He moved closer and used the hull to brace himself against the occasional surge from the current. He searched for the sub’s identifying numbers. They must’ve been on the stern, he thought to himself. He came across what appeared to be a cartoonish drawing. An animated fish with a long bill that resembled a saw. A swordfish? Ballard didn’t know the history behind U-boats and their identifying badges. He just made sure the image appeared in the frame of his camera, and then he moved inside the hull.
Once inside the belly of the sunken beast, his bright lights lit up the interior. Evidence of the violent passage to the bottom of the ocean and the resulting crash were everywhere. Cables and wires floated in the water like string spaghetti floating in a pot. Broken pipes and hunks of steel jutted out from the walls of the submarine as he carefully moved through the passageways.
He braved the tight surroundings, not thinking of the potentially claustrophobic conditions. He did, however, continuously check his oxygen levels. He’d been cautioned that once he’d approached the end of his fresh air supply, the exosuit would begin an air-recycle process that would be more taxing on his batteries.
He moved toward the bridge located at the center of the submarine within the conning tower. Evidence of death was everywhere. Bones and flesh had been consumed by the sea decades ago. Pieces of fabric remained, as did some of the seamen’s medals and insignia indicating their ranks.
The U-boat shuddered, startling Ballard. The current was strong enough to give the decaying giant a bit of a nudge. It forced him to reconsider his exploration of the wreckage. But his curiosity couldn’t be contained. He wanted to go deeper into the wreckage to inspect the cargo hold.
He didn’t know much about Nazi submarines and the intricate details of World War II battles. However, he’d read about stories of stolen gold and precious metals that were never recovered. Over the years, his online news sources had been filled with stories of treasure hunters finding hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of long-lost gold bullion. He wondered if he could locate a little some-somethin’ that might be of value. He instinctively worked his mechanical claws attached to the exosuit. He nodded and made his way deeper into the ship.
What he found was not stacks of gold bars or bags of silver. Instead, it was row after row of shiny silver canisters. Confused, Ballard made his way through the stacks of canisters. Seeing the entire ship’s hold was filled with the twenty-inch-long tubes, he retrieved one off the rack by unlatching a steel strap holding it in place. After a moment of study, he figured out how to open one with his unusual exosuit hands.
He attempted to twist off the cap of the canister, but it appeared to be stuck. As if he were at home attempting to gain access to a hard-to-open jar of pickles, he tapped the canister against the solid steel rack. He tried to twist again but was unable to do so. He gripped the canister with both arms, raised it over his head, and swung downward with all the speed the water would allow.
The canister ruptured, leaving a gaping crack in the side. Air bubbles began to find their way out before the canister slipped out of Ballard’s grip and started to float toward the gaping hole in the stern.
Frustrated, he checked his air levels again and confirmed he was approaching the window to return to the HOV. He’d have to walk up a slope and against the current to get there, so he decided to call it a day. Before he left, he secured two of the canisters under his arms and began to make his way back to the DSC-7, anxious to share what he’d discovered with his crewmates.
Ballard exited the stern and came face-to-face with several of the dark, large-lipped fish he’d noticed while inside the HOV. Before, they’d barely given the submersible a second look as they went by. Now something was off about them. Their movements were all wrong. The ocean currents were pushing them around in the water, turning them over on their sides until they righted themselves. The mouth of the closest fish to him was working overtime, feeding hungrily on tiny specks of plankton or dust particles.
Seconds later, more of the fish appeared behaving in a similar, odd manner. They surrounded Ballard and his pulse began to race. Reddish brown flakes were all around him, and the fish were devouring it like it was their last meal.
It was.
Ballard overcame his fear and moved quickly toward the submersible that hovered less than a hundred feet away thanks to the thoughtfulness of Masterson. Within seconds, the fish stopped feeding. They stopped fighting the current. They all died. Belly up, eyes bugged out, floating aimlessly with the current.
As the oscars or the groupers, or whatever they were, succumbed to the deadly fish food, Ballard began to panic. What if there was something wrong with the water? What if the hydrothermal vent had ejected a deadly gas that was toxic?
He wasted no time returning to the DSC-7. Once he was in the transition hold and the bulk of the water was removed from the contained space, he frantically climbed out of the exosuit until he was left alone in his Speedo swimsuit, breathing heavily. He’d become uncharacteristically anxious, causing his chest to tighten and his breathing to become fast and shallow.
Koslov was the first to greet him as she opened the secured door leading to the transition hold. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked. “What was going on with those fish that spooked you like that?”
Ballard tried to calm his nerves. He shrugged and muttered, “I dunno.” Then he pointed toward the canisters.
Koslov picked one up. “This is amazing. It must be titanium. It’s the only possible alloy ingredient that could survive the corrosive impact of the sea.”
Masterson arrived at
