Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

They could hear the patrol boat’s charging engines—and then the boat was upon them. The submersible had made it a few feet underwater, but the boat’s pilot had drawn a careful bead. Its sharp prow skimmed over the submersible, but its lower hull hit home.

The crunching impact produced an explosion of bubbles as the acrylic bubble cracked and the ballast tanks were ripped free. The submersible bounced under the hull, battered in a series of punishing blows, until finally getting swept aside.

The mangled shell wavered a moment before tumbling into a lazy death spiral that carried it all the way to the seafloor.

45

THE SUBMERSIBLE MOANED LIKE AN ANGRY GHOUL as it plunged through the pressured depths. It struck the seabed with its nose, kicking up a thick cloud of brown sediment. The bottom current soon dispersed the plume, revealing the submersible’s hulk.

Dirk felt like he had taken a ride in a washing machine. With its ballast tanks crushed, the submersible had flipped too many times to count as it sank. A monitor screen had torn loose during the tumble and struck Dirk in the head. He gently touched the top of his forehead and rubbed the length of a nifty gash. Other than the cut and some assorted bruises, he was unhurt—and thankful to be alive.

The submersible’s rear frame had taken the brunt of the collision with the patrol boat, mangling the thrusters, battery compartment, and oxygen tanks. Despite numerous hairline cracks, the cockpit’s acrylic bubble had somehow survived intact, sparing the occupants a quick drowning. A dozen tiny leaks were filling the cabin with icy water, but the craft had survived the plunge still filled with air.

“You okay?” Dirk asked across the dark interior. He reached for a penlight clipped to the console, but it had broken free.

“Yeah,” Summer said in a shaky voice, “I think so.”

Dirk released his harness and fell forward into a foot of cold water. The craft had landed on its face, creating an odd disorientation. Hissing erupted from several points around the submersible. Dirk couldn’t tell if it was water spraying in through tiny fissures or the remnants of one of the oxygen tanks. He climbed over the back of his seat and groped for a side storage panel where another light was kept.

Wading through a cold, black, steadily flooding submersible would have led most people to panic, but Dirk felt an odd calmness. Some of his composure came from having trained for just such an emergency. But there was also a personal component.

He had lost a woman he loved in a terrorist attack in Jerusalem the year before, and that had changed him. Since then, joy had become a harder attitude to embrace, and he had taken to viewing the world in a colder, more cynical manner. More than that, death had become a companion he no longer feared.

“We’ll have to wait for the cabin to flood before we can pop the hatch,” he said matter-of-factly. “The pony bottles should get us to the surface.”

He located the storage compartment and retrieved a small flashlight. He flicked on the beam and aimed it at his sister.

One look at Summer’s face told him something was seriously wrong. Her eyes bulged in a look of pain and fear, and her lips were set in a grimace. She released her harness and tried to stand but could only hunch over at an awkward angle.

Dirk aimed the beam toward her right leg, which was pinned against the seat. A small stain of blood marked her pant leg just above the ankle. “It’s no time to get attached to this place,” Dirk said.

Summer tried to move, squeezing her eyes shut as she pulled at her leg, but it was no use. “My foot is pinned,” she said. “Tight.”

Dirk crawled over for a better look. The collision had driven forward one of the oxygen tanks, which in turn had mashed the lower floorboard. A plate of reinforced steel had curled up, catching Summer’s ankle against the seat’s housing.

Water had already risen past her calf when Dirk reached down to examine the buckled plate. “Can you pull forward?”

She tried, and shook her head. “No good.”

He maneuvered past her. “I’ll try to move the housing.”

With his back braced against the acrylic bubble, he placed his feet against the housing and pressed with his legs. Because of the awkward angle, he could apply only a fraction of his full strength. The housing rocked slightly, but nowhere near enough to free Summer’s leg. Dirk tried a few other angles, attempting to rock the housing, but without success.

“I just can’t get enough leverage,” he said.

“It’s okay.” Summer spoke calmly, trying to mask her own fear and not place undue pressure on her brother. “Water’s rising. Better get the dive tanks.”

Dirk saw the water was already up to Summer’s waist. The leaks had increased, and the cabin was filling quicker. He dropped his legs into the water, which stabbed his skin with an icy bite, and climbed past the seats to the rear of the submersible. He reached for a rack next to the hatch that held emergency evacuation gear—two dive tanks fitted with regulators and masks.

He passed one tank down to Summer and looped the other over his shoulder. Then he rummaged around a compact toolbo

x, cursing that its wrenches and pliers were designed for small electrical repairs. The largest tool was a ball-peen hammer, which he grabbed, along with a short hacksaw blade. The blade summoned up the image of Aron Ralston, the courageous mountain biker who cut off his own arm after becoming trapped under a boulder near Moab. Amputating Summer’s foot with the hacksaw blade might become a gruesome last measure to save her life.

“Any ideas?” Summer asked when he climbed over with the tools.

“I’ll try and wedge the seat frame apart so you can slip out.” He passed her the light and hoped she didn’t notice the saw blade.

“Okay,” she replied, shivering as the cold water swirled around her chest.