10

Vindicator:

He smashed into something hard. A bulkhead. The hose was gone, his tactile sensor shattered. The water temperature spiked, briefly, almost scalding him, then dropped all at once to near-freezing. The expanding foam was devouring energy as it engulfed explosion, crate and hold. Gordon had only seconds to get out..., but he couldn't see.

Then, his groping left hand encountered the twisted edge of a hatch, and he hauled himself through. In utter darkness and frigid cold, all he could do was feel his way along the unseen passageway, barely hearing the hiss and click of his own rebreather over a furious, thrumming shock wave; its advance communicated through shuddering ocean and bulging metal.

An idea came to him, that his air tank's flasher might provide a bit of illumination. He had to fight through the current to a ladder, battered by debris and rushing water, twisting his arm around backward to reach the switch, but moments later a crimson strobe lit the passage.

Picking what he thought was the right direction, Gordon set off, but his memorized map of the ship failed utterly. The route that should have brought him to the hull breach, instead left him facing a solid, interior bulkhead. From close behind came the shriek of straining metal, and a sudden, massive pressure wave. The foam was still expanding, pushing its way along the passage as though hunting him.

With no time to think, Gordon darted off in a new direction, his path lit up in vivid ruby bursts. He dead-ended, again. This time, at a locked hatch marked 'Engine Room'. Something was wrong; he'd got turned around, somehow. Red and serrated as a knife blade, panic began to set in.

He shot blindly away, avoiding the foam's questing advance by scant seconds. But, how much more free space did he have? Had it already encircled him? Cutting on the mask-comm, he shouted,

"Scott!"

London:

A blaringly shrill alarm interrupted John, just as he was about to hit

the 'send' key. He glanced around at Alan, who looked confused, and a little guilty.

"I didn't touch anything, John...! For real!"

Crowding his youngest brother aside, John returned to the main comm screen. Something froze diamond-hard within him as he read the scrolling data. Temperature spike, micro-brief seismic disturbance, electromagnetic burst... In short, the cargo had detonated.

Hitting the comm switch, he called out,

"Thunderbird 2, from Mobile Control: are you receiving?"

Static; long and wavering. Didn't necessarily mean the worst, though. Even a small explosion could throw off enough energy to disrupt communications. He tried again.

"Thunderbird 2, from Mobile Control: Virgil, are you receiving?"

This time, amid the static, he caught a few words. Brains, it sounded like, and worried enough to have lost his stutter.

"...can't... with... bird 4... need... Over?"

"Thunderbird 2, from Mobile Control: repeat last message, please."

More static. Thunderbird 2, closer to the blast, must've suffered comm damage, although the fact that he'd heard from them at all probably meant they were all right. Scott and Gordon, on the other hand, remained unaccounted for. Well, no worries about the wrong transmission triggering an explosion now. Hitting his wrist comm, John said,

"5, status check: Thunderbird 4."

Her response was immediate, and silent; written upon the screen, rather than spoken.

"Thunderbird 4 is currently holding position at 210.5 M due east of danger zone, John Tracy."

"How many on board?"

"None."

Penelope and Alan stood at either side of him, their eyes riveted to the staticky comm. Someone took hold of John's arm, but he had neither the time, nor the inclination to offer comfort. He tried another tack.

"Locate Divers 1 and 2."

"Diver 2 proceeding at 4.21 knots, heading 90 degrees, 3 minutes, at an average depth from surface of 55 M, John Tracy. Diver 1 moving erratically within sunken vessel."

"Establish communication with divers."

She flashed across the acoustic spectrum from 30 to 3000 Hz, getting a faint signal in time to receive Gordon's shout. Forming a swift, chilling notion of what had happened, John keyed up an image of the sunken ship, and had 5 superimpose his brother's comm signal.

"Shit." Then, over the mask-comm's sole remaining frequency, "Gordon, the wreck has shifted. It's listing 48 degrees to starboard." His younger brother was headed in exactly the wrong direction. "Gordon, can you hear me?"

"Yeah." In the black-red-black, freezing cold, rumbling darkness, there was no more welcome sound than John's calm, business-like voice. Over the mask transceiver he heard,

"Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say: turn around. Then, 2 meters along the passage, bear left through the open hatch. Got it?"

"Right."

He turned, briefly heading back toward the suffocating ooze. There was the hatch.

"I'm through, John."

"Straight ahead 5 ½ meters... stairway should be right in front of you. Go up."

As the bulkheads and deck flexed and shifted around him, Gordon lost track of everything but his brother's instructions.

"Right 3 meters, another hatch on the port bulkhead. Straight through, then up. Hull breach will be directly ahead. Go."

A sudden, fearsome pressure wave nearly forced him past the breach. Gordon Tracy was a world-class athlete, among the strongest and fastest swimmers on the planet... and he scraped through the hole bythe width of a "Hail, Mary".

Safe; almost. Something boiled out, snagging his right fin, then engulfing the entire foot. At nearly the same instant, someone seized him from the front.

Braced against the hull, Scott gave an almighty heave. The trapped foot tore free in a sudden cloud of blood. Taking a firmer grip on his brother, he pushed away from the slowly buckling wreck, and swam for all he was worth.