He went from being knocked around by a big, honking bottle rocket to being a lead weight.
The concussion wave had carried Major Bryan at least thirty feet up, allowing his lungs to expand and forcing his joints to cramp. The pain severely disoriented the officer. He didn’t know which direction was up or where he had to go. It was difficult enough just to breathe, since his chest felt as if it were being pushed out and didn’t want any more air. But the pressure was decompression and not oxygen. He needed to breathe, despite the razor-cut pain caused by inhaling. He felt as though his ribs were going to crack, along with his elbows, knees, and ankles. He finally knew which way “down” was because he couldn’t move his arms or flippers and began to float upward. He made a few clumsy attempts to stop himself, to hold his position, but his joints locked up, swollen to immobility. And then he could barely breathe at all, painful or not. He knew his tank had to be nearly empty.
When strong hands grasped him on the upper arms, the major was barely aware of what was happening. He was being held in place; he knew that because the pain did not increase. After a few moments he became aware of someone fussing with his gear. Breathing became a little easier, if no less painful. Someone had jacked into the external valve and given him more air. Bryan’s limbs began to loosen up slightly. Equally as important, the major was able to reclaim his mind. The first thing that hit him was how damn cold he was. The major began moving his arms around, then his legs, to expedite circulation and generate warmth. In the glow of his headlamp he actually saw the individual in front of him, saw the face behind the mask. It was Captain Gabriel. The big man’s eyes were locked on the major’s face, searching for a hint of recognition. After a few more seconds, as the pain and cold subsided slightly, the major nodded. Gabriel released him and gave him a thumbs-up. They waited for several more minutes as Bryan’s body adjusted to the current depth. When Bryan felt better, they ascended another thirty feet. Because there were still lingering bubbles of nitrogen in Bryan’s system, the rise was not pain-free. But it was manageable.
The rapid decompression had popped a mercury-based conductor in his com system. Bryan could not communicate with his rescuer until they had surfaced, some fifteen minutes after Gabriel had first reached him. The major pulled out his mouthpiece almost the moment they popped free of the sea. Through the roar of the wind, Bryan heard the helicopter. The major turned to his right and saw it about fifty feet off. But he did not see the submarine. His own pain was forgotten, instantly. It was replaced by a feeling of helpless desperation.
“Captain—where is she?” Bryan gasped.
“You raised her, sir,” Gabriel told him.
“Repeat?”
“You refloated the forward section of the submarine and we saved everyone who was on board.”
“We did?”
“You did,” Gabriel said, spitting out sloshing seawater between words.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Whatever you did down there sent her to the surface. The inside hatch got banged up and took on water, but we got the crew before she went back down.”
“Our team is okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck.”
The chopper was coming near. Bryan looked over. Lieutenant Black was on the lower portion of the ladder, waiting to help him from the water. He took her hand when the chopper was overhead and, with Gabe’s help, got a grip on the second rung. He climbed slowly, on joints that complained, with lungs that still weren’t working fast enough to power his ascent. Both of his team members helped him. When Bryan finally reached the cabin, he lost it: He was on his knees when his thighs started to shake and were unable to sustain him. He pitched face-forward, overcome more with the success of the mission than with his own salvation. When Wingate shut the door behind him, the cabin felt as warm and secure as any place he had ever been.
Lieutenant Houston came over. After removing the canisters he rolled the major onto his back. He was out of oxygen and had to use the tank Gabe had brought. The air chased away the last sparks of decompression. One of the team members put a rubber sack on Bryan’s torso. It was surprisingly warm. Meanwhile, the medic rolled back the layers of sleeve on Bryan’s left arm and inserted an IV. Houston started a drip of fluids to rehydrate him. Despite the cold, Bryan had perspired a great deal in the suit.
“Is everyone else all right?” Bryan asked the medic.
“They’re doing quite well, considering what they’ve been through,” Lieutenant Houston replied. “Now relax, sir.”
“I guess I can now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t feel like I should.”
“You should.”
“Or that I can.”
“Don’t make me put you to sleep, sir,” Houston warned.
“Okay. I’ll relax.”
The major tried to empty himself of the mission. All that remained was to destroy what was left of the submarine. That could be done when the Chinook met its escort. Puckett could bring team members back with fresh equipment to finish the job before the Chinese arrived. It would be snug time-wise, but it could be done. They could also do a little photo recon of what was left of the PLN submarine. What he had seen there wasn’t like any other Chinese vessel he had ever seen.
Bryan lay there, looking past Lieutenant Houston at the cardboard-gray fuselage. The flutter of light and shadow from the rotor skipped across it. Bryan thought about the mission, not anything specific but in general. He wondered how much the failed exercise the week before had fueled him. Wondered if that had made a crucial difference. Suddenly, a pale face looked down, topped by a flat spray of gray. The major raised his hand to his forehead in as sharp a salute as he could manage.
“Rear Admiral Silver,” Bryan said.
“Major Bryan,” the rear admiral replied, returning the salute. “How are you feeling?”
“Lucky, sir,” Bryan replied. “Did you get through to my CO?”
“I didn’t try.”
“Oh?”
“I know when I’m being sandbagged.”
“Oh.”
Bryan didn’t say anything more. There could be a court-martial. Besides, it hurt to talk. His lips and the inside of his mouth were sore from holding the mouthpiece longer than usual.
“I don’t like what you did to me but I understand why you felt it was necessary,” Silver said. “But what’s more important is that I like what you and your team did for my crew. That took incredible courage and resolve. I’ll log the rest as a communications breakdown and leave it at that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Silver smiled. He blew to warm the backs of his hands as he turned away. Everything was relative. Bryan felt remarkably warm right now. He patted the pocket watch that had gone down with him. It was snug in a waterproof vest pocket near his heart. He could feel it ticking. His eyes were tired and he shut them. They had done well. He would tell that to the crew once everyone had been released from Lieutenant Houston’s field infirmary. Right now the major just wanted to savor the feeling of having pulled off this rescue. Far too many Chinese sailors had died, but there was nothing L.A.S.E.R. could have done differently. They had saved lives, not caused them to be lost. Captain Puckett would already have sent that message to General Scott. A brief communiqué for an unsecure line. A message that said, simply, TARGET DOWN. TEAM PLUS EIGHTEEN ABOARD. That would have told Scott that L.A.S.E.R. was safe on the Chinook with seamen extracted from the lost vessel. Once on board the Hercules, Bryan would send a more detailed report about the action.
But that was for later. Right now it was time to rest. For the first time in a week to rest without guilt or doubt.
Not even Brackettville had been so sweet.