Deep Fire Rising

“Provided we survive the impact, what’s the best attitude to prevent us from getting stuck?”

“Optimist?”

Mercer smiled around his anxiety. “Always.”

“Landing on our belly is standard procedure, but I’ve had a theory that if we hit on the bow at an angle, the sub would tip slowly and wrench the nose out of the mud. ’Course, if there’s something on the bottom, a boulder, for example, we’d crack the dome.”

“We’d never know until it was too late so let’s give it a try. I’ll extend the manipulator arms to cushion the blow.”

“Blow? Why didn’t I think of that? Mercer, you’re a genius. There are lifting bags kept in a storage tray under the manipulators. They’re filled by releasing high-pressure CO₂ from a cylinder. We use them to haul artifacts and samples to the surface while we remain below. They’re not large enough to provide any buoyancy for us and they won’t inflate even halfway at this depth, but they will act like air bags to protect the bubble.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Jervis talked Mercer through the necessary steps. Mercer’s hands were sure on the manipulator controls — tension made him forget all about the chill in the little sub. He tried not to think about the pressure either — not the psychological stress, but the tons of water pressing against the craft’s steel shell. At sea level there were fourteen pounds per square inch. That doubled at thirty-three feet, tripled at sixty-six. Quadrupled at… He forced himself not to run the numbers in his head.

“Six hundred fifty psi,” he muttered without realizing he’d done the calculations.

He’d swiveled an exterior closed-circuit video camera so he could see the equipment tray under the sub’s nose and eased one of the pincers into position to grab a deflated lift bag. It came out smoothly. The yellow balloon was neatly folded into a tight bundle. Attached to it were large clips for securing it to mesh baskets also stored in the tray. The gas cylinder was a foot long and had a lanyard that could be easily grasped with the other manipulator.

“What’s our depth?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” Alan replied. “You’ve got time. Nice and steady now. I’m about to put us on our nose.

He used attitude thrusters to raise the stern. Mercer was forced to brace his knees against a console to keep from sliding out of his seat.

“Okay, pull the cord.”

Because of the gas still boiling out of the earth, the lanyard flapped like a pennant in a high wind. Mercer missed grabbing it with the left set of pincers on his first two tries and finally got it on the third. Next, he gently pulled the cord. They couldn’t hear the gas release into the balloon, but they saw it begin to expand, swelling slowly as the CO₂ pushed against the crushing pressure of water. After a moment, it had filled as far as it would, about a quarter of its six-foot diameter. They wouldn’t know if it offered enough protection until the sub hit the bottom.

“Forty feet. Our descent’s still slowing.”

Mercer maneuvered the arm so the half-inflated bag was in front of the Lexan view port. It blocked most of his view, which in a way wasn’t a bad thing.

“Twenty feet.” The roar of erupting methane hydrate faded as the pocket of gas was depleted.

“Ten feet.”

Mercer willed his body to go slack. Either they would survive the impact or they’d be crushed instantly. He thought about the wall of water that had chased him through the DS-Two mine shaft. If the Lexan shattered, at least this time he’d never see it coming.

“Two feet.”

At the last second, a corner of the lifting bag folded on itself. Through the turbid silt Mercer saw the bottom was flat and blessedly free of rock. The sub hit. A cloud of mud billowed from the seafloor, enveloping the small craft. Bob shuddered at the impact. A clipboard and a thermos clattered past Mercer and fell to the Lexan bubble. The sub continued to settle, but her stern refused to drop from its near vertical position.

“Come on, Bob,” Alan whispered. “Fall, damn you, fall.”

Her nose appeared buried. The impact had driven her too deep into the mud for her to right herself. Alan fought with the thrusters trying to get Bob to move, but nothing worked. He even dumped the last ballast plate, but at their angle, the chuck of pig iron wouldn’t slip free. They’d gambled and lost, and rather than the quick death of an implosion, they were now trapped fifteen hundred feet from the surface facing the long agony of asphyxiation.

Jervis began to hyperventilate. “What are we going to do?”

“Stay calm,” Mercer said. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I know what you’re thinking. Forget it,” Alan panted. “The manipulators aren’t strong enough to lift the sub clear. They won’t even move.”

Mercer ignored the dire prediction and tried anyway. But Jervis was right. Neither of the two manipulator arms would budge, trapped as they were between the bottom and the sub. He had only a little movement on the wrist actuator on the arm holding the lifting bag.

With the submersible pointed straight at the bottom, Mercer couldn’t even lean back in his chair to rethink the situation. Above him in the pilot’s seat, Alan used the thrusters to try to rock the sub free, slamming the lateral controls from lock to lock. His efforts did nothing but drain their precious battery reserves. After three fruitless minutes he gave up and shut down everything but the atmosphere scrubbers. He punched a console several times and kicked at another before jamming his knees against the back of Mercer’s seat and sitting quietly. Mercer was thankful for the silence.

All but a tiny crescent wedge at the top of the Lexan dome was buried in silt, affording a narrow view of the black ocean beyond. Closer in, Mercer could see the half-inflated lifting bag wedged between Bob and the seafloor and the mechanical pincer still holding it tight. To the right of the bow, a single exterior lamp cast a sullen glow through the mud, like a flashlight through thick burlap. And then it faded as its circuit closed and the darkness became complete. A drop of condensation fell from the back of the sub and hit Mercer’s ear. His heart tripped.

A few minutes later Alan asked, “Do you have a family?”

“No,” Mercer said, knowing where this conversation was heading and not wanting any part of it.

“I’ve got two kids. They live with their mother. She left about six years ago. Said she couldn’t stand me being away so much. She married her divorce lawyer about a year after she left me.” He chuckled without humor. “I found out later they’d been together since before we split. But my kids are something else. Two girls. Twelve and eight. Karen is the captain of her soccer team and Ashley’s learning to play the violin. She can-”

Mercer cut him off. “Alan, stop it. I know what you’re doing and this isn’t the time. We’re not dead yet.”

“What’s the difference? Now or hours from now when the air becomes unbreathable, we’re just as dead. And if you don’t want to hear me talk about my kids, well, tough shit. I was about to say that Ashley can already play ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.’ ”

“If you’ll stop talking and give me a second I think I might have an idea.”

“What?”

“I said I think I have an idea of how to get us out of here. Can you turn on that outside light again.”

“Okay. Give me a second.” Jervis powered up the sub’s systems again. Consoles and display panels came alive. A moment later, Mercer saw the umber light diffused through the silt.

“It’s like I remember. The air bag is trapped between us and the seafloor. It’s only half inflated, but if I release what little air’s in it, we should have a moment when the sub is unstable again.”

“What do you need me to do?” Alan’s professional tone had returned.

“The bag is sitting left of center. When I cut it I want you to hit the right-hand thrusters with everything they’ve got. With any luck, Bob will tip to the right enough to free us.”

“Tell me when.”

Mercer used the manipulator controls to open the pincer. Pressure forced the bag to shift and slide between the steel fingers. “Okay. Hit it.”

The thrusters wound up to their maximum setting. The hull vibrated but remained stuck in the ooze. Mercer jammed the pincer closed. The serrated edges clamped tight onto the bag and he managed to twist the wrist a few