I took a deep breath and let myself fall. I started to slide down the corridor, on my ass.
There were some shouts behind me. Then a gunshot.
I instinctively pressed my back down to the deck, and I kept sliding. Then there were some cries in front of me, and I looked up in panic.
I was sliding right toward a group of three armed sailors—
Damn. I was out of bullets. Directly ahead was the airlock, but then I noticed something and my blood ran cold.
The scuba tank was gone. It had rolled away; I should have secured it. Spreading my feet to either side, I pressed my boots against the bulkheads and slowed myself. I spun to a halt right at the airlock and reached up and slammed my palm on the OPEN button.
More shots.
They were having trouble moving toward me because of the tilt, but from the bow, others were now sliding downward, toward me.
“Get the machine gun!”
I cranked my head toward the sound. A crewman stepped into view and brought a long weapon up.
The look on his face was hideous. He was determined to kill.
He fired.
I hurled myself into the airlock, swearing. The gunshots ricocheted off the bulkhead and rattled around the corridor around me. Some made their way into the airlock. I ducked instinctively. “Fuck!” I screamed. The rain of bullets continued.
“Someone get a grenade!”
I snapped my eyes up. “Are you crazy!” I cried. “It’ll sink us all!”
“Do it! Do it!” the voices aftward cried.
I stared around me, frantic. There was no scuba gear in the lock. Nothing. No tank, mask, flippers.
But I had no other choice.
I pressed the CYLCLE button and stared in horror at the deck.
The inner hatch clicked shut and water started to rise up my legs.
We were at least forty meters down, and I was about to go out without any equipment.
—••—
The water hit the ceiling and the outer hatch opened. I pushed myself out and forced my eyes open against the salt water. I figured we’d descended since the others had departed, so I picked a direction on a slight angle upward and began to swim. Buoyancy was a real issue, and within seconds I was fighting to keep from floating upward too quickly. Behind me, the warsub was descending, trailing gouts of bubbles from the stern. The massive screw blades were bent toward the bow and totally useless. The list was violent and the stern would hit bottom first. I just hoped it was moving slow when it finally impacted the seafloor.
I stared before me, trying to make out the three figures of Johnny, Richard, and Clarke. I had told them to stay in the same place, over Component Two’s position on the seafloor 160 meters below. They should be there . . .
I’d taken several giant gulps of air before the water had fully engulfed me, oxygenating my blood. I had a few minutes left, but fighting the buoyancy was tiring and draining me of valuable oxygen.
The sounds of the battle continued; distant concussions and reverberations rattled my teeth and pounded my ears.
I hoped the nearby wildlife had escaped before the fighting started.
The explosions hurt my eardrums.
Aurora finally disappeared from sight in the darkness below, but the stream of bubbles continued. I hoped her crew could contain the flooding and prevent any death.
My lungs started to heave and the panic began to set in. I spun completely around, searching for the others.
My head began to pound.
Shit shit shit shit . . .
Where were they?
Surely they wouldn’t have swum deeper; the mix in the tanks was only for a certain depth range. You couldn’t go much deeper with it, otherwise you risked nitrogen narcosis.
Rapture of the deeps . . .
They had to be there.
Somewhere.
I opened my mouth and screamed, a last, desperate attempt.
To call out to Johnny.
Come get me, Johnny! Where are you!?
My vision began to darken.
I was passing out.
My vision faded completely.
Black.
I was done.
The fight was done.
Independence over.
—••—
Something jerked my body and I felt a pull on my arms. A hand shoved a regulator in my mouth and I took a deep, rasping breath. I coughed over and over, but managed to keep the regulator clenched between my teeth. Then another breath, and another, and my vision grew lighter.
The headache began to recede.
There were three figures around me, all holding on to me, keeping me from floating upward. I had a backup regulator in my mouth; it belonged to Johnny Chang.
I grinned behind the regulator and their eyes lit with joy.
Even Clarke’s.
He was either a great actor, or I’d been wrong about him.
—••—
Time passed. Johnny’s air tank depleted faster, because there were two of us drawing breath from it, but within thirty minutes SC-1 returned. We could hear the SCAV drive in the distance as it approached. The flood of steam from its stern came into view to the south, and then the seacar churned toward us. It slowed to a stop, and the shock wave of the vessel slowing shoved us twenty meters through the water. We held onto each other to keep from separating, and then they saw us. Meg was piloting; she was visible through the cabin canopy. She waved and navigated closer, using the thruster pods. She hovered above us, and I looked up as the moonpool hatch opened. She was at thirty meters—four atms—and we kicked and rose up to the moonpool and broke the surface into SC-1.
I spit out the regulator and looked around at the faces staring down at me. Renée in particular caught my eye, and I grinned and hugged her from the pool. She bent down and kissed me, hard and long and deep. There were tears streaming down her face and dripping onto me.
I tried my best to soothe her.
We’d done it.
—••—
Sahar was wearing her burkini and had a tank on her back. Cliff was also suited up, ready to jump in the water.
“Were you going to save me?” I muttered.
“Hell no, Boss,” he answered. “We have to get the Staging System. It’s on the bottom.”
I snorted and then laughed out loud.
We hauled ourselves up onto the deck and the moonpool hatch closed. Meg and Renée brought the seacar to the seafloor and Sahar and Cliff went out through the airlock. They’d have to decompress after, because of the depth, but within minutes they had the crate inside the airlock.
SC-1 rose from the sandy bottom, Meg activated the SCAV drive, and we rocketed south around New Zealand and then west toward the Indian Ocean.
And The Vault.
—••—
An hour later, I was sitting on the couch in dry clothes, recovering from the events. Alyssna was fussing over the component to make sure it was okay. Meg and Renée were piloting, but Renée had already been back to check on me. Richard and Clarke were on the opposite couch, and Johnny was helping Cliff go over some minor damage in engineering from a nearby concussion during the fighting.
Hyland and Chalam were checking on the five Isomer Bombs, and Sahar was with us, in the seacar’s living area.
“Thanks for getting the component,” I said to her.
“It was easy. No problem at all.”
“It was deep.”
She scoffed. “I’ve done better, without equipment, Mac. I’m a free diver, remember.”
I snorted at that; I had indeed forgotten. She and Cliff had decompressed for thirty minutes in the airlock before dragging the crate in. Now she was back in her hijab and discussing the events with us.
We didn’t have much time. The sunken warsubs would find a way to communicate the events to their HQs soon. We needed to be at the hidden facility before that happened.
“You go through this a lot, as Mayor of Trieste?” she asked.
I shrugged. “More as Director of TCI. But it’s been an adventure. If you’re joining us to get independence for Churchill, you might have more of these events too.”
She smiled. “I have to say, it’s not the worst.”
“And no one died,” I sighed. “I hope.”
She lowered her head for a moment. “I do appreciate your attempts to follow my wishes.”
I looked up at Clarke and Richard. They looked tired, but they’d made it through successfully.
I took a breath and decided that it was time to get some answers. “Listen to me, Clarke. Enough nonsense. It’s time you explained what’s going on here.”
He blinked and focused on me. “What do you mean?”
I pictured the logo from the labs at Churchill. Then the red and black shoulder patches I’d seen on so many sailors recently.
Something was not right here.
Something was different about these sailors in the British Submarine Fleet.
“The BSFIF. What is it? Why is it at odds with the BSF? And who’s in charge of the Research Labs now? Because there’s clearly—”
“I’m not sure what you’re—”
I shook my head and looked away. “Come on, Commodore. Every step of the way we’ve encountered friction with this mysterious group within the BSF. They don’t even recognize you as having authority over them. Your BSF guards at the Churchill labs hated working there. They complained about the duty.”
“Every duty has its—”
“No.” I shook my head. “There was more to it. They didn’t like the others there. Security even refused to acknowledge Johnny’s higher rank. It was only when you went back when most everyone was gone that they let him go. And here on Aurora they wouldn’t even listen to you. You’re a Commodore and the rank system is ingrained in every military, everywhere.” I took a breath and steeled myself. “Now I want to know what’s going on.”
There was a long silence as we waited. He was staring at me.
Eventually, he released his breath and said, “I don’t have to answer to you, Mac.”
“We’re on this mission together. We’re stuck on this ship. You are holding things back from us. We deserve to know the truth.”
Sahar was watching the entire exchange with a quizzical expression on her face. She’d vouched for the Commodore, but she hadn’t known about this.
He looked away. “It’s top secret.”
“You’re throwing yourself in with the independence movement at Churchill. You’re going to have to leave the BSF, Clarke, eventually.”
“Not immediately though. I can help Mayor Noor more if I remain in the military.”
“Until it becomes impossible.”
He nodded.
“Look,” I said. “We’re heading for The Vault. I need to know what we’re heading for. What is the BSFIF?”
He still didn’t respond.
Sahar said into the silence, “Mac is right, Commodore. You can’t risk this mission by withholding information. I’ve supported you. Don’t make me regret that, and don’t dare lie to me.”
Her tone was hard and it had an immediate effect. Clarke’s eyes turned to ice. Then he sighed and looked away again. “You’re too important to disappoint, Sahar,” he said.
It shocked me, because he had been so antagonistic toward her in her office, what seemed like years before.
He continued, “BSF Command knows what kind of pull you have over the people of Churchill. You have the potential to go even further, onto the mainland even. Prime Minister possibly.”
She shook her head. “I’m not interested. I want to stay in the oceans. I am staying at Churchill. Now, tell us about the BSFIF.”
He offered a small chuckle. “I can’t say no to you.” He paused for a moment longer. “It’s a splinter group in the BSF. The British Submarine Fleet Imperial Force. Admiralty is embarrassed about it. They are militant. They’re developing new weapons, like this particle beam, using their offshoot, the BSFRL. They don’t obey BSFCO. My commanding officers have sent me to . . . ”
“Yes,” Sahar pressed.
He exhaled and then swore. Then he looked abashed at Sahar’s look of reprimand. Then he said, “My orders are to go to their HQ in the Indian Ocean. Find them . . . find their leaders, and then blow them all to hell.”