Sediment drifted in the beams of light. A small shoal of fish darted past, silver scales flashing, then vanished. Bubbles rose from his regulator. Silver spheres escaping upward, leaving them below.
The pack of demolition charges dug into his back. He adjusted the weight and followed Jen as she led the way to the first pylon.
Ahead, her headlamp swept across the nearest pylon. Barnacles crusted the metal, and rust bloomed in patches where the coating had failed.
“There,” she said. Her voice was steadier now. Focused. “Weld point at the base. Maximum structural compromise.”
He moved to where she pointed and kneeled. The water made every motion sluggish and dreamlike. He pulled the first charges from the pack and positioned them against the cold metal. His hands knew this work—years of underwater demolition training guiding fingers that moved with certainty even through thick gloves. The magnetic clamps engaged with a soft click.
“Good?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
They made it to the second pylon. Water currents tugged at him. Invisible hands pulling. The current came from somewhereabove—storm surges transmitted down through the ocean. Wyatt leaned into it. His boots scraped as he got into position to place the second set of charges.
Same process. Jen directed. He placed. Partnership. She knew these structures the way he knew weapons and tactics. Trust went both ways.
Through the murk, she plodded to the third position, but her breathing had picked up. Stress, or the dark pressing in. He needed to get her topside soon.
His back was already soaked with sweat inside the suit despite the cold. Exertion and adrenaline. His regulator hissed with each breath.
As they approached the third pylon, sediment swirled in her wake. He checked his watch. They’d been down here for eight minutes.
Jen’s breathing changed on the comms, no longer slow, but faster and irregular.
Wyatt looked up.
She’d stopped. One hand reaching for the pylon.
Her air line had snagged on a jagged piece of structural metal. The hose pulled taut. “Jen.”
“My air—” Panic edged her voice. “It’s—I can’t?—”
The ocean closed around him, silent and endless.
“It’s snagged. I got you. Hold still.”
His heart stole a few extra beats. If the inner line was compromised. If she couldn’t breathe down here?—
He grabbed her air line and worked it free. The metal had bitten into the outer sheath, leaving a three-inch tear that exposed the inner hose. Intact. But one more snag on compromised sheathing, and she’d lose air supply entirely.
“Line’s clear. But we move carefully from here. Stay behind me.”
Her breathing evened out but barely. Illuminated behind her faceplate, her eyes were too bright, but she made a circle between her thumb and forefingers.Okay.
“Two more to go.”
“Two more,” she echoed.
“Stay close,” he said.
They planted the third set of charges.
Time moved wrong down here. He wanted to surface. Get her out of the dark water. But the mission wasn’t done. One more pylon. One more set of charges. Then they could leave.
The fourth set clicked into place against the pylon. Wyatt armed it. The timer display flared to life on his wrist. Six minutes. More than enough time to surface if they moved now.
He turned. “Jen, that’s us. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
