Devil's Gate

At the sound of the bubbles racing through, pouring into the cockpit, he rejoiced and began singing once again.

And then, mid-verse, Kurt Austin surfaced through the foam and bubbles, rudely interrupting his performance.

Kurt spat his own regulator out and lifted his mask. “Well, you’re having a lot more fun than I expected.”

“Practicing for American Idol,” Joe managed. His teeth had begun chattering. “What do you think?”

“You may not be going to Hollywood, but I think we can get you out of this sub.”

Kurt held up a green tank of some kind. “One hundred percent oxygen,” he said. “I’m going to cut you loose.”

Joe tried to smile. The sooner, the better, was all he could think.

Kurt was already working, jabbing at the barnacles on the tank’s valve with a screwdriver. He managed to get it partially cleared, then stopped.

He showed the pinhole to Joe. “You think that’s enough?”

“Test it.”

Kurt worked the valve handle for a good minute, even banging it on the frame of the cockpit, until it would move. Finally, it gave. A few bits of debris blasted out of the valve’s opening. Kurt held it underwater. Bubbles poured out in a narrow jet.

Kurt grabbed another flare from the survival kit and ripped a length of aluminum trim off the control panel. The thin strip of metal would be needed in his project. He looked at Joe. “It’s go

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Joe said. Unlike Kurt, he hadn’t moved for a good twenty minutes, and sitting still in 60-degree waters without a wet suit was enough to bring on hypothermia. He was getting close to that point.

“I’ll be careful,” Kurt said, pulling his mask back down.

“Kurt,” Joe said very seriously. “I’m not dying down here. If you have to take my hand off, do it. I can’t feel it anyway.”

“And deprive the boxing world of your pugilistic skills?” he said. “Perish the thought.”

“Kurt, I’m just saying—”

“Why don’t you go back to singing,” Kurt said. He held up the bottle, “I’m making a little request: ‘Light My Fire’ by the Doors.”

With that, Kurt put his regulator back into his mouth and submerged.

Joe knew Kurt would do his best, but he also knew Kurt would do as he’d asked if necessary. And to save Joe from thinking about it, he wouldn’t tell him in advance.

To take his mind off it, he did as Kurt had suggested… almost. This time, he’d give it everything he had, really belting it out.

“We all live in a yellow submarine…”

OUTSIDE THE BARRACUDA, Kurt heard Joe’s warbling voice and was secretly glad to be out beyond the confines of the sub. Still, it made him smile.

He got up beside the lift bar. Joe’s hands were curled up into balls from the cold. He pulled Joe’s right hand as far from the left as he could. He then lit the new flare and held up the strip of aluminum.

He pressed the pointed end of the strip into the narrow links of the hardened steel chain that held Joe’s hands together. Then he brought the oxygen bottle awkwardly to bear and turned the valve.

The jet of bubbles burst forth once again. He directed it toward the aluminum strip and Joe’s chains and the burning tip of the flare. Immediately, what looked like a jet of fire burst forth.

It was awkward work. Kurt felt like he needed three hands, but by holding the flare and the aluminum strip in one hand and the oxygen bottle in the other he was able to keep his little torch operation working.

While it seemed like the oxygen was burning, Kurt knew it was actually an oxidizer. It didn’t burn. It caused other things to burn hot and fast — in this case, the aluminum and, once a little cut appeared in Joe’s chain, the steel in the chain links.

The jury-rigged setup smoked and bubbled and snapped unevenly. For a moment it looked as if it would go out, but it stayed lit. After thirty seconds he pulled the torch away. The links were glowing red but not yet melted. He brought the torch to bear once again. After another fifteen seconds, Joe’s hands suddenly snapped apart.

He was free.

Kurt shut off the oxygen, thinking they might need it, and moved back into the sub.

Joe was all smiles. “I’d hug you,” he said, holding up his balled fists, “but I’m too damn cold.”

“How long we been down here?” Kurt asked.

“Thirty minutes,” Joe said.

That sounded right to Kurt. Thirty minutes at one hundred feet. They’d need at least one decompression stop. With Joe’s survival bottle largely untouched and what was left in his own, along with the green oxygen tank, Kurt was certain they could make it without any problem.

He slid Joe’s mask over his face and forced the swim fins on his feet. With the life raft and the ELT beacon under his arm, Kurt led Joe out of the sub.

Outside, he twisted the beacon until it began to flash, released it, and watched it shimmy toward the surface.

He looked to Joe and pointed upward. Joe nodded and began to swim, kicking slowly for the surface.

Kurt took one last look at the Barracuda and noticed something shiny on the ocean floor beneath the lights. The knife. The same knife once again. Another taunt from Andras.

Angrily, he reached out and grabbed it, and then he began to swim after Joe and the distant flashing light from the ELT.

THEY BROKE OUT INTO THE DAYLIGHT ten minutes later. Kurt tried to keep their ascent to one foot per second, as per the old Navy standard rules. But just to be sure, he and Joe stopped at forty feet for two minutes and then at twenty feet for three more.

Finally breaking into the sunlight was a glorious feeling. Kurt pulled the inflation cord on the raft. The CO2 charge filled and expanded the small raft in a matter of seconds. It unfolded and stiffened with full inflation.

“Ready for passengers,” Kurt said.

He helped Joe climb aboard and then pulled himself in.

Once they’d made it into the raft, lying still and flat was highly recommended. Kurt was pretty certain he could do nothing else.

He lay there breathing, aching and exhausted. He was surprised at how cold and numb he felt now compared to their time down below.

After several minutes with no sound but the slap of the water against the side of the raft, Joe spoke. “Where’s the driest place on earth?”

“I don’t know,” Kurt said, thinking. “The Atacama Desert maybe.”

“Next adventure we’re going there,” Joe said. “Or somewhere hot and dry.”

“I’m not sure the National Underwater and Marine Agency has a lot going on where it’s hot and dry,” Kurt said.

Joe shook his head. “Dirk and Al spent some time in the Sahara once.”

“True,” Kurt said. “I’m not sure they would recommend it though.”

“Hot and dry,” Joe said firmly. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Kurt laughed. It really didn’t sound too bad right now.

He was painfully aware how close they’d come to dying. It wouldn’t have taken much to tilt the scales from life to death for either of them. Kurt knew his overconfidence about what their foes were doing was half the reason for that.

He looked over at Joe, who was finally begi

“I was wrong,” he said to Joe.

Joe turned his head awkwardly. “What?”

“I was wrong about St. Julien,” Kurt added. “He’s a gourmet. He would never chow down at some all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Joe stared at him for a moment and then started laughing and coughing all at the same time. Kurt laughed too. He knew Joe understood what he was trying to say.

“We all screw up, Kurt,” he said. “You just do it bigger than the rest of us.”

Kurt nodded. It sure seemed that way.