Ballard, who’d recovered from the underwater ordeal, picked up the other canister and handed it to Masterson. “If it’s all the same, let’s head back to the ship. It was a little spooky in there. On the way up, we’ll open these up and see what we can find inside.”
“How many were inside the sub?” asked Koslov.
“A metric shit ton,” replied Ballard.
Masterson helped Ballard inside, and the three members of the DSC-7 crew began their fifty-minute ascent to the surface, where they’d reunite with the Sea Searcher I.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aboard the Sea Searcher I
One Hundred Seventy Miles North of Puerto Rico
North Atlantic Ocean
Captain Tobias ten Brink had not become concerned about the three-person team manning the DSC-7 until the deck crew frantically called him to the bridge of the Sea Searcher I. The submersible was returning to the surface at a controlled ascent. It was ahead of schedule, but that was to be expected. This was an extraordinary set of circumstances, and it would be normal for the crew to not want to push the envelope on their time below the surface. What did concern Captain Toby was the lack of communication. During the forty-minute window during which text messaging was available, or as they approached the surface when VHF marine radio was accessible, they hadn’t reached out to the ship.
The crew worked diligently to hoist the DSC-7 out of the ocean. Word spread amongst the crew and the three onboard journalists of the sub’s arrival near the surface. Once secured on deck, Captain Toby personally opened the hatch to welcome his submersible team back to the Sea Searcher I.
He entered the HOV, and a fierce wave of nausea immediately overcame his body. He instinctively recoiled, falling backwards onto the deck, where he vomited repeatedly. Frightened crew members came to his aid and attempted to calm him. Others covered their mouths and entered the submersible. They, too, were repulsed by what they found.
“Get them out!” shouted one of the crew members.
“Maybe they need air!” yelled another.
Two men pushed their way past the crowd that had gathered around the DSC-7, as nobody was willing to take the initiative. They entered the sub and began to drag the three bodies out. Masterson’s body was the first to be retrieved, followed by Koslov.
The crew members were sobbing over the dead. The corpses’ faces were grotesquely contorted, and their eyes bulged. Across the ship’s deck, shouts for the medical team filled the air.
As Ballard was dragged out, one of the open canisters rolled onto the deck. The British reporter picked it up and examined it before handing it over to the woman from the New York Times.
“Look at all of these sponges!” shouted a voice from inside the HOV. He began kicking them out onto the deck of the ship, where onlookers picked them up to get a closer look.
“That’s odd,” commented one. “They don’t smell like seawater, nor are they even wet. Could they have dried off that quickly?”
“What the hell happened to them?” asked another crew member through her wails of agony.
“Did they lose their oxygen?”
“Was the HOV breached somehow?”
“Maybe decompression sickness?”
There were lots of questions, but no answers. When the last member of the crew who’d assisted with removing the bodies emerged with the tops of the two canisters, he held them up for his crewmates to see. His hands were covered with white powder.
Some of his friends rushed to his side as tears streamed down his face. They took the shiny canister tops away and tried to console him. Captain Toby had finally recovered and crawled next to the three dead bodies. He openly prayed for them and grieved.
In a show of solidarity and respect, everyone on board the ship huddled around the dead, kneeling and praying for their souls. Others offered comfort to their mates. It was an emotional display during which everyone on the ship shared in the grieving for the loss of life.
While they mourned the terrible loss, the ruptured, empty canisters rolled around the ship’s deck at their feet as the warm ocean winds blew across them.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gunner’s House
Tangier Island, Virginia
Gunner and Howard waited at the end of his dock. The aging basset hound was about to turn eleven, but it seemed he hadn’t gotten the memo. He had been Gunner’s bestest pal since Heather’s death years ago. They would frequently have long talks on the couch, staring mindlessly out the window as if they were waiting for her to come. Howard’s long body and large round head didn’t make him much of a cuddler. His slightly heavy sixty-five pounds pushed him out of the lapdog weight class. But Gunner couldn’t have asked for a sweeter, gentler, and more affectionate pup than Howard.
Except for his insubordination. Howard was demanding. Sassy. A bed hog. And his frequent flatulence was capable of driving Gunner out of the house. He’d tried changing his diet. He continued the Nummy Tum that Gunner’s father, Pop, insisted was good for his digestive health. Gunner personally felt his digestive health was functioning just fine, but his gassy nature needed to be dealt with.
While Gunner would miss his old house on Dog Island, his new home had many advantages. For one, it had a direct westerly view from the back deck. Gunner was a sunset kinda guy. Not the “walk the beach and pick up shells” type. Those days had left him when Heather died. For Gunner, there was something about kickin’ back in one of his Adirondack chairs on the deck, a cold beer in hand, with Howard by his side as the sun dropped over the horizon, that cleared his head and relaxed him.
He was looking forward to this weekend. The Gray Fox team had saved a lot of lives the other day. Like all of their missions, nothing was routine. They were risky and physically demanding. What Gunner, Cam and Bear
