Gordon Korman: The Deep

Kaz pointed at the outline of another vessel undulating in the heat shimmer on the horizon. “Isn’t that the Ponce de León ?” Tad Cutter’s boat.

Dante frowned at the silhouette. “I thought he was spending all his time over the wreck site.”

“That is the wreck site!” Star exclaimed. “I wonder how far away we’ll be.”

As if on cue, Captain Torrington cut power as the Pizarro bumped up alongside the PUSH life-support buoy. She sprang to the gunwale and tied on.

“Last stop, folks. Your home away from home.”

The four interns began the process of pulling on their lightweight wet suits.

“This couldn’t have worked out better,” Star said in a low voice. “It’s our perfect chance to check out the wreck site on our own.”

Dante worked the tight arm strap of his Nikonos past his elbow. “I don’t know, Star. That looks like a half-mile swim from here. Maybe you can make it, but we can’t — not there and back again.”

Star shrugged into her compressed air tank. “Then I’ll go myself.”

Adriana stared at her. “Alone?” The buddy system was practically carved in stone for divers.

“Cutter and his crew could be pulling millions of dollars’ worth of stuff out of that wreck, and we’d never know the difference,” Star argued. “This is the only way we’ll find out for sure.” She flipped down her mask. “Let’s go.”

With their watertight bags tethered to their B.C. vests, the four climbed down to the dive platform, stepped into their flippers, and jumped down to the waves.

Captain Torrington waved. “See you next week. Tell Iggy I said hi.”

Still on the surface, Star switched her underwater watch to compass mode and took a careful reading of the Ponce de León . Just past east-northeast.

They valved air from their vests and descended, slipping easily through the chop. The instant Star was underwater, she felt her disability vanish. Down here, there was no weakness on the left side — or any side. This was the medium that was meant for Star Ling. She was comfortable; she was graceful; she was home.

It wasn’t a recreational dive. In fact, all they were supposed to do was follow the buoy’s umbilical lines directly down to PUSH.

Star passed through a shimmering cloud of blue-and-white-striped grunts. She was already well ahead of the others. She was used to waiting for them. Kaz, Dante, and Adriana were inexperienced divers. It had baffled the interns at first — why pick a bunch of beginners for a prestigious internship? Now they understood perfectly. Tad Cutter had been betting that novices wouldn’t discover his secret plans. He’d also been convinced that Star’s disability would keep her from getting in his way.

Better luck next time, Tad, old pal.

As she passed a hovering sea horse, the sunlight from above provided an X ray of its pale brown translucent body. She’s pregnant! thought Star, and then quickly corrected herself. He’s pregnant. In a rare reversal of nature, male sea horses carried the young.

PUSH looked like a giant car engine on the ocean floor. At the center was the station’s main living space — a steel tube ten feet wide and fifty feet long. Star floated beside an underwater rack of compressed air tanks as the others joined her.

Since the station’s underbelly was mirrored, the entrance seemed like a square hole in the middle of the ocean, a magical portal to dry land sixty-five feet beneath the waves. The feeling of hoisting herself through the opening into the pressurized air was unreal.

A short metal ladder led up to the wet porch. There, the interns shrugged out of their gear.

“Check it out!” Star pointed to a rack of six diver propulsion vehicles, or DPVs. The scooters looked a lot like bombs. In reality, their “tails” were protective housing for the propellers that moved them through the water. “Transportation to the wreck site.”

The four unpacked their watertight luggage — nothing wet was allowed past the hatchway that led to PUSH’s living area. They each carried an armload of belongings as they passed barefoot through the pressure hatch into the entry lock.

A rapid series of pops, like machine-gun fire, resounded in the confined space. Kaz, who led the way, was pelted by a barrage of hot, stinging projectiles.

He gawked. Popcorn littered the dark industrial carpet. At the center of the chamber knelt a young man with long flyaway hair. He held a blowtorch under an enormous conch shell that was overflowing with popped kernels.

Spying them, he quickly shut off the blowtorch. “Sorry about that. Welcome to PUSH. I’m Iggy Ocasek.” Unable to shake hands in greeting, he held out the shell. “Hungry?”

“No thanks.” Kaz performed the introductions. “Kaz, Star, Adriana, Dante.” The latter two were on their hands and knees gathering up clothing dropped during the snack attack.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Dr. Ocasek explained, setting shell and torch on a stainless steel counter. “Poseidon is about to authorize a major study of how mollusk shells conduct heat at depth. I figured, I’ve got mollusks, I’ve got heat, I’ve got depth, I’ve got — ”

“Popcorn?” finished Adriana.

“You learn to improvise down here,” the scientist admitted. “And you’ve got to admit that the shell conducted heat beautifully.”

While Dr. Ocasek vacuumed up the popcorn with a handheld portable vacuum, the four interns explored their surroundings. The habitat was laid out like the cabin of a commuter jet. A narrow hallway stretched from end to end, flanked by looming steel walls of switches, dials, and readouts. Bare bulbs provided harsh, unyielding light. There were occasional comforts of home — a microscopic bathroom ringed by a flimsy privacy curtain, a small refrigerator/freezer, a microwave, a built-in dining booth to seat six.

“Six hobbits ,” put in Dante.

At the far end of the station, bunks were stacked three high on either side of the corridor. It wasn’t difficult to spot Dr. Ocasek’s berth on the bottom left. It was unmade, with tools, a roll of electrician’s tape, bits of cable, and a soldering gun scattered around the sheets. Beside it, the metal wall plate was gone. Through the opening, an electric blanket had been hardwired into the guts of the habitat.

“I guess it gets chilly at night,” Star observed dryly.

“That guy’s nuts,” said Dante with conviction. “If he short-circuits the station, no more air pumps, and we all suffocate.”

“He’s just eccentric, that’s all,” soothed Kaz.

“Maybe so, but I’m sleeping with my scuba tank.”

Star laughed. “Suit yourself. Come on, let’s go find a shipwreck.”

The double-tank setup was awkward and heavy, and Adriana struggled to get used to its bulk. The extra air supply made sense, though. Since they didn’t have to worry about decompressing back to the surface, PUSH aquanauts could dive for hours at a time.

As Dr. Ocasek swam around to help get the others outfitted with extra air cylinders from the underwater rack, a four-foot moray eel followed him like an adoring puppy. Every now and then, the scientist would reach into his dive pouch and toss the creature a lump of food.

“Peanut butter sandwich,” he explained into his regulator.

Peanut butter was the staple on the station. Adriana had checked the tiny pantry and found fourteen jars of the stuff, and precious little else.

That’s how you know when it’s time to leave PUSH, she thought to herself. When your tongue is permanently stuck to the roof of your mouth.

At last, all was ready, and the four yanked the trigger handles of their DPVs. The propellers whirred, pulling them forward. As Adriana glided silkily through the water, her awkwardness fell away. It wasn’t the speed that astonished her. In fact, she was only traveling a few miles per hour. No, what amazed Adriana was the total ease with which she moved over the coral and sponge formations of the reef. Diving had never been second nature for her, like it was for Star.