Mirage (Oregon Files 9)

“Good. Eddie, we’re going to have to jam ourselves into the air lock. Once we’re in, emergency ascent.”

“Roger. Emergency blow once you and Mike are aboard.”

That’s going to cost me, Juan thought.

In an emergency ascent, the cylindrical hull of the submersible disconnected from the rest of the craft, all the motors, battery packs, and ancillary equipment. The crew compartment would shoot to the surface like a cork, taking them out of the blast range, but it also meant that about a million dollars’ worth of sub components would be left behind to be blown into oblivion.

Cabrillo misjudged as he moved up the staircase and bumped his trimix tank into a bulkhead. It wasn’t much of a hit, but to the old derelict it was a deadly punch. Steel bracings, weakened by decades of immersion, gave way, and the walls around the staircase collapsed in a slow pirouette of destruction. The water filled with an impenetrable cloud of rust particles that turned the light from Cabrillo’s lamps into a meager brick-colored glow.

He managed to push himself away from the worst of the collapse, saving himself from being sliced apart by the avalanche of plate steel.

His careless action had to have caused a chain reaction because he could hear additional rumblings as the old wreck tried to find some new equilibrium.

He remained curled in a ball until everything finally settled down. A piece of steel had landed across his back. His tanks had protected him, but now as he tried to push it off he realized it was either heavier than its impact indicated or it was wedged in place.

“Chairman? Are you there? Juan?”

“I read you, Mike. I might be in trouble.”

“What happened?”

“A wall gave way when I hit it. I’m in a stairwell and I might be trapped.”

“I’m coming.”

“Negative. Get to the Nomad. I’ll get myself out.”

“We’ve got five minutes.”

Cabrillo ran the odds through his head. “Okay. I’ll give you three. If you can’t reach me, get the hell away from here.”

Eddie Seng had been monitoring the divers and knew what he had to do. He powered up the Nomad and swung it around so that he was facing the wreck. He eased in closer, reaching across the tight cabin to switch on the manipulator arms at the copilot’s station. He could see Mike, working to remove his tank so he could fit through the frame surrounding the wreck, and radioed to him.

“Hold on, Mike. I’ve got a better idea.”

Trono had to have seen the sub’s dive lights shift toward him. He looked up and saw the craft practically looming over him, its arms outstretched like skeletal limbs. He quickly got out of its way.

With a deft hand on the thruster controls to keep the Nomad in place against the current, Eddie grasped one of the metallic bars with a manipulator hand and tore it completely free. He backed off to allow Mike to swim through the larger aperture.

Mike swam across the aft deck and reached the door Cabrillo had entered only minutes earlier. Rust particles billowed from inside the ship like smoke from a burning building. It o

nly cleared when it was borne away by the current, again like smoke on the wind.

He groped like a sightless man along the passageway, sensing that there wasn’t much he could do until visibility improved.

“The stairwell is the fourth door on the right,” Juan said as if reading his mind.

Mike counted doors, and when he’d shown his light in through the correct door, he saw an open shaft that had once been a stairwell. The steps themselves had collapsed, and steel plating had peeled away from its internal structure. He realized that the rivets that had once held them in place had failed, allowing the plating to fall free.

The rust was settling out of the water, and he could just see Cabrillo’s leg peeking from the debris one deck down. The leg moved when Juan tried to free himself, but each upward thrust locked the tangle of junk even tighter.

“Hold on,” Mike said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Cabrillo replied.

Trono swam down, careful not to tear his gloves, and began moving some of the plating. The sections weren’t large, but it was like the old game of pick-up sticks. He didn’t want what he was doing to cause additional cave-ins. He tore into the pile with repressed frenzy, wanting to work faster but knowing he had to be careful. All the while, he knew that Juan would order him away at any second.

He shoved away enough of the old bulkheads for Cabrillo to try to free himself one last time.