Kirov plowed into the gloom. The firestorm deep inside his right shoulder raged but he hung on. He’d lost all sensation below the left knee—it was just dead meat. If the unfeeling crept into his other limbs he was doomed for sure.
He focused on the captain’s orders: “Get to shore. Call for help and then coordinate the rescue. Don’t get caught!”
He was the crew’s only hope. If he failed, they would all perish.
The diver propulsion vehicle surged against the aggressive tidal current. As he gripped the DPV’s control handles with both gloved hands, his body trailed prone on the sea surface. Hours earlier he’d exhausted the mixed gas supply, which forced him topside where he used a snorkel to breathe.
The chilled seawater defeated his synthetic rubber armor. His teeth chattered against the snorkel’s mouthpiece. He clamped his jaws to maintain the watertight seal.
Shore lights shimmered through his face mask but he remained miles from his destination. The DPV’s battery gauge kissed the warning range. When it eventually petered out, he would have to transit the passage on his own, somehow swimming the expanse in the dark while combating the current.
Two grueling hours passed. He abandoned the spent DPV, opening the flood valve and allowing it to sink. He butted the tidal flow until it turned. The flooding current carried him northward.
He swam facedown while still breathing through the snorkel. As he pumped his lower limbs, his good leg overpowered its anesthetized twin, forcing him off course. He soon learned to compensate with his left arm, synchronizing its strokes with his right leg.
The joint pain expanded to include both shoulders and elbows. The frigid sea sapped his vigor to near exhaustion.
While staring downward into the pitch-black abyss, he tried not to dwell on his injuries or his weariness—or the absolute isolation, knowing he could do nothing to mitigate them. Instead, his thoughts converged on the mission. They’re counting on me. Don’t give up. I can do this; just keep moving.
He continued swimming, monitoring his course with the compass strapped to his right wrist. An evolving mantle of fog doused the shore lights he’d been using as a homing beacon. For all he knew, the current could be shoving him into deeper waters.
Maybe at dawn he would be able to get his bearings. Until then, he would plod along.
I wonder where the blackfish are now.
During a rest with fins down and a fresh bubble of air in his buoyancy compensator, he heard dozens of watery eruptions breach the night air as a pod of Orcinus orcas made its approach. Sounding like a chorus of steam engines, the mammals cleared blowholes and sucked air into their mammoth lungs. The sea beasts ghosted by at ten knots. Their slick coal-black hulls spotted with white smears passed just a few meters away from his stationary position.
The killer whales ignored him. They had a mission of their own: pursuing the plump inbound silver and chum salmon that loitered near the tip of the approaching peninsula. At first light, the orcas would gorge themselves.
There was no time to be afraid; instead, he marveled at the close encounter. Oddly, the whales’ brief presence calmed him. He was not alone in these alien waters after all.
Time for another check.
He stopped kicking and raised his head. He peered forward.
Dammit!
Still no lights and the fog bank oozed even closer.
Where is it?
He allowed his legs to sink as he mulled his options. His right fin struck something.
He swam ahead for half a minute and repeated the sounding.
I made it!