James Axler – Watersleep

“That thing can’t hold much air.”

“It’s not supposed to. I’m not worried about run­ning out of oxygen. My fear is getting one crippling case of the bends. These hoods are only good for four hundred feet. That’s the maximum depth they can be used safely.”

Ryan shot Brosnan a questioning look as he knelt to double-check the hatch the hooded man had closed.

“These babies are buoyant, see,” Brosnan ex­plained. “They’ll jerk you up to the surface like you were tied to a string. Like a rocket to the sky.”

“You said four hundred feet was the max. How far down are we?” Ryan asked.

“Last time I checked, before the systems started going out in the control room, roughly three hundred feet. I’d say with all of the fireworks, we’ve gone way past that now. I’m gambling that I don’t go shooting out of here like a bullet from a gun only to have my head explode halfway there.”

“Sounds triple dangerous to me.”

“I’ll take my chances. I don’t want to die drowning in this metal coffin sitting on a Tomahawk missile.”

“Makes two of us,” Ryan agreed.

“We won’t be able to talk once I’ve filled the hood,” Brosnan said as he took out a package from a storage locker opposite Ryan. He handed the surprisingly heavy parcel to Ryan. “This will be your responsibility once I open the outer hatch.”

Ryan glared at the package. “What’s this?”

“Life raft. Once the pressure’s stabilized, pull that cord and inflate it. Then we’ll shove the raft through. It’ll go straight up to the surface. Give us a place to rest once we’re up there.”

Both men were now wedged opposite from each other in the crowded confines of the trunk. Brosnan gave Ryan a thumbs-up signal, and flooded the com­partment. Seawater poured in, fast and white, sur­rounding their bodies at a rapid rate.

Ryan put the mouthpiece of the scuba gear into his mouth and pulled down the face mask. Across from him, Brosnan’s face was impassive from behind the hood as the water washed them with a wet chill. The commander nodded and unsealed the upper hatch. Ryan inflated the raft, and together they pushed it through, an underwater balloon floating upward.

Brosnan left first. Ryan noted his rapid exit, and remembered the man’s hopes of being on the surface long before Ryan could make the journey by swim­ming with the air tank.

Best time’s the right time, went through his mind. Dean said that sometimes.

His son. Ryan wondered if the boy would think this kind of operation was the “hot pipe” of excitement he was always searching for when they traveled.

Ryan exited the submarine into the watery un­known

.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Now that Ryan was out of the submarine, the trick would be keeping himself from surfacing too quickly. He had no desire to give himself a crippling case of the bends. No, unlike Brosnan, he would have to go slow, and not outrun the stream of air bubbles coming from the mouthpiece he held in his teeth. There was no rushing this sort of thing, and he was resigned to the long swim to the surface.

Even though the temperature of the ocean sur­rounding him wasn’t freezing, it was still cold enough to make him wish he had taken an extra moment to dress himself in the sleek black wet suit he’d found on top of the scuba gear in Poseidon’s footlocker.

Outside the submarine, there was no light. He waited, paddling in place while keeping the darker hull of the sub in his line of vision. His eye had to adjust, but there was murk on top of murk. The depths of the ocean were as black as the womb. Ryan thumbed on the flashlight, but even the steady stream of light punching a path through the gloom couldn’t truly provide what was needed, and that was a sense of direction.

No time to think about that. Ryan kicked his feet and began to push himself upward, struggling against the water pressure weighing down upon his head. There was a roaring in his ears as he left the sub’s black shape behind.