convinced that the wiring in the escape trunk panel had a fault; scores of other displays had malfunctioned because of the accident. He took a full minute to look over the other monitors and readouts. When he finished, he peered back at the suspect panel. The ruby eye winked back. Govnó!
* * *
Seawater blasted into the chamber with the force of a fire hydrant. Already it had reached seaman-cook Aleksi Zhilkinâs knees. He backed off the manual flood valve, trimming the flow. It inched upward toward his thighs.
Aleksi inhaled and exhaled at an accelerated rate, the result of near blinding fear and the rising pressure inside the steel cylinder. The rapid breathing helped equalize the pressure in his ears; otherwise, he would blow out his eardrums.
He wore two layers of everything under his standard issue blue jumpsuit: pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. The Hydro Suit covered his clothing, isolating him from the four-degrees-Celsius water. The combination dive suit, breathing apparatus, and lifeboat had a maximum operating depth of 180 metersâ600 feet. The Neva was 220 meters deep, just over 720 feet.
The water level had just reached his waist. His breath fogged the plastic viewport of the emergency escape suit, but he could see well enough. The submerged battle lantern on the opposite side of the chamber broadcast a silky jade.
Aleksi floated when the water reached his abdomen, buoyed by the air-inflated suit.
Thirty seconds later, as he bobbed inside the cocoon, his upper spine slammed into an unseen metal fitting. The sting of the collision annoyed him, but the prospect of puncturing the suitâs rubber lining supercharged his already racing heart.
He grasped the rungs of the ladder with his hands as the rising water engulfed his torso. When the water surged past his head he shouted, âThank you, God.â
No leaks.
* * *
The junior officer ignored the indicator light as he kept watch, but his thoughts leapfrogged.
No one would be using the escape trunkâweâre too deep . . . there must be a short in the wiring . . . maybe I should call the chief and ask him . . . no, heâll just chew on my ass.
Forget it; it âs probably nothing.
* * *
Eerily quiet now; the roar of the incoming water had ceased when the chamber reached ambient pressure. Completely submerged, Aleksi remained anchored to the ladder with his hands and feet. The battle lantern continued to illuminate the escape trunk. The steel tube was about four feet in diameter and seven feet high.
Aleksi panted, almost hyperventilating. A tendril of vomit surged upward but did not quite erupt. He swallowed hard; the residual sourness burned his throat.
What should he do?
It all came back in a flurry: Charge the suit one more time; trigger the manual hatch release. Wait for the air trapped under the hatch to purge. Hang on to the ladder until clear of the . . .
Aleksi had learned how to work the escape chamber from a friend. The nineteen-year-old from Kazan assisted the two Russian intelligence officers who used the aft escape trunk for their seabed excursions. Modified for lockout work, the chamber could be operated by the divers independent of the controls located inside the pressure casing.
Aleksi rotated his head back and peered upward. He could see the circular opening of the outer hatch. The gray steel had just rotated upward, leaving a ring of blackness. Once through the opening, he would water-rocket to the surface.
Fear of what might lie outside consumed him: How would he see? Was it even daylight on the surface? He didnât know where he was; they said America but where in America? Would he be imprisoned? Would they return him to Russia? Was he a traitor?
He could shut the hatch and drain the chamber. No one would know.
For nearly two minutes, Aleksi clung to the ladder debating. Finally, a soothing calmness engulfed him, like a warm bath. He had to continue; it was the only way.
* * *
The junior
* * *
Seawater blasted into the chamber with the force of a fire hydrant. Already it had reached seaman-cook Aleksi Zhilkinâs knees. He backed off the manual flood valve, trimming the flow. It inched upward toward his thighs.
Aleksi inhaled and exhaled at an accelerated rate, the result of near blinding fear and the rising pressure inside the steel cylinder. The rapid breathing helped equalize the pressure in his ears; otherwise, he would blow out his eardrums.
He wore two layers of everything under his standard issue blue jumpsuit: pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. The Hydro Suit covered his clothing, isolating him from the four-degrees-Celsius water. The combination dive suit, breathing apparatus, and lifeboat had a maximum operating depth of 180 metersâ600 feet. The Neva was 220 meters deep, just over 720 feet.
The water level had just reached his waist. His breath fogged the plastic viewport of the emergency escape suit, but he could see well enough. The submerged battle lantern on the opposite side of the chamber broadcast a silky jade.
Aleksi floated when the water reached his abdomen, buoyed by the air-inflated suit.
Thirty seconds later, as he bobbed inside the cocoon, his upper spine slammed into an unseen metal fitting. The sting of the collision annoyed him, but the prospect of puncturing the suitâs rubber lining supercharged his already racing heart.
He grasped the rungs of the ladder with his hands as the rising water engulfed his torso. When the water surged past his head he shouted, âThank you, God.â
No leaks.
* * *
The junior officer ignored the indicator light as he kept watch, but his thoughts leapfrogged.
No one would be using the escape trunkâweâre too deep . . . there must be a short in the wiring . . . maybe I should call the chief and ask him . . . no, heâll just chew on my ass.
Forget it; it âs probably nothing.
* * *
Eerily quiet now; the roar of the incoming water had ceased when the chamber reached ambient pressure. Completely submerged, Aleksi remained anchored to the ladder with his hands and feet. The battle lantern continued to illuminate the escape trunk. The steel tube was about four feet in diameter and seven feet high.
Aleksi panted, almost hyperventilating. A tendril of vomit surged upward but did not quite erupt. He swallowed hard; the residual sourness burned his throat.
What should he do?
It all came back in a flurry: Charge the suit one more time; trigger the manual hatch release. Wait for the air trapped under the hatch to purge. Hang on to the ladder until clear of the . . .
Aleksi had learned how to work the escape chamber from a friend. The nineteen-year-old from Kazan assisted the two Russian intelligence officers who used the aft escape trunk for their seabed excursions. Modified for lockout work, the chamber could be operated by the divers independent of the controls located inside the pressure casing.
Aleksi rotated his head back and peered upward. He could see the circular opening of the outer hatch. The gray steel had just rotated upward, leaving a ring of blackness. Once through the opening, he would water-rocket to the surface.
Fear of what might lie outside consumed him: How would he see? Was it even daylight on the surface? He didnât know where he was; they said America but where in America? Would he be imprisoned? Would they return him to Russia? Was he a traitor?
He could shut the hatch and drain the chamber. No one would know.
For nearly two minutes, Aleksi clung to the ladder debating. Finally, a soothing calmness engulfed him, like a warm bath. He had to continue; it was the only way.
* * *
The junior
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