The Emperor's Revenge

FORTY-THREE

When the Narwhal had collapsed, Juan’s only option had been to head for the biggest railgun hole in the deck that he could see close by, which was below him. He’d made it just before the ship slammed into the seabed, but the jagged edge caught his thruster pack, pinning him to the bottom. It took him a couple of hours to wriggle free enough to jettison the pack. He could now move freely, but he was limited to the hobbling walk similar to the ones seen in the films of moonwalking astronauts.

His light was strong enough to show the jumble of metal and equipment that lay on what was now the floor of the upside-down ship. The cracked visor seemed to be holding, and since there was nothing he could do about it, he tried to ignore the star pattern staring him in the face. He explored the interior of the expansive open hold, hoping to find a hole big enough for him to squeeze through, but he couldn’t even locate an opening big enough to see through.

His acoustic backup communication system was useless because it would be blocked by the steel hull. He chose a spot closest to the outer hull and began tapping out the famous • • — — • • •, representing the universal call for help, SOS. Several times during the hour that he’d clinked the mechanical claw against the steel frame of the ship he’d heard the faint whirr of Nomad passing close by. He’d tapped as hard as he could, but the sub kept on going without stopping.

He had lost track of time when he heard the sound that he’d expected to come many hours later. It was a warning beep, signaling that his battery power was fading fast, another casualty of one of the impacts the suit had withstood. Not only did the battery power his light but also the carbon dioxide scrubber that was keeping him alive. If it failed, there was only enough oxygen in the suit to last for five minutes before he passed out.

The beep indicated that it would fail in twenty minutes.

He kept tapping the monotonous rhythm of the SOS. Nomad passed by yet again, and he amped up the volume as much as he could. The whine of the impellers stopped for a minute, giving Juan hope that he’d been heard. Then they started up again, and Juan was prepared to hear the motors fade into the distance.

But this time, the sound came toward him.

He clanged away with both claws so they could home in on his location. The motors came to a stop again, quite close.

He stopped tapping and listened.

A slow, methodical set of bangs against the outer hull gave him a renewed hope. It had to be Nomad’s less responsive robotic manipulator, tapping its own message on the ship. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

We are here, Juan, Linda tapped with Nomad’s arm.

Thought you left, Juan replied.

Not a chance. We will get you out. Are you hurt?

No. 15 min of air left.

There was a pause, probably because they realized there wasn’t enough time to bring down a cutting torch to get him out.

Got one explosive left, Linda finally tapped.Will blow you out.

Won’t work. Too small.

Linda replied, Can’t cut you out in 15 min.

Much as Juan didn’t like to admit it, there was only one way to make a big enough hole for him to go through in the time he had remaining.

Juan tapped, Use torp.

Another pause, this one even longer as they contemplated the notion of firing a torpedo at the Narwhal.

Finally, Linda tapped, Max sez you crazy.

Got a better idea?

No.

Then do it. Pick a spot toward the bow. I have a clear path. This part of the cargo hold was a huge open space that had likely been used to transport vehicles. He was at least half the length of the ship away from the bow, a hundred and fifty feet. The water hammer effect would be powerful, but being blown up trying to get out was better than suffocating inside a dead ship. If he wasn’t crushed in the explosion, he could shuffle his way to the hole and inflate his emergency buoyancy device to get back to the surface.

Linda responded, Okay. Try to find cover. Countdown is 2 min.

Juan tapped, Roger that.

He retreated behind a thick bulkhead that was the farthest from the anticipated impact point and waited. He now had less than ten minutes of power. Walking through the ship without a light would be virtually impossible. If Juan didn’t make it out before his battery died, so would he.

Crouching was impossible in the ungainly suit, so he stood three feet from the bulkhead. Trying to stand next to it and steady himself by grasping the frame might rip the arms from the suit during the explosion.

Except for his breathing, there was total silence. Then he heard the high-pitched whine of the torpedo propeller revving up to top speed. It grew quieter as the torpedo sped away to get the proper angle before turning and whizzing back toward the Narwhal.

The ocean seemed to erupt like a volcano, pummeling him with a giant shock wave that threw him backward against the next bulkhead. His head slammed against the padding inside the helmet, and his vision tunneled, threatening to black out completely. His organs felt as if they’d been pureed.

He teetered on the edge of consciousness before coming back to his senses.

That’s when he noticed the battery warning chirping at him insistently. His battery life was almost gone.

He pushed himself past the bulkhead and focused his light ahead of him. In the gloom, he thought he could make out a hole in the bow.

Juan stumbled ahead, clumsily clambering over piles of metal when he had to. He was three-quarters of the way to the bow when his battery died. There was a complicated pile of destroyed equipment he had to navigate around and he didn’t know if he could do it with the five minutes of air he had left in the suit.

He pictured what he’d seen in his memory and began to pick his way across. The laborious process seemed to pay dividends and he thought he was in the clear, when his arm snagged on something. Without tactile feedback and visual cues, it was impossible to tell what had caught him.

He knew he was close to the hole blown in the side of the ship. But until he got out, he couldn’t inflate his buoyancy device. If he did that inside the hull, he’d simply pin himself up against the keel of the ship.

A faint ray of light pierced the darkness. It grew stronger by the moment until an intense beam of white shot through the opening in the ship and illuminated the hold.

It was Nomad. Max was showing him the way home.

He was starting to get light-headed from the excess carbon dioxide in his suit. His extremities growing cold and numb, and he began to get dizzy and lose his concentration.

With the light, he could see that the claw had become lodged in a jagged piece of metal. He wrenched it free and started a slow-motion dash to the beckoning glow.

Juan seemed to be on autopilot as he struggled to put one leg in front of the other as if he were making a final ascent of Everest. The light grew so strong that it was blinding, and he could no longer tell if he was inside the Narwhal.

But it didn’t matter. He was about to pass out. There wouldn’t be time to send in Little Geek to pull him out before he asphyxiated. He had to activate the emergency float and either he’d rush to the surface or he’d die inside the shipwreck.

With his final ounce of strength, he flipped the switch and heard the CO2 cartridge inflate the buoy.

It was the last thing he sensed before darkness enveloped him.