Medusa

Kane watched these fruitless attempts with growing apprehension. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Zavala’s hand dropped from the manual switch. He stared into space, letting his mind’s eye travel through the workings of the flotation system. His gaze wandered to the window.

He flicked the searchlight on and was puzzled when he didn’t see a glimmer. He moved closer to the window. Sliding a flashlight from its wall rack, he pointed the light out the window, cupping his eyes to prevent reflection. The light failed to penetrate the darkness.

He passed the flashlight to Kane. “Take a look.”

Kane peered through the porthole. “Hell, there’s black mud against the windows.”

“We came down hard. There’s nothing wrong with the system. The mud is blocking the flotation doors.”

Kane was silent for a time. When he did speak, it was almost in a whisper. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

Zavala reached out and gripped one of Kane’s wrists tightly. “Calm down, Doc,” he said evenly.

Their eyes locked for a second, and Kane said, “Sorry, Joe, your call.”

Zavala loosened his grip. “I don’t mean to sound casual. We’re in a tough spot, yes, but it’s far from hopeless. The folks on the Beebe must know something has happened, and they’ve got our position.”

“What good will that do if the cable is broken? They still have to haul us up somehow.”

“I’m sure Kurt will figure it out.”

Kane snorted. “Austin’s an impressive guy, but he’s not a miracle man.”

Zavala thought about the countless times Austin’s courage and resourcefulness had snatched them back from the edge of disaster.

“I’ve worked with Kurt for years, and he’s as close to a miracle worker as I’ve ever seen. If anyone can get us out of here, he can. We’ve got more than three hours of air and enough power to give us light and heat. Our biggest problems will be boredom and el bano.” He picked up a plastic bag. “This should take care of our sanitary needs. Since we’ve been thrown together by the fates, maybe we should know more about each other. Tell me about your work,” Zavala said.

Kane’s face lit up, and he seemed to forget his claustrophobic surroundings. “My specialty is the phylum Cnidaria, which includes the class commonly known as jellyfish. Many people don’t find jellyfish terribly exciting.”

“I think jellyfish are very exciting,” Zavala said. “I was zapped once by a Portuguese man-of-war. The encounter was extremely painful.”

“The man-of-war is not considered a ‘true’ jellyfish but rather a colony of different organisms living in symbiosis. The tentacles are equipped with thousands of nematocysts-the venom apparatus-and grow as long as sixty-five feet. Size isn’t everything, though. You’re lucky you didn’t encounter the little sea wasp. That critter’s string could have landed you in the morgue.”

“I didn’t consider myself lucky at the time,” Zavala said as he recalled the burning sting. “What’s the focus of your research?”

“My lab has been looking into ocean biomedicine. We think the ocean will be the most important future source of pharmaceutical compounds.”

“Like the Amazon rain forest?”

“There’s been a lot of interest in the Amazon, but we think the ocean will far surpass anything that’s been found in the jungle.”

“You’re talking jellyfish instead of jaguars?”

“There are more similarities than differences between the land and the sea. Take curare, for instance. The Amazon Indians used it as a paralyzing poison on their arrow tips, but its muscle-relaxant properties make it useful as a medicine.”

“And you see similar potential for jellyfish?”

“That and more. Jellyfish, squid, octopi, snails-seemingly simple creatures with complex systems for feeding and defense.”

“What sort of work were you doing in the Pacific Ocean?” Zavala asked.

“I was working on a project that could affect every man, woman, and child on this planet.”

“Now you’ve really got my attention. Tell me more.”

“Can’t,” Kane said, “top secret. I’ve already said too much. If I told you more, I’d have to kill you.”

He realized the absurdity of his threat, given their dire circumstances, and began to giggle uncontrollably. Zavala choked back his laughter. “Laughing uses up too much oxygen.”

Kane became serious again. “Do you really think Austin is going to come to our rescue?”

“He’s never failed before.”

Kane pretended he was zipping his mouth shut. “Then the nature of our work will have to remain classified in case there is a slim chance that we’ll get out of this damned hollow steel ball.”

Zavala laughed softly. “I guess your romance with Beebe’s world is over.”

Kane managed to eke out a smile. “Your turn, Joe. Tell me how you came to NUMA.”

“Admiral Sandecker hired me right out of college. He needed a good mechanic.”

Zavala was being typically modest. The son of Mexican immigrants, he had graduated from New York Maritime College with a degree in marine engineering. He had a brilliant mechanical mind and expertise in every known kind of propulsion, able to repair, modify, or restore any engine-automobile, ship, aircraft-be it steam, diesel, or electric.

Sandecker had heard reports about the bright young student and recruited him before he received his diploma. He was NUMA’s top submersible designer of ma

“You make it sound like NUMA hired you to change tires in the agency’s motor pool,” Kane said. He glanced around the interior of the bathysphere. “We wouldn’t be alive if it hadn’t been for the modifications you installed in the B3.”

Zavala shrugged. Despite his reassurances, he knew that their rescue was problematic. Using less air would only prolong the inevitable. He glanced at the display panel: slightly more than two hours of air left. Sleepy from the effects of stale atmosphere, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about the air supply ebbing away.

CHAPTER 9

ONCE AGAIN, AUSTIN WATCHED, TIGHT-LIPPED, AS THE dripping tether snaked from the ocean without its payload. He swore a sailor’s oath at the loss of the ROV, and called the captain in the bridge.

“The ROV cable’s been sheared off just like the bathysphere’s,” Austin said. “Looks like someone worked it over with a pair of hedge clippers.”

“This is crazy!” Captain Ga

“Hold off for now,” Austin said. “I need a couple of minutes to think this through.”

Austin stared at the heaving sapphire surface of the sea. He pushed aside thoughts of the two men locked into a steel ball half a mile below the ship’s hull and focused on the retrieval of the bathysphere as a salvage problem. His nimble mind began to formulate a rescue plan and assemble the equipment he would need to carry it out.

He called the captain back. “I’ve got an idea, but I’ll need your help.”

“Tell me what you want and it’s yours, Kurt.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll meet you in the machine shop.”

The Beebe’s machine shop, below the main deck, was a vital component of the ship’s operation. A research vessel is basically a platform that allows scientists to plumb the depths with instruments or underwater vehicles. Powerful ocean forces constantly battered the vessel. The Beebe’s shop kept the ship operational with a crew of only three, including the chief mechanic, and an array of tools to cut, grind, turn, mold, mill, and press.

Austin had until then kept the shop busy tending to the specialized needs posed by the bathysphere’s launch. As project director, he had developed a close professional relationship with the chief machinist, a burly, troll-like man named Hank, who liked to wrap up a project with the words, “Good enough for government work.”