Devil's Gate

“I know,” Gamay said. “It does make me wonder about our luck though.” They were approaching the hull of the sunken vessel. He slowed them to a crawl.

“How so?”

“Somewhere, Kurt and Joe are sitting on a beach, basking in the sun and their newfound fame and probably ogling pretty women all around them.” “I’m ogling one right now,” Paul said. “And when we’re done here, I actually get to kiss you.” “Promise?” she said, lightheartedly. “I’ll make it worth your while.” A cough on the intercom reminded him that others were listening in and monitoring everything in the sub.

Suddenly, Paul did not know how to respond. He felt a nervous flush rush across his face, an effect Gamay always managed to have on him.

“Paul, your heart rate is rising,” a voice said over the comm.

“Umm, we’re at the wreck site now,” he said, all very official. “Traveling along the port side.” “Better get into my gear,” Gamay said.

Paul brought the Grouper up and over the Kinjara Maru’s deck. The big ship was tilted hard over on one side, leaning into the slope. Her massive hatches were yawning wide, fish swimming here and there, but the vessel had yet to be claimed by the sea.

In a way it felt odd to Paul. Most of the wrecks they explored were old, covered in sediment, barnacles, and sea life. The Kinjara Maru looked as if she didn’t belong, all brightly painted and scarred only where the fires had burned her.

“All of her cargo hatches are open,” Paul said.

“Kurt said the pirates were firebombing the holds,” Gamay replied.

“No need to open all of them,” Paul said.

“Could they have been looking for something?” In some ways that made sense to Paul, although what a group of pirates in speedboats could be looking for on a bulk cargo ship was beyond him.

“Maybe they just wanted her to go down faster,” he said. “As soon as the forward hatch started taking on water the ship was a goner.” “Back to hiding something,” Gamay said.

So far, the ship’s owners and the insurance company had been uncooperative. They seemed loath to disclose the ship’s manifest or even confirm the type of cargo on board. An odd situation, to say the least.

“We get anything from the company yet?” Paul asked “Negative,” the controller said. “Nothing but silence.” “You know, technically this ship is a wreck,” he said. “We salvage it, and the cargo is ours.” “I don’t think Dirk is going to approve the budget for that,” Gamay said. “But there’s nothing to stop us poking around. Let’s find an opening and see if we can get Rapunzel inside.” Paul brought the Grouper toward the aft end of the big ship. The crew’s quarters and the bridge lay there, partially torn open, as the crushing impact with the seafloor had ripped away a third of the structure.

“It looks like a cross section,” Paul said.

“That might be good for us,” Gamay said. “Nothing like easy access.” Again Paul blushed, not sure Gamay even realized her double entendre. He brought the Grouper to a hover twenty feet away from what was left of the bridge. Moments later, Rapunzel was in the water and moving toward the gaping hole where a part of the wall had once been.

With the autopilot keeping the Grouper in position, Paul turned to his wife. She lay flat in the aft section of the sub. The familiar visor covered her head, the wired gauntlets and boots on her hands and feet. The rest of her was clad in skintight neoprene.

“How is it?” he asked.

“Feels weird to be lying down,” she said. “I’m used to doing it standing up.” The intercom buzzed. “Paul, your heart rate is jumping again. Are you all right?” “I’m fine,” he replied tersely, then covered the intercom. “Honey, can you just watch what you say until we get back up topside?” She laughed, and Paul knew full well that she was teasing him. There was little she liked more than to poke holes in his reserved New England attitude. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much.

“Sorry,” she said with a sly smile.

Paul looked outside and watched the little mechanical figure move toward the shattered bridge and then disappear inside. On a smart phone — sized monitor he watched what Gamay saw in the visor: the view through Rapunzel’s eyes as she traveled deeper into the ship. In a corner of the bridge they discovered something.

“Is that a body?” Paul asked.

“Looks like it,” she said.

“What happened to him?”

Rapunzel moved closer.

“Looks like he’s been burned,” Gamay said. “Except…” The cameras on Rapunzel panned around the room. The walls were clean and smooth, the gray paint unmarred. Even the chair beside the man looked undamaged.

“No sign of fire,” Paul said.

“As gross as this sounds,” she said, “I’m going to get a sample.” Rapunzel moved in, extended a little drill with a vacuum tube attached. The drill hit the man’s thigh and began to turn, drawing out a two-inch core. The vacuum system pulled it into a sealed container.

“I’m taking her deeper into the ship.” With Gamay occupied controlling Rapunzel, and the autopilot keeping the Grouper on station, Paul had little to do.

Boredom at sixteen thousand feet. It was worse than being trapped on an airliner.

The intercom buzzed. “Paul, we’re picking up a sonar contact.” Now his heart had a different reason to race. “What kind?” “Unknown,” the controller said. “West of you and very faint. But moving fast.” “Mechanical or natural?” Paul asked.

“Unknown…” the controller began, then, “It’s small…” Paul and Gamay could only wait in silence. Paul imagined the sonar operator staring at the screen, listening to the earphones and trying to place the nature of the target.

“Damn it,” the controller said. “It’s a torpedo. Two of them, heading your way.” Paul grabbed the Grouper’s thrust controller, switching off the autopilot.

“Get Rapunzel back,” he said.

Gamay began to move, gesturing quickly as she turned the little remote explorer around.

“Move, Paul,” the controller urged. “They’re closing fast.” Forgetting Rapunzel, Paul threw the Grouper into reverse, backing away from the wreck and then turning the small sub around.

“I can get her out of there,” Gamay said.

“We don’t have time.”

Paul pushed the throttle to full and blew out some of the ballast. The Grouper began to rise and accelerate, but she was nothing like the Barracuda. Seven knots was her maximum.

Suddenly, the controller’s voice broke in a panic. “The targets are above you, Paul. You’re climbing right into them.” Paul went back to a dive, thinking it would have been nice to have known that a few minutes ago. “Where are they coming from?” “Don’t know,” came the reply. “Head south. Toward the bow. That will take you away from their track. “ Paul put the Grouper in a turn. Unable to see or track the targets, he had to rely on the controller.

“Keep moving,” the voice on the intercom said. “You have ten seconds.” There was no way the Grouper could avoid a torpedo that had locked onto it; their only hope was to confuse it with clutter. Paul decided to pop up, taking the Grouper over the deck, hugging the Kinjara Maru as closely as possible.

A resounding clang told him he’d hit something protruding. The reverberation was loud but inconsequential, and Paul didn’t dare separate from the larger ship.

“Three seconds, two… one…” “Paul?” Gamay called. She was scared, he could hear it. There was nothing he could do about it.

A high-pitched whining sound raced overhead as the first torpedo passed. Another followed moments later,