JOE ZAVALA REMAINED TRAPPED in the inverted hull of the Barracuda. His head and shoulders protruded into the cockpit and its lifesaving air pocket. His arms remained drawn awkwardly across his body, bent at the elbows and protruding out from under the cockpit’s rim. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. But he could still think, and he realized that running the air full blast was a mistake.
The excess was merely pumping itself out over the side before it could be used.
He managed to stretch his leg once again and use his toes, numb as they were, to jab at the switch.
The jet of air bubbles ceased. The cabin of the cockpit grew deathly quiet, and Joe continued to breathe slowly and count the seconds until Kurt returned with whatever he had in mind.
It was only a question of time, he told himself. Kurt would return no matter what. Joe knew his friend would never give him up until there was literally no other way. He just hoped that whatever Kurt had in mind worked and worked quickly.
As he waited in the silence, Joe found counting to be utterly tedious as a method of passing time. In fact, he’d honestly begun to believe it actually slowed time down somehow.
He decided to sing instead, both as a way to fight the silence to keep himself alert and as a way to take his mind off the fear and freezing sensation that was creeping through his body.
At first he considered singing something related to warmth, but somehow belting out the Supremes’ version of “Heat Wave,” or a similar tune, seemed like it would make things worse in this frigid environment.
Instead he settled on another song, one that seemed more appropriate. It took a second to bring the words together, but then he was ready.
“We all live in a yellow submarine…” he began.
Even Joe would have admitted it was more talking than singing at this point, but it was something to do. And it gave him some ideas.
“Note to self,” he said. “Paint next submarine yellow. And include a heater that works underwater, even if the whole cockpit floods. And missiles, definitely missiles.”
With that note filed away, Joe continued, singing louder with each chorus. He was on the third chorus, really beginning to get the hang of it, finding the acoustics of the inverted Barracuda to be most pleasing to the ear, when he realized he was getting delirious. The air was growing stale.
He stretched out his leg and banged it against the control panel. His feet were so numb, he could only feel the impact higher up on his calf, but he knew he was in the right area. He tapped and tapped again, continuing his awkward attempts, until the air jets came back on.
At the sound of the bubbles racing through, pouring into the cockpit, he rejoiced and began singing once again.
And then, mid-verse, Kurt Austin surfaced through the foam and bubbles, rudely interrupting his performance.
Kurt spat his own regulator out and lifted his mask. “Well, you’re having a lot more fun than I expected.”
“Practicing for American Idol,” Joe managed. His teeth had begun chattering. “What do you think?”
“You may not be going to Hollywood, but I think we can get you out of this sub.”
Kurt held up a green tank of some kind. “One hundred percent oxygen,” he said. “I’m going to cut you loose.”
Joe tried to smile. The sooner, the better, was all he could think.
Kurt was already working, jabbing at the barnacles on the tank’s valve with a screwdriver. He managed to get it partially cleared, then stopped.
He showed the pinhole to Joe. “You think that’s enough?”
“Test it.”
Kurt worked the valve handle for a good minute, even banging it on the frame of the cockpit, until it would move. Finally, it gave. A few bits of debris blasted out of the valve’s opening. Kurt held it underwater. Bubbles poured out in a narrow jet.
Kurt grabbed another flare from the survival kit and ripped a length of aluminum trim off the control panel. The thin strip of metal would be needed in his project. He looked at Joe. “It’s gonna be hot,” he said.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Joe said. Unlike Kurt, he hadn’t moved for a good twenty minutes, and sitting still in 60-degree waters without a wet suit was enough to bring on hypothermia. He was getting close to that point.
“I’ll be careful,” Kurt said, pulling his mask back down.
“Kurt,” Joe said very seriously. “I’m not dying down here. If you have to take my hand off, do it. I can’t feel it anyway.”
“And deprive the boxing world of your pugilistic skills?” he said. “Perish the thought.”