, and I could no longer see the compass. I reached in to pull him back just as an overly inquisitive six-footer bumped the small craft.
"Give it back to the computer," I shouted. "It may figure out a way to get us a little further."
Suddenly there was a small muffled explosion, followed by a shower of sparks. Hannah's voice was no longer calm. "Fire!" she screamed.
Huntington scampered up out of the bowels of the cockpit and scooted along the tube-shaped fuselage toward the front. Hannah was right behind him.
"It's out," she stammered, "but everything shut down. I was trying to override the computer."
"How long can we stay afloat?"
Hannah was still assessing the dull blanket of gray that enveloped us.
"Damn it, Hannah, how long?"
Huntington's face was transfixed in a horrified kind of stupor. He had spotted the sharks.
"It'll stay afloat, but we'll start to drift."
One of the smaller sharks made a pass close to the hull, and Huntington's leg jerked up out of the water. His hands were locked around one of the external winch hooks. Tears started to stream down his face.
The PC-13A began to list to port. With the pumps off and the crease in the hull, she was taking on more water than she could handle. It sloshed over the open cockpit and rushed in. "It can't take many of those," Hannah said calmly. Somehow she had regained a small degree of composure.
Huntington was on the verge of hysteria.
As usual, the old Wages brain was churning out data — tons of it. The problem was that none of it was doing us any good. As far as I was concerned, we had played out our options. "Not much choice," I grunted. "We swim for it." I was doing my best to make it sound like there was at least a ray of hope.
"How far?" The little man trembled. "Which direction?"
"Dammit, Huntington, start swimming," Hannah snapped.
Huntington was still clinging desperately to the winch bolt. "But… but… I'm not a strong swimmer."
"You'd better be a fast learner," I growled, "'cause this may be the last chance you ever get."
Hannah had already kicked off her shoes and was starting to peel out of her clothes. "Get rid of everything that will weigh you down."
I pulled the two wet lifejackets out of the water-filled cockpit, flipped one to Huntington and offered the other to Hannah. She declined.