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Jack shakes his head and frowns. “Man, I don’t know. Are you sure it’s safe to dive down there?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Mac says as he strips down to his skivvies and wriggles into the dive suit.
“And this fancy little homebrew dive setup you just made is gonna hold up?”
Mac nods, but keeps his eyes on the tubing that he’s trying to secure to the face mask.
“Should, yeah.”
“I don’t like ‘should.’ I like ‘yes’ and ‘I’ll be fine.’”
“Jack, if we don’t repair the hull, the ship is going to keep taking on water and eventually it’s going to sink. This is an ultramax tanker so it’s carrying roughly two million barrels of oil. If the ship sinks, all of that oil is going to end up in the ocean and the currents will wash it up on shore in Guatemala about two days from now. Every single person there who depends on the ocean for food and work will be poisoned, starved, and unemployed.”
Jack frowns and looks over the edge of the boat. “Fine, fine. Go save the people. But for the record, I don’t think this is good.”
“Never said it was good, Jack.”
*****
“Alright, mic check,” Jack says.
“It still works from the last time you checked thirty seconds ago,” Mac responds, his voice crackling through the comms.
Jack smashes the button on the radio. “Don’t get sassy with me. Thirty seconds ago you were on the ship, now you’re sinking into the ocean. I’m just being careful.”
“Alright, Jack, alright,” Mac concedes.
“Damn right, it’s alright,” Jack mutters to himself, but he doesn’t push the button.
He hates this — the waiting, the worry, the not knowing if Mac’s hairbrained scheme is going to work or get him killed. Jack tries not to acknowledge it, but he knows that they’ve long since run through their quota of luck, and he’s not sure anymore why exactly things continue to work out in their favor. Still, he’s not stupid enough to question it aloud. He just keeps wearing his lucky socks and rubbing his lucky penny and saying the lyrics to the chorus of We’re Not Gonna Take It three times fast. It’s gotten them this far at least.
Jack waits a minute and pushes the call button. “What’s your depth meter reading down there, hoss?”
“Just passed twenty-five meters.”
Jack purses his lips and glares at the radio. “In English, dummy.”
“About eighty feet,” Mac clarifies.
Jack lets himself sink deeper into the shitty chair that he dragged up beside the radio. “You, uh, you getting close to the bottom of the hull?”
“Unfortunately, no. The draft on a tanker this size should be about eighty feet when she’s fully laden, but based on my math I should have about thirty more feet to go.”
Now it’s been a while since Jack went through combat dive training, but it hasn’t been so long that he’s forgotten the dangers of deep dives. “Mac, you’re gonna be about two or three martinis deep, and you’re not breathing mix. Are you sure you can do this?”
“Jack..”
“Nuh-uh. Don’t you ‘Jack’ me. I trained for this shit. You didn’t. Now I know you’re smart but do you know how to find your way back up when the narcosis sets in? Do you? Because I can’t just mosey on down there to get you if this goes sideways.”
Jack waits a beat but Mac doesn’t answer. It’s stupid to think something happened to Mac in the intervening thirty seconds — he’s already asked if killer whales or giant squids or leviathans or whatever could eat Mac down in the deep dark deep and Mac had of course told him none of those lived nearby or at all — but Jack can’t help the way that his heart hammers wildly in his chest.
Finally, Jack can’t take it anymore. “Mac?”
The radio crackles and Jack nearly cries from relief. “Sorry, I found the hole. I was trying to get an idea of what I need to do.”
“What’s your depth?” Jack asks. Because honestly fuck the hole. If Mac can’t survive long enough to repair it then he might as well come back up.
“One-hundred thirty-two.”
“Mac…” Jack growls over the radio. Mac had said he’d be about one-hundred ten feet. He’s twenty below that.
“Jack, I know you don’t like this but unless you’re going to ‘mosey down here’ and stop me-”
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s your plan?”
The radio goes silent and Jack closes his eyes, imagining the way Mac gets absorbed in his work, not able to think about anything but the task at hand. It’s easier to imagine that than Mac down under this stupid boat. If Jack imagines real hard, he can almost hear the squeak of a dry erase marker on the white board while Mac doodles out his little alphabet math problems.
“Alright, I think I’ve got everything in place. Can you fire up the generator? I’m gonna start trying to patch this.”
Jack blinks his eyes open, wondering just how much time he lost in that little thought exercise, and punches the radio button. “Sure thing, hoss. Hang tight.”
The generator is set up about halfway between the radio room and the prow. It’s not far, but farther than Jack wants to be from the radio. He hustles across the open deck and gives the generator’s pull cord a nice tug. It turns over on the first pull and Jack re-checks the fuel level before hustling back to the radio room.
“Generator’s up. How’s it looking down there, kid?”
“We’re in business.”
That’s good to hear but Mac’s speech is thick, syrupy like last Fourth of July when they watched Die Hard and Jack got Mac to take a shot with him every time Bruce Willis popped off too many rounds without reloading. Jack knows what narcosis feels like, he can remember the way it slows time and makes his mind turn to mush. But the thing that worries Jack more than anything else is the fact that Mac doesn’t have training for this and there’s no way he’s prepared for the effects.
“Talk to me, Mac. You getting woozy yet?” Jack asks.
“Not really?”
“Okay, well getting narced feels different to different people. What feels off to you?”
There’s a pause before Mac says, “It’s- I mean, this seems stupid.”
“‘S not stupid. Just tell me. I might have a trick to help,” Jack insists.
“I’m scared. It’s dark, Jack.” Mac’s voice is small and he hesitates when he says it.
Jack’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Yeah, I’ve had guys tell me that. Your vision narrows and you get paranoid, thinking something is coming for you.”
“Yeah. I mean I know it’s stupid. There’s nothing here that could hurt me. But…”
Jack hangs his head and nods. “Doesn’t matter what’s real. It feels real. How- what can I do to help?”
“Keep talking. Please.” The panic is Mac’s voice isn’t something Jack can ever remember hearing before. They’ve been through hell and back — the Sandbox, Cairo, Honduras. They’ve been abducted, tortured, lost family, and more, and still, Mac’s never sounded like this.
“Well, how’s the repair going?” Because as much as Jack just wants to fill the space with bullshit about the Cowboys and the Daytona 500 and Bruce Willis factoids, he needs to know if Mac is even getting anything done down there.
“I got the first plate in place and bolted on. I’m still trying to finish the welds, but I was right. This puncture is big. It’s going to take all three plates that we sent down in the basket.”
“But you can patch it?” Jack presses.
“I don’t know if I can make it water tight but I think I can slow the water enough that the bilge pumps can catch up. It’ll be enough to keep her afloat until help comes.” The slurring isn’t getting any better, but at least Mac is still talking and able to make decent conversation.
“Well I mean that sure sounds a whole lot like ‘fixing it,’” Jack points out.
“I guess.”
The conversation lapses and Jack gropes for a topic. “So, uh, Busch won the Daytona last weekend. Big deal for the guy, his first Daytona win. Harvick sure gave him a run for his money, had him in the second stage even, but in overall time it came down to Busch. It was a good race, you shoulda come over and watched it with me. I know you hate that shit — just goes round and round and bores you to death but you could always bring some of them little whachamabobbers to fiddle with.”
Jack rattles on about NASCAR for a while longer before recapping the Super Bowl from a few weeks prior. Mac had actually come over to watch that with Jack but as per usual had ended up making a DaVinci helicopter out of a fork, some rubber bands, a coaster, and a paper plate that he’d cut up all funny like with his knife.
By the time Jack finishes his insightful analysis of April’s impending NFL draft picks, he needs another check-in. “Alright, before I loop you in on March Madness, I need an update.”
“I just finished welding the second plate in place.”
“Good work, Mac. You’re doing great. How’re you feeling?”
“Trying not to panic” he admits.
“Talk to me,” Jack prods.
Jack can almost hear the gears turning in Mac’s head, but finally Mac says, “I know it’s not real, but I feel like something’s bumping my foot, but every time I look down with my head lamp there’s nothing there. It’s just- under the ship it’s so dark and I think something’s going on with my vision. My peripheral is entirely gone. It feels like the ocean is closing in on me.”
“Mac, I think you need to ascend for a little while, let your nitrogen levels even out, clear your head. You don’t have to abandon the dive, just come up to about sixty feet for a bit. You’ve already slowed the water; she’s not gonna sink if you take a break for a bit.”
This time Mac’s response is immediate. “No, I can do this, Jack. I’m so close.”
“Kid, that’s the narcosis talking. It makes you think funny. Come up a bit, clear your head, and then finish,” Jack argues back.
“I’m already positioning the final plate,” Mac counters.
Jack lets off the radio button and shouts into the empty room. He can’t talk to Mac and help him at the same time. Hell, he flat out can’t help him. The crew that didn’t evacuate is down below deck messing with the bilge pump and even if he could get their attention all of them speak Mandarin and Jack’s Chinese is limited to “moo goo gai pan” and “kung pao chicken.”
“Shit. I dropped the impact wrench.”
Jack feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. “Forget the impact wrench. There’s another. Ascend to sixty feet and I’ll send it down the line in a bag.”
“No, I think I can get it. The seafloor can’t be too much farther down. If I can just-”
“LEAVE THE FUCKING WRENCH AND ASCEND!!!” Jack screams into the radio. “Do you copy?!”
Mac doesn’t reply and Jack smashes the button again, ready to unleash every ounce of pent up anger at the world that he has ever felt because Mac will die if he dives any lower.
“I copy. Securing the basket and ascending to sixty feet.”
“I want a play-by-play. No radio silence,” Jack demands in his steeliest voice.
“Copy.” Mac talks Jack through the steps as he ties off the rest of his equipment and makes his way out from under the hull.
“One-hundred feet and rising.”
“Good, Mac, good. Keep it coming, baby,” Jack praises.
Mac reads off the numbers on his dive meter until he reaches the appointed depth. “I’m here, Jack.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Better I think. It’s not so dark here,” Mac observes.
Jack sniffles and nods. “Yeah, I bet. How’s your vision?”
“My field of vision is better.”
“Good, good,” Jack replies, but his voice cracks a little.
“Jack, what happened?” Mac asks. “Did something happen on-board? Is everyone okay?”
Jack can hear the worry and confusion in Mac’s voice and he swallows, because it’s what almost happened below the ship that’s got him all tied up in knots. “You, uh, you got narced real bad. Scared me is all.”
“I did? I don’t remember it.”
Jack looks at the clock, the only thing he can read on the whole damn ship. It’s been less than five minutes since Mac tried to dive for the wrench. “Yeah, you, uh, you wanted to go after a tool you dropped. You were pretty out of it.”
“Geez. I wonder why I didn’t tie it to the line,” Mac ponders.
Jack laughs a little hysterically. “Probably because you were outta your gourd down there, talking about shit bumping your feet and losing your eyesight.”
“Fuck,” Mac says, succinctly encompassing all of Jack’s current emotions.
“Pretty much, yeah. So, hey, look. I don’t know how close to done you actually were, but you said you were on the final plate-”
“Yeah, that seems right.”
“-so I still need to send down that replacement impact wrench. Are you good to hang tight where you are? No funny business about diving without talking to me first, no going anywhere at all without my say so. We clear?” Jack asks.
“Yeah, Jack. Yeah, I’m not in any hurry to make that mistake again. I’ll wait for the wrench and your signal before I descend again,” Mac promises.
“Good. Alright, I’m gonna go send down that wrench. Just hang tight.”
Jack runs for the tool room and rifles through everything as fast as he can. There are actually several impact wrenches so Jack grabs one that looks well-used but maybe not quite totally beaten all to hell, and tosses it in a canvas bag. He runs to the dive rig and quickly lowers the bag down the line and into the water.
By the time he makes it back to the radio room, Jack’s breathing a little heavier than he’s entirely proud of. “Bag’s on its way. Try not to lose this one please.”
Mac chuckles. “I’ll do my best. First thing when I get down there is I’ll clip it in so when the narcosis sets in I won’t be able to lose it, even if I fumble it.”
The thought of Mac going back down to certain narcosis is absolutely terrifying, but there’s not really anything he can do. “Smart plan. You can descend when ready.”
“Copy.”
Jack listens to Mac’s crackly voice as he reads out the depth from his dive meter, and with every reading Jack’s stomach swoops a little lower. He feels, for the first time since their drinking incident on the Fourth, like he might actually be sick.
“Wrench is secure.”
Jack closes his eyes and nods. “Good job. Now let’s fix this stupid boat and go home.”
“It’s a ship, Jack,” Mac corrects.
“I’m sorry, I don’t take constructive criticism from people whose mental faculties are compromised. Please try your call again later,” he snaps. He doesn’t mean to be hurtful or angry, but Jack’s scared and Mac just doesn’t seem concerned enough for his liking.
“I’ll buy you a dictionary and you can take your criticism from that then,” Mac shoots back. Jack can hear the way he’s already slurring again and prays that Mac hurries the hell up.
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Smarty-pants. How’s the torch doing? The generator still working for you?” Jack asks.
“This is arc welding, Jack. There’s no torch. And yes, the electrode seems to be working.”
“Great. Good. Glad it’s working. Maybe you can give me a lecture on the different types of welding since that’s clearly the important part of this conversation.”
“Okay,” Mac agrees.
Jack listens to sciencey techno-babble about welding, electricity, and the history of industrial metallurgy. And for all Mac seems to retain his mental faculties this time, Jack still has to reassure him from time to time. The anxiety is higher now than it was before his partial ascent. Mac can’t feel his legs, he sees something off to his left and he’s just sure it’s coming for him.
“You know that Ahab got the big white whale, right?” Jack points out the second time that Mac says that he can still see the thing off to the left.
“No, he didn’t. Ahab got caught in a harpoon line and dragged down to drown by the whale, and then the whale destroyed his boat and the boats of everyone else in the fleet,” Mac argues.
“I’m trying to help. Stop being creepy,” Jack mutters into the radio.
“Then, stop being wrong. And stop bringing up creepy sea stories. I know it’s not there. I’m just-”
Mac doesn’t finish the sentence but Jack understands anyway. “You’ve still gotta manage the fear because that is real, even if the threat isn’t.”
The problem is that Jack can’t make Mac stop seeing things. The best he manages to do, besides intentionally calling arc welding “just fancy soldering” and frustrating Mac’s scientific sensibilities into another protracted science lesson, is to get Mac to wiggle his legs a bit and prove to himself that they’re still there and working, even if his brain is glitching on the whole sensory nervous system thing at the moment.
“I think I’ve done all I can,” Mac finally announces.
“Great. Pack everything in the basket and get your skinny butt up to sixty feet,” Jack orders.
Again, Mac walks Jack through every step out loud before deploying a lift bag to raise everything.
“Ascending,” Mac calls once the lift bag is safely away.
“Copy. Go to sixty and wait ninety seconds. We’re gonna do a short deep-stop because you’ve been down for so long.”
“Copy,” Mac answers.
*****
It takes Mac nearly two more hours to complete his decompression stops on the way to the surface and Jack spends a large part of that time elaborating on the finer points of bracket development for March Madness. They get into an argument about the best distances for drafting in NASCAR. Jack obviously sticks with the tried and true methods that drivers have perfected over the decades; Mac of course asserts that anecdotal evidence is useless because it has no basis on the reality of aerodynamics, drag, and friction coefficients.
They’re nowhere near reaching a consensus on the matter either, when Mac finally surfaces. A little help from Google Translate and the ship’s crew helps land both Mac and the basket. Once on board, Mac takes two shaky steps and collapses to his knees.
“Woah, hey, easy there, pal,” Jack says as he rushes to Mac’s side.
One of the crewmen hurries up alongside and presses a mask to Mac’s face. “Oxygen,” the man declares with the same annunciation the Jack reserves for ordering at the sushi bar.
“Thanks,” Jack says, hoping that it’s universal enough to be understood.
Mac closes his eyes and breathes, and Jack carefully lowers him to lie flat on the deck.
“Don’t talk yet. Just lie there and suck on some good, nice canned oxygen. You did good, Mac. You did real good,” Jack says, fondly rubbing his hand on the top of Mac’s head.
Mac smiles dopily and pats Jack’s knee with the coordination of a newborn foal.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get too pleased with yourself because you’re never so much as getting in a hot tub ever again after this. Give me a goddamn heart attack,” Jack mutters.
Mac chuckles. “Sorry I scared you.”
“Boy, what did I say about talking, huh? Can it.”
Mac snorts and nods, and after a few seconds his eyes close. Jack sits with Mac while he rests, still in the neoprene dive suit, laid out on the deck of the ship like the catch of the day. It never ceases to amaze him how Mac can somehow take a completely dumbass plan and make it work. Jack doesn’t think about what’ll happen when their luck runs out; he’s just glad that it wasn’t today.