Sure that I had found the CPM, I unscrewed the module from the rack and detached its connectors. The small waterproof device controlled the entire array.
JD's voice crackled through the speaker in my helmet in short staccato bursts, breaking up. I couldn’t make out what he said.
Then something bad happened. My lights cut out, and the hot water stopped. So did the oxygen. Comms went down.
34
Iswitched to my bailout, disconnected the umbilical, and headed back the way I came, following the trail of the cables.
My handheld flashlight lit the way as I maneuvered through the narrow corridors. I didn't have any time to spare. Without the hot water, the temperature would plummet. I was already compromised by my previous brush with hypothermia. I’d fall victim to it much quicker the second time around.
I hurried back through the passageways, past the floating bodies, and emerged through the fissure in the pressure hull.
We weren’t alone.
Two divers in rebreathers closed in.
The Triton was down, resting on the seabed on its skids—no lights, no power. Nothing.
Neptune hovered nearby.
Trask and Wong were going to cover their tracks and eliminate the three of us. It would be easy to blame our deaths on foreign operatives. They were in the area and would likely be here before long. The duo had clearly discovered the sub on their prior run with Weyland. Trask would keep the QNCA for himself or sell the technology. Wong was in for a split. Weyland wouldn’t have gone along with it.
In wetsuits, Trask and Wong wouldn’t last long in this environment, but it allowed them to be more maneuverable. They must have sabotaged the Triton, cutting power lines from the external battery packs.
Wong took aim with a speargun. He squeezed the trigger, and the spear sliced through the water, careening toward me.
I dodged out of the way, narrowly avoiding disaster. The spear raced millimeters past my helmet and pinged off the hull of the submarine.
Spearguns had practical limitations in combat situations. Reloading was time-consuming. With a monofilament attached to the spear, you had to retract it, load it into the muzzle, and cock the band to arm it. But a well-placed shot could puncture a lung or rip through your heart.
Trask fired.
The spear darted through the water.
I tried to duck out of the way.
The spear grazed off the side of my helmet.
Wong rushed in, knife in hand.
I drew a plasma torch from my satchel.
David stabbed at me, the knife slicing through the water.
I dodged and grabbed his forearm, shoving it away. I jammed the plasma torch against his shoulder and pulled the trigger. It sparked, hissing gas, vaporizing tissue.
David released the knife instantly. It tumbled to the sea floor, the blade catching the light that was integrated in his mask.
I ripped the dive mask from his face, then used the plasma torch to sever his oxygen line.
Bubbles hissed, and Wong flailed about in a panic. The rebreather dumped its entire volume of gas.
Trask attempted to reload, pulling the spear back in with the monofilament.
I raced toward him as he seated the spear into the muzzle, then pulled on the band to cock it.
I reached him just as he completed the task and took aim. I grabbed the muzzle of the gun and pushed the barrel away. With my plasma torch jammed into his ribs, my finger squeezed the trigger.
