at maintaining his buoyancy. The man kicked upwards and began to sink, and then injected too much air into his buoyancy compensator, rising up in front of them. He flailed and kicked, nearly hitting Jack, and then pressed his exhaust valve and bled off air from his jacket, sinking down between them again, hyperventilating. Jack glanced down and saw that the man’s tank pressure gauge was less than 200 psi. That meant that his tanks were nearly empty. He glanced at Costas, pointing at the man’s gauge. ‘We may be about to lose another one of our valued colleagues.’
Costas craned his head up at the ceiling of the chamber, a good eight metres above them. It looked like quicksilver, a shimmering pool in reverse, reflecting his headlamp beam. The Russian’s exhaust bubbles cascaded against it. The man stopped and swivelled round to look at them. He seemed to be staring past Jack, his eyes wide. Jack had seen that look in divers many times before, the look of hypoxia, of someone struggling to breathe, in this case compounded by narcosis and alcohol. Normally he would be unhooking his safety regulator to allow the man to buddy-breathe, but even if he had wished to do so, the rebreather system only had a back-up hose that could be hooked into another helmet, without a mouthpiece. The Russian suddenly turned towards Costas, grasping his arm, then began fumbling for Costas’ hoses. Costas held the man like a vice, staring at him, then pushed him away forcefully, pointed at his depth gauge, then drew a hand across his throat. He pointed up. The man looked, realized there was what appeared to be an air pocket at the top of the chamber and began to fin for it. Jack saw him press the inflator to bleed air into his jacket, buoying him up to the surface but emptying his tank completely of breathing gas. He watched him hit the surface in an explosion of bubbles, and then bob about. The Russian threw off his mask, which came tumbling through the water beside them to the floor of the cavern. He seemed to be struggling with his arms, and was kicking spasmodically.
‘How was it the miners cleared methane?’ Costas said. He had unravelled a length of detonation cord and crimped a blasting cap on to it. ‘Should be just enough oxygen from his exhaust up there to give this a good helping hand.’ He activated the time delay and let the cord loose in the water, then ducked under it and pressed the purge valve on his rebreather, sending the length of cord writhing like a snake towards the surface beside the man. ‘Fire in the hole,’ he said. There was a ripple of light and a crack as the cord detonated, and then a flash of orange as the gas in the chamber ignited. The man’s legs trembled for a moment, and then went still. His arms slowly dropped down, hanging lifeless.
Costas glanced at Jack. ‘Two down.’ They swam to the base of the shaft, and looked up. The third Russian, the one with the Chechnya tattoo, was where he was supposed to be, clinging to the wood on the edge of the shaft about fifteen metres above them. ‘I saw him down here at the base of the shaft to begin with,’ Costas said. ‘Bad idea. He’ll be way beyond his no-stop time. And all that alcohol should help to give him some nice little cramps as he goes up.’
They began to rise, letting their computers take over and adjust their buoyancy to maintain the optimal ascent rate. Another minute down there and they would have been doing a ten-minute stop on the way up, impossible with the tank pressure they had left. Jack calmed his breathing, taking strong, deep breaths, sensing the change as the rebreather increased the proportion of oxygen in the gas mix, feeling it cleanse his blood. The last ten metres would be on pure oxygen, the critical time to avoid the bends. He looked up. The Russian was rising way above them, far too fast, close to the surface. ‘He must have decided to take us out at the entry point,’ Jack said.
‘He won’t be able to move, if he’s still alive.’
Three minutes later they reached the ten metres mark, where the computer halted them for two minutes. Jack’s mind had been blank for the ascent, as if he knew that contemplating what might happen at any moment with the bomb was simply a waste of effort, when his whole system, body and mind, needed to focus on the battle to keep him from succumbing to the effects of pressure and nitrogen build-up. But now, floating still in the water and seeing the shimmering pool of the surface above, he suddenly, desperately wanted to get out. The shock wave from the explosion would be virtually instantaneous, and they would die here as quickly as they would have done with the bomb beside them. He saw Rebecca’s face again. He had to survive.
Costas signalled him, and they began to rise, coming out of the shaft into the pool in the chamber. Jack saw the man’s fins where he had pulled himself out and was lying on the edge, one leg drawn up. They both rose out of the water, cautiously. The man was on his side, his tanks still on but his mask and hood pulled off. He was moaning, saying something in Russian. He tried to move, and groaned. Costas crawled up out of the water, snapped up his visor and leaned over the man’s face. He was drooling, one side of his face collapsed, and he stared at Costas in desperation. Costas picked up the man’s regulator mouthpiece, and sniffed it. He crinkled his nose and dropped the regulator, looking at Jack. ‘This man’s been drinking. Should never have gone diving.’
The man feebly raised one arm. He spoke in heavily accented English. ‘My arm. I can’t feel it. Help me.’
Costas leaned over him again, took his chin in his hand and twisted it savagely, raising the man’s face close to his own. ‘Remember what you said to me before we went in? I’ll fucking break you before today is over. I remember that. I remember that well.’ He jabbed his other hand at the water, wrenching the Russian’s head so he could see it. ‘Well, Chechnya. This is my world. That’s why I’m walking out of here, and you’re not. You trespass in my world, you die.’ He let go of the man’s head, backed into the water and made a show of wiping his hand on his suit.
‘My leg. I can’t straighten it,’ the man continued.
‘That’s why they call it the bends.’
‘Help me. Please. Help me.’
Costas paused. ‘Well, Chechnya, you have a choice. With all that nitrogen fizzing in your bloodstream, another bubble will form, a big one, and go to your brain. Maybe it will kill you straight away, maybe not. Maybe you’ll live for hours, screaming in pain, insane. And then you will die. Or you can go back down and join your friends. Going deep, the pressure will ease your pain. And you will drown, an easier death.’
The man pathetically waved his right hand as if to reach for his regulator, and flapped one fin. ‘Help me get in. I can’t move.’
Costas sighed. ‘It seems you’ve made your choice.’ He turned to go, wading towards the entrance to the sump, behind Jack. They both crouched through the hole created by the rockfall, and knelt in the water on the other side. They could see a glimmer of light through the water from the pool where they had entered, where they had left Wladislaw only forty minutes before. Costas felt the rock, peering at it, then looked at the man still visible in the background, groaning. He unhooked the remainder of the detonation cord from his gear, coiled it into a crack at the top of the rockfall and crimped a blasting cap on to it. Then he glanced at Jack. ‘Ready?’ Jack nodded. Costas kept one hand on the cap, and stared back through the jagged hole. The man was moaning, his eyes pointing in different directions, sightless.
‘Hey, Chechnya,’ Costas bellowed. ‘Happy hangover.’ He clicked the cap, snapped shut his visor and dropped down into the sump, quickly finning behind Jack up into the green pool. There was a thump and a rumble of falling rock. Costas came up alongside Jack, visor to visor, and they rose to the surface. ‘Three down,’ Jack said.
‘Not for a little while yet, I hope,’ Costas said grimly.
They broke surface. The light bulb was still on. Jack quickly scanned the tunnel up the line of the train track. There was no one to be seen. Wladislaw must have followed his instructions. Good. He dragged himself on to the edge of the pool, then quickly unhooked his hoses and his rebreather unit, slipping it off. He unhooked his helmet and dumped it beside him, and took a deep breath. Costas did the same, then sniffed loudly. ‘It smells better here than when we left. That vodka breath. Phew.’
‘How’s your deco?’
Costas glanced at his gauge. ‘Fine. You?’
‘Three minutes margin.’
‘My guess is we’re going to go flying. We’ll have to go in the recompression chamber on the Embraer.’
Jack stood while Costas unzipped the back of his e-suit. He remembered claustrophic hours spent in that chamber, a long metal tube with barely enough room to kneel in.
‘At least we can lie down,’ Costas said, yanking on the zipper.
Jack grunted. He bent down and drew the neck seal over his head, then pulled out his arms. He saw that the suit was still covered in blood. ‘Hard stuff to get off, blood,’ he murmured, turning to unzip Costas.
‘Forget it. What you did, you had to do.’
‘I don’t have a problem with that. I just mean a ruined e-suit.’
Costas pulled his own suit over his head and stepped out of the legs, and Jack did the same with his. They
