“It says what, big-country?” Perry sounded as though he had just been told a bad punchline to a long joke.
Tom fumbled with his equipment to try and fish out the crowbar while also keying the mic. The torpedo bay was barely large enough for him with his tanks and there he was worming around trying to snag out his tapping tool and get under an officers probing questions.
“It says to tap three goddamn times, Loo, I wouldn’t mess with you about this, I’m not that clevah.” Toms voice swayed has his face moved in front of the microphone in the mask, shifting with his efforts.
“It’s true, he has to go to the glossary for knock-knock jokes,” Paul muttered, like a trained response to a long running family joke, but humor wasn’t his coping mechanism. He wasn’t sure what his coping mechanism was, but the urge to piss himself in the expensive Coast Guard suit was becoming pressing.
“I’m at the bottom of the ocean with Frik and Frak,” growled Perry. “Did you ring the doorbell yet?”
As if to respond, the dull metallic thumps rang out in the muffled sea sounds. Wells had clicked his lights to white, the colors strobing through blue, green, yellow, then white. His eyes adjusted to the change and he blinked a few times to help. The one poor thing about the respiratory masks was the illusion of being able to rub your eyes. Many deep sea salvagers would master the art of squint-squishing their faces to manage itches or wandering contact lenses. As his eyes refocused into the scattered edges of the darkness he felt a panic grasp his entire heart. His throat tightened and went dry and his urge to scream, a reaction that was suppressed by years of disciplined training, came out in a stupid sounding yelp.
At the limits of the flooding chest light were three silhouettes shifting towards them. Brass lined and human shaped. Limbering. Perry was mere feet away but had turned to face Wells, his expression scanning his long time diving partner for direction. In a flurry of bubbles and frantic motions the world went wild.
Paul was close enough to see each moment happen like clockwork, like well rehearsed chaos. The torpedo bay door slammed open into the hull, Tom sucked into the flooding chamber instantly, Paul close behind as he turned to hopelessly swim away. As Paul looked back he saw the glint of honed steel sever one of the mixed gas tanks on Perry’s back, the sudden jet of bubbles sending the sailor skyward like a jet pack. As Paul’s head slipped past the hulls rim, the last thing he saw was Wells draw his survival knife as the three brass laden shapes closed in.
The sounds of four voices shouting rang over four headsets. High above, Akin and the radio operator exchanged shocked glances.