Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

Mark gave me an apologetic look as he joined up with a couple of guys and followed Dad and Barry into the water.

I’d never been on a three-dive trip, and was unprepared for the sheer boredom of waiting for the advanced divers to get back. I put together my dive kit. Tested my air. Pored over my log book. Did calculations in my head to figure out when the others would get back. I even talked to one of the other divers still aboard until I realized all he was interested in was staring at my chest.

Clouds started gathering about ten minutes before the first of the advanced divers was set to surface. I climbed up to the bridge.

“What’s going on, Elle?”

Steve owned the boat; he and I didn’t talk much anymore now that Mark was around, but I’d been diving from this boat for years, and we were friendly enough. “This weather,” I said. “Did they get the forecast wrong?”

“Not that I know of.” Steve flipped on the little radio mounted behind the throttle levers. Nothing on the news station about severe storms. Still, the wind was whipping up and the boat was starting to rock, not so much that we were in any danger but it was a little worrying nonetheless.

I checked my watch again. Eight minutes left in the advanced dive.

Lightning flashed out of a sky that was suddenly dark; it hit close enough to the boat that I heard the snap of electricity.

“Shit!” Steve shouted, the word half-covered by a blast of thunder. “Get down!” he ordered. “Help anyone who comes up. They’ll need it.”

The boat was rocking more as I dropped down to the main deck, and I almost rolled my ankle trying to keep my feet. But I held onto the tanks, secured in place, until I was at the stern. I grabbed a rope out of one of the buckets on the deck, tied it to the railing, then tied it around my waist. I didn’t plan to fall in, but better safe.

Rain began to fall, lightly at first but soon enough pouring onto the boat, the decking slippery under my sandals, clothes plastered to my body, hair in my eyes.

The next flash cut through the storm. I saw two heads bobbing in the choppy water, two hands waving.

It wasn’t the okay sign.

It was the trouble sign.

One of the other junior divers, Shawn, joined me at the other ladder, mask around his neck, rope around his arm. “What the hell is going on?”

“No idea!” I pointed out over the water, yelling over the roaring of the storm. “Do we go help them?”

“I’ll go! You stay here, hang onto the rope!” Shawn pulled up his mask and dove in, snorkel barely visible after only a few seconds. I braced my feet and fed rough plastic rope out through my hands. More heads broke the surface; I called Shawn’s name, but he couldn’t hear me.

A few seconds later Shawn waved to me; I began hauling in the rope, helping the divers make their way back to the boat. “What’s going on?” I asked, still yelling, but a snap of lightning and another rolling boom smashed down the words. I shook my head to clear it and reached out, grabbing the first diver by the wrist and pulling him onto the rocking, bouncing deck. “Are you okay?”

He spat out his regulator. “I’m fine! But someone’s missing!”

I nearly dropped the next diver, but recovered and pulled him onto the deck. “Who’s missing?” I asked him, gasping.

The boat bounced up, then slapped down; I looked out, saw Shawn swimming toward a trio — thank God, Mark was okay, I could breathe again. “Who’s missing?” I shouted.

The diver wasn’t listening. He and his partner were crawling along the deck, trying to get to a bench.

Mark and his partners were close enough now that I could help them aboard. More divers were with me now, working together to get everyone onto the boat.

Mark flopped onto the deck. I pushed him past, but not before I heard him try to tell me something.

“What?”

He yanked his mask down and heaved up onto a bench; one of the divers lunged across and bungeed Mark’s tank in place. “Your dad!” Mark shouted over the wind. “That Barry guy, he can’t find your dad!”

I dropped to my knees, nauseous. Barry was at the end of the ladder, and he was alone.

“Where’s my dad?” I screamed in his face. “Where’s my dad!”

Barry clung to the ladder; it rose in the water, smacking him in the face, knocking out his regulator. Two of us grabbed his arms and hauled; Barry’s bulk splatted to the deck between us. “Where’s my dad? Where’s Phil Raymond?”

Barry couldn’t catch his breath, but he could point, eyes wide behind the thick glass of his mask.

He was pointing at the water.

The doorway is too narrow even for me, and I only weigh 125 pounds. I try a few angles, but time and air is bubbling away, and I have to make a decision.

I unbuckle my vest, fully aware that it’s a stupid thing to do, but I get through the opening, pulling the gear in behind me. I hold up the big light in my hand and look around: down, left, right, straight ahead, but I see nothing.

Then I look up.

At first I think it’s just an air pocket. I’ve seen them on wreck dives: air collects in hollows and sealed places. But I notice after a few seconds that my air bubbles aren’t collecting.

They’re disappearing.

I check my gauge. 116 feet.

All of Dad’s notes say that, whatever these portals are, they’re all at exactly 113 feet. Three feet above me.

I take a deep breath, then give a gentle kick and float toward the silver surface. But a loud clanging makes me snap my head around.

Barry’s banging his knife on his tank. He has his hand around his neck.

He’s running out of air.

I check my computer, cursing. I could probably stay another five or six minutes before I’m in trouble, but Barry is already there.

I have no choice. I pull back and make my way through the narrow doorway, spitting out my regulator so I can swim into my vest. I shove the regulator back into my mouth and purge it, teeth digging into the rubber grips, glaring at Barry as I move past him.

I feel him behind me as we head to the line. The current is picking up, and I snag Barry as he’s nearly pulled away. I clip both of us together, then to the line; we empty our vests and begin swimming upward.

The trip takes longer in this direction; we have to stop twice to decompress. The line is jolting around during the second stop, and Barry’s dark eyes are ringed with white. I pull out my slate. Whats wrong?

He takes it out of my hand, holding the pencil the way a two-year-old might hold a crayon. Storm. Like B4.

I’ve dived in bad weather before — rain and wind just means a little adventure getting back on the boat. But I look up and realize with a jolt that the sun isn’t out anymore.

I take the pencil. Let go b4 surface. Come up away from boat.

Current?

I can handle it.

My computer ticks down the seconds, then beeps when it’s safe to continue. I unhook from the line and begin kicking, the muscles in my legs fighting the weight of my equipment. I glance back; Barry is behind me, but his kicks aren’t going to be strong enough. I grab him by the tank valve and estimate the distance to the surface.

Ten feet.

I mumble another curse around my regulator and inflate my vest halfway, feeling it pull us upward. I know it’s a risk, but I can’t carry both of us.

We break the surface and inflate the rest of the way. A wave slaps me in the face, separating me from Barry; I turn and kick back toward him, legs burning. I get a hold of his vest, pull him close, and shout “swim!” around my regulator.

The next wave knocks his mask askew and, with a hand I can see shaking even as we’re tossed around, he pushes it back in place.