Brace for Impact

Another installment of the Tusker adventure, Icebound

Photo: National Geographix Society

Author’s note: I have previously published the prologue, and first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth chapters from my unpublished (and unfinished) novel, provisionally named Icebound. I’ve been noodling on the idea of serialized fiction for some time, and thought it would be a fun and challenging exercise to occasionally publish further chapters, and perhaps continue to write more, here on Swimpruf. The risk with serialized fiction, and writing forward, as it were, is that I can’t go back and edit or change details later since it will have already been put out into the world. A bit like removing your climbing anchors as you go up a rock wall. But there’s something thrilling in that challenge. So I’m going to give it a try, aiming loosely for once every month or two. So here is the next installment. I hope you enjoy it. — JH

After four hours exploring the wreck, Tusker’s bladder was full. He squirmed in his seat, twisting to find a comfortable position. Doubled over to peer out the port for hours had caused an ache in his neck. He looked across at Cornelius, who appeared nonplussed and downright relaxed.

“There’s a pee bottle stowed down behind you,” he said with a wry grin and condescending tone. “I told you to forgo the coffee this morning.”

Tusker grunted and mustered a smile. “How much longer until we surface?”

“With the CO2 scrubbers and my long-life batteries, we could be down here for days,” Cornelius paused for effect. “But I’ll spare you that, and we’d have to fight over the energy bar supply.” As he spoke, he reached up and toggled a switch over his head. The spotlights went dark. “I think we’ve seen enough for one day.”

Cornelius flipped a couple more switches, and Tusker heard a clunk, and a steady, disconcerting hiss. Compressed air flowed into the ballast tanks, as seawater was forced out. Another series of buttons and switches, and a whirring sound joined the cacophony—thrusters maneuvered Nereus away from the wreck and started rising in the water, slowly at first, then more quickly. The only indication of this was the digital fathometer, whose numbers flickered their ascent.

Tusker felt no sensation of ascending, though their rate of speed was fifty meters per minute. As the submersible became more buoyant, Cornelius fine tuned the ballast tanks, to slow their rise. The two men didn’t speak for several minutes. Tusker wasn’t claustrophobic. Decades of penetrating shipwrecks had inured him to tight spaces. But the hours in the tiny vessel, so close to Cornelius, caused a creeping sense of dis-ease, as if he could feel the immense water pressure closing in on him. As they got closer to the surface, Tusker relaxed, as if feeling the weight of all that water getting less and less.