Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

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“Oh, you wanted hot water through there?” Tank pointed at the umbilical. “I told them you needed some air-conditioning.” He laughed and handed Brown a thermos of hot coffee.

“Very funny.” The diver unclipped a large wrench from his weight belt and handed it to Fletcher. “I almost have the base flange mounted. You won’t have any problem finishing up.”

A loud rumble rattled through the diving bell. A second later, Tank and Fletcher were thrown off their feet as a concussive blast rocked the bell. Tank yelled as Brown’s coffee scalded his neck. Fletcher grabbed the umbilical rack and hung on while the diving bell swayed. It felt like a giant hand had grabbed the bell and was shaking it like a snow globe.

“What’s going on?” Brown yelled as the other two fell across his prone body.

“Something on the surface,” Fletcher muttered, still gripping the wrench. He felt an upward jerk, then the lights went out and the shaking stopped. His face was near a viewport and he instinctively looked out. For an instant, the wellhead lights were strangely bright, then they blinked out. It took him a second to realize what was wrong. The bell had been jerked toward the wellhead and was falling forward.

“Seal the hatch! Seal the hatch!” he yelled, dropping to his knees.

A small red auxiliary light popped on, providing dim illumination, as an emergency alarm wailed. Brown’s legs were still dangling through the exterior hatch.

Fletcher grabbed the diver and pulled him to the side. Tank had regained his senses enough to slam down and tighten the interior hatch. An instant later, the diving bell struck a hard object. A groan of stressed metal beneath their feet reverberated through the interior.

The diving bell hesitated, then jerked to one side. Inside, human bodies, heavy dive equipment, and strands of umbilical cords lay crumpled in a heap. An anguished moan was barely audible over the beeping alarm.

“You boys okay?” Fletcher asked, worming his way through a pile of umbilical cord and easing himself to his feet.

“Yeah.” Tank’s voice was shaky. The dim light couldn’t hide the unadulterated fear in his eyes. He reached up and felt a bloody gash on the top of his ear. “Brownie, you okay?”

There was no response.

Fletcher groped through the tangle of debris until touching Brown’s drysuit. He gripped the material and pulled the diver clear. Brown slumped over, unconscious.

Fletcher pulled down the diver’s hoodie and felt for a pulse, feeling a faint flutter. He heard a groan and saw his chest heaving. A golf-ball-sized lump protruded from his forehead, and something about his feet didn’t look right.

Pulling away his fins, he could see Brown’s left foot dangled at an awkward angle. “I think he broke his ankle—and got knocked cold in the tumble.”

The two men cleared a space on the sloping deck and stretched Brown out. Tank produced a first-aid kit, and they wrapped his ankle and bandaged his head.

“That’s about all we can do until he regains consciousness,” Fletcher said.

Trying to find his bearings, he pressed his nose to the acrylic porthole. The sea was as black as coal, but the interior light cast a faint glow around the bell. They had collided with the riser or its blowout preventer and appeared to be hung up on one of the two structures. A long, slender object wavered in the current, and he shielded his eyes against the porthole to discern what it was.

He tensed in sudden recognition, feeling like a wrecking ball had slammed into his belly. It was a portion of the diving bell’s umbilical. Several long coils of it dangled from a riser crossmember. While it was possible the support ship had inadvertently released a length of their drop cable and umbilical, he instinctively knew otherwise. Both lines to the surface had been severed.

Fletcher stepped to a control panel and studied the dials tilted before him. Confirmation came quickly. Electrical power, helium and oxygen gas, communications, and even hot water for the dive suits—all provided from the Alta through a jumble of hoses and wires in the umbilical—had ceased. The crew of the diving bell had been abandoned.

Tank started calling the support ship, which could normally hear their every utterance via an open communication system.

“Save your breath,” Fletcher said. “They’ve lost the umbilical.” He pointed out the viewport toward the tangled pile of hose.

Tank stared for a moment as the words penetrated his battered skull. “Okay,” he muttered. “Are the scrubbers on? How’s our air?”

Fletcher took command, activating an emergency transponder, a top-mounted flashing strobe, and a backup carbon dioxide scrubber, all operated by battery. At a small control panel, he opened the valve on several gas tanks mounted on the bell’s exterior and adjusted the breathing mixture. Provided they could keep warm, the bell carried sufficient power and emergency gas for two to three days. Given their proximity to Florida and the Gulf, it was plenty of time for a saturation-equipped rescue ship to reach the site.

“Scrubbers are on. Air mix looks good.” He eyed a mechanical gauge. “Pressure stable at six hundred and twenty feet.”

During normal operations, the bell’s atmospherics were managed by a dive supervision team on the Alta. A measured mixture of gases was pumped through the diving bell’s umbilical, carefully adjusted as the bell reached operating depth. Helium, rather than nitrogen, was the primary inert gas fed to the divers, as it eliminated the effect of nitrogen narcosis, a dangerously intoxicating effect that can occur deeper than a hundred feet. The bell was fitted with its own external tanks filled with helium, oxygen, and nitrogen, for just such an emergency.

Fletcher motioned toward the viewport. “Since I’m already suited, I’ll inspect the exterior.”

“Without any heat, you better make it quick.”

While Fletcher reconfigured his umbilical to operate off the emergency gas supply, Tank slipped into the lockout to open the exterior hatch. The hatch moved only a few inches before striking something metallic. Tank put all his weight against the hatch, but it wouldn’t budge. Slipping his hand through the gap, he reached into the water and groped around.