by P D Singer
EVEN A stray tear might blur his vision. Lee couldn’t afford to miss the black speck that would be Bobby’s head. If he got the safety sausage inflated, the bright orange tube might stick up far enough to be seen over the crest of the waves. Lee had to find Bobby; he had to. The universe wouldn’t let Bobby die before Lee had a chance to explain. It couldn’t. Please no, please no. Let Bobby live.
Lee might even be praying to some higher power he didn’t trust to exist, if it would keep Bobby alive long enough to haul him into the Zodiac. If not, he’d beg the wind and the waves, promise them every drop of booze he’d ever considered drinking, if the sea would let Lee find his lover.
Three shrill blasts of his whistle, then wait for the answering sound that never came. Lee blew, and blew again, his hand on the throttle. He followed the current, cutting a Z search pattern. He could run at thirty knots at three-quarter throttle, chasing a man caught in a current running five knots, but running too far past Bobby would be as useless as never catching up. He whistled again.
No answering whistle came.
“Bottom Hunter to Zodiac, we have all divers aboard. We’re pulling up anchor and joining the search.”
Anything, though the Bottom Hunter had the same problem—too far back now, or overrunning, if they even picked the right vector to follow the current.
Lee cut south again, his whistle shrilling over the noise of the motor. He couldn’t have lost Bobby’s answer into the outboard’s growl.
His radio crackled, spewing Tip’s mangled voice. “Any sign?”
“Not yet.” The question alone meant the dive boat hadn’t recovered her divemaster. “Where are you?”
“Right where you left us, Cap.”
“What the fuck? Why?” Didn’t Tip understand how urgent this was? The Zodiac bounced over the crest of a wave, the splashdown casting seawater into Lee’s face.
“Anchors are still down.”
“What’s taking you so fucking long?” Tip knew how to raise anchor. Harley didn’t, but that shouldn’t matter.
“Seems we have an anchor chain wrapped around the port propeller.”
“Damn it!” A surge of acid burned all the way to Lee’s throat.
“Yeah, someone got a little overeager. Kent and Darrell are below right now, unwrapping us, but we might have a bent shaft.”
What a fucking fuckbasket of stupid to happen, now of all times. He needed that damn dive boat to get off its fucking ass and look for Bobby, not develop some crippling problem. Was there ever a machine as screwed up as a boat?
“Send out a broad signal.” Lee couldn’t spend the time on the radio—he needed to sound the emergency whistle. Please, anyone. Didn’t matter who—a freighter, a Coast Guard ship, a fishing boat. A mermaid. Anyone. “If you can’t move, find someone who can.”
He turned the radio down, letting Tip manage the emergency broadcast. How vast was the ocean, how few who could answer. Lee wouldn’t give up—Bobby needed him.
He blew, and blew again, ignoring the radio traffic. No flash of orange teased his eye, no black blit of a diving hood marked the water’s surface. He swung north. And south. And north again, climbing the waves and falling back into the troughs. The wind stung his wet cheeks.
“Any sign?” crackled through the radio.
“Not yet.” Lee wouldn’t say “no.” That was too final. He’d blast his signal again, and Bobby would answer. He had to.
“Lee, you’ve been out almost two hours.”
“That long?” Not long enough—he hadn’t found Bobby.
The cold had to be gnawing on him, even through the neoprene and fleece. Socks thick enough to keep Bobby’s feet warm after three hours in the Atlantic didn’t exist.
“How’s your fuel?” Tip demanded.
“Checking.” Lee hadn’t given it a thought, and frankly didn’t give a shit what was in the tank unless it wasn’t enough to reach his target. “About a quarter tank, maybe a gallon and a half.”
“You’re pushing your margin.”
“Bullshit. I find Bobby, we’re coming straight back.” He’d make the fuel last by force of will alone.
“Leave yourself enough fuel to get back,” Tip demanded.
“If Bobby’s lost out here—if I’ve lost Bobby out here, it isn’t going to matter.” Lee cut the radio—he had a whistle to blow.
MOBY DICK could bite his feet right off and he’d be too numb to notice. Bobby kept his gloved hands out of the water, his thumbs hooked through his shoulder straps. The air stole his body heat more slowly than the sea did—the water envied every degree warmer than itself. His mask kept the salt water out of his eyes, at least, the one part of him the relentless ocean couldn’t touch.
Didn’t mean he could move his hands much, but they were “hurting” cold, not “gone” cold like his feet. The safety sausage flapped with the waves—holding it upright between arm and chest was getting harder. The waves would snatch it away one of these times.
He tweeted again, the three blasts that echoed in his ears even when he wasn’t blowing. His dive computer could tell him how long he’d been hailing for a rescue that hadn’t come, but what it would mostly tell him was how much longer it would take to die.
This is a long way from old age and a bed. Sorry, Lee.
Sorry, Lee, for so many things. For not listening—to his side of the story or to anything else. For leaving the boat mad. For not kissing his captain before jumping into the ocean, the same ocean that didn’t care if it killed him. Bobby had told a hundred divers, or a thousand divers, how little it mattered to the water, but it mattered to him.
It would matter to Lee. Please, God, don’t let Lee kill himself searching. But please, let him matter enough, even after the shit, that Lee would search awhile.
He blew his whistle again, more slowly now, with the little breath he could muster in the cold. Tired. So tired. The last whistle barely rattled the sounding ball. He should blow again, but he was so tired.
The piercing screech carried on, even after Bobby stopped blowing. He’d be hearing that triple blast even after an eon of harp music, it echoed so.
But this wasn’t an echo—not when it ended with “Bobby! BOBBY!”
He’d been hoping so hard to see the Zodiac crest a wave—was this real? Gray rubber and a yellow figure blotted out the sun. Might be real.
“Damn it, MacArthur, don’t you fucking die on me now!”
Strong hands hauled him against the side of the Zodiac, and more frantic cursing in a beloved voice—this just might be real. He let the safety sausage flop over and tried to grab a handhold. He missed, but someone captured his arm. “I got you, Bobby, I got you.”
He let the whistle drop from his numb lips and tried to form words. “Lee. You came.”
THANK YOU, wind, waves, luck, God, if it was you. “Of course I did. Think I wouldn’t?” Like Lee would ever abandon Bobby to the sea? “Let’s get you in the boat.”
And do it without putting them all in the drink. The Zodiac would capsize if he just hauled.
But damned if he’d lose Bobby to the current.
Lee clipped a safely line to the scuba tanks. Nice of Bobby to salvage them instead of letting them sink; the gear would keep the Zodiac from flipping. He clipped another line to a D-ring on Bobby’s dry suit, because he needed to separate one from the other. “I got you, Bobby, you can’t drift off, now let’s get your arm out….”
Bobby wasn’t helping much—was he even aware? “Come on, Bobby, slide this way, you’re tethered to the boat….”
Begging, pleading, cajoling, and doing most of the work, Lee maneuvered Bobby to the opposite side of the Zodiac. If he tried pulling three hundred pounds of man and gear over the gunwales, that boat would stand on its side for sure. But with the tanks to counterbalance, maybe he’d manage.
Fuck but Bobby was slippery, and mostly dead weight. Lee hauled, his grip slipping on the slick, wet neoprene. “Come on, help yourself!” he wanted to scream, but if Bobby
could, he would. Please don’t let him be so far gone he couldn’t react…. Lee struggled to drag Bobby over the side and had him half out of the water. Come on, a little more, a little more….
Bobby fell back with a splash. “Fight, damn it, fight! You’re this close, you gotta help.” Lee had Bobby’s hand and his armpit, straining to lift more than his own body weight. “Come on!”
Bobby struggled at last, pulling back against Lee, lifting himself a few inches. His chest was almost over the top of the inflated hull. “Climb in.” Lee’s vision was going gray—Bobby in full kit outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds.
Bobby swung one leg up, and almost over. “A little higher, yeah, you can do it.” Lee hadn’t the breath to yell. “Do it!”
Bobby flailed sideways, his finned foot rising higher than the gunwale. Lee lunged, switching his grip to Bobby’s thigh. He threw himself backward, and landed more than two hundred pounds of gasping, sobbing man.
Bobby lay crosswise over him, not squishing Lee much with the give of the inflatable’s bottom. Bobby’s weight had never been such a comfort, his heaving chest never such a signal of completion.
“I’m in,” Bobby gasped. “In.”
“Yes, you are.” Lee did some gasping of his own. He’d breathe better under Bobby if they were face-to-face, instead of in the bottom of a rubber boat with a cold wind blowing. He slapped Bobby’s butt, a dull thud with the neoprene covering. “You always did like being on top.”
Top, bottom, whatever—Bobby dragged himself to sitting. Even before he peeled off his mask, Lee flung himself at Bobby’s chest—he needed to hold his man, to feel for himself that Bobby was alive and out of the water. No more jokes, just clutching a living, breathing man. He had to feel for himself that Bobby was alive, here, in this dumb rubber boat, the best haven in the world. Bobby clutched back, his chest heaving, his lips moving against Lee’s ear.
“You found me.”
“Had to.” Yes, he had to—Lee couldn’t lose his companion, his lover, his partner, his conscience, his… everything that made his life good. He swayed with Bobby, offering comfort for them both. Bobby was alive, he was safe….
“You came after me.” His words came through chattering teeth.
“Damn right.” He crushed Bobby harder to his chest, right through the slicker and into his heart. “I wouldn’t do anything else.”
“I know, but….” Bobby’s shoulders shook, first a quiver and then an earthquake. “It’s a big ocean.”
Yeah, it was. Lee’s own storm broke, rolling through him in waves and thunder. He clutched Bobby for a life raft and added tears to deepen the ocean.
A wave lifted the Zodiac, then dropped it into reality. “Bobby, love, let go. Someone’s got to drive the boat.”
He lifted his head from Lee’s shoulder. “Okay, Captain. Take us home.”
“Aye, aye, Commodore.”
Even without Bobby’s help, rescuing the tanks was a matter of grunt, heave, and wipe the water off his face. With everything and everyone aboard, Lee could breathe again, though the bonfire behind his breastbone would take a while to subside.
Lee settled himself into the tiller seat with Bobby crunched in next to him. The radio crackled with distant traffic.
“Found him!” Lee didn’t bother with call signs or pleasantries. “I found Bobby. Got him aboard. He’s alive—colder than an iceberg, but alive.”
“Thank God!” Tip roared. “Where are you?”
Good question. “About halfway to Ireland?” Tip had to be delirious with relief, because he was sitting in the wheelhouse with all the navigational equipment, while Bobby and Lee had nothing but a radio, a compass, a transponder, and a burning desire to get on a much bigger boat. “You’ve got us on the AIS and radar. How about you tell me where to go?”
“Oh, yeah.” Tip’s voice went shaky, even through the static. “You’re about seven miles north-northeast of the dive site, so come back on heading….”
“Seven miles?” Bobby shivered. “I drifted seven miles?”
Lee believed it—he’d swung back and forth across the likeliest stretch of ocean, covering a lot more distance. He shivered too. A man who drifted seven miles from his boat didn’t have much chance. But most of them didn’t have Lee Preston chasing their asses across the water.
He hit the throttle and made the Zodiac boogie. “We’ll have you home in about fifteen minutes.”
Too much up and down on the water, not enough horizontal movement. Bobby shivered every few minutes. Lee glanced uneasily at him. “How cold are you?”
“Can’t feel anything south of my nuts.” Bobby shivered again. “The parts I can feel hurt. I am so glad to be out of the water.”
Clasping Bobby’s thigh to pull close to his own was all the warmth Lee could offer. Mostly moral support, because eight millimeters of neoprene and whatever fleece he had under there was more than Lee had. His slicker didn’t have much insulation—he wore it to keep from getting soaked extracting divers from the sea. “It won’t be long now.”
The little outboard growled along, half lifting the prow from the water. The growl thinned down to a grumble, letting the boat settle. The motor sputtered, popped, and died.
“What the everlasting fuck?” Lee dropped to his knees, Tip’s warning echoing in his head. Inspecting the motor wouldn’t tell him anything when the problem was farther upstream. He squeezed the hand primer, getting no resistance. Shaking the tank should have brought a slosh, but the ominous sound of nothing at all told him how fucked they were. “Damn it. Empty.”
WHAT WASN’T numb, hurt. What didn’t hurt, would. What hurt would go numb. Pretty soon nothing at all of him would hurt. He wouldn’t feel a thing, ever again. Bobby leaned against Lee and wished he could at least feel something of the man who’d tried so hard to keep him from slipping away.
Lee was still trying. On the radio, yelling at Tip, begging the universe to send a boat, any boat, just send a boat now. Broken, with tears running down his face. Tears would make him cold. Bobby slumped down, ending up on his knees. Between Lee’s legs. Great place to be. Bobby let Lee gather him up in his arms, his cheek against the yellow slicker.
“You tried, Lee. Nobody could try harder than you.”
“I’m not done yet, Bobby. You aren’t allowed to die, you hear me? Stay awake, stay with me. We’ll get out of this. I know we will.” Lee rocked him, counter to the rise and fall of the boat.
“I’m not so sure.” Though dying of exposure was supposed to be kinda nice, just drifting off into the white. This had a heavy element of suckage to it. ’Cept the part with Lee hugging him. That part had always been good. Except when it wasn’t, but…. Last night.
Couldn’t go out with Lee still thinking Bobby was mad. Shit like that didn’t seem so important when your fingers didn’t answer and the shivering wouldn’t stop. He shook in waves. Almost funny, like he’d shake the water off if he was a dog.
The Andrea Doria’s dead listed longer than the forty-six who went down with the ship. Divers, sixteen of them, added to the toll. He’d known some of them, admired them, learned from them. Mourned them. Lee could add his name to the list of the dead on their U-boat. Once he knew them. Bobby would learn them soon enough.
“You’re not allowed to die, damn it!” Lee crushed Bobby tight. Real tight, not-enough-air tight. He coughed, struggling, and Lee loosed his grip the smidge Bobby needed to talk.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Dived the plan, y’know. Got all the way to the surface and everything. Found the….” All the shit he’d dragged into the air would tell the world what he’d found. Too bad he wouldn’t be around to find out for sure. “Doing great ’til the damn boat hit me upside the head.”
“I’ll burn the fucking thing to the waterline.”
“Nah, don’t. I needed it.” Maybe this wasn’t a bed, and they hadn’t grown old, but this was Bobby’s chance to say the things that needed saying before there was no chance left. “I got so self-righteous I
didn’t even give you a chance to talk. Didn’t want to hear you ’cause I was so sure I knew what you’d say. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it would be different. Maybe the boat was telling me that things wouldn’t be simple, and you might slip up. Maybe… maybe the only thing that matters now is you knowing I’m not mad anymore.”
A little inner peace went a long way. His shivering lessened. Guess it wouldn’t be long.
“Maybe the boat should have smacked me.” Lee’s words made warm puffs in Bobby’s ear. “I’m so damn good at lying to you and me both that I convince both of us. I want you to be proud of me, and instead I boozed myself right out of your life, and when I get back, I’m some broken-down bastard with a murderous boat. Which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to be. I wanted to be the guy who’d fix it if things fell apart, not be the guy who caused the crash.”
“I don’t think you’ve done so bad.”
“You don’t?”
Wish Lee wouldn’t jerk away like that, not when Bobby was getting so comfortable. Kind of like in bed, after sex, only with a full dry suit for a body condom. He wanted cuddling, not horrified staring. “Nope, not at all.” He shifted because damn it, Bobby deserved to die comfortable. “Think about it. Remember that asshat we took to the Andrea Doria?”
“How could I possibly forget?”
“Well, yeah, there were a bunch of fuckups on that trip, but the big thing, Lee? I was damn near out of air, and so was he, and we couldn’t have possibly gone up without bending ourselves like pretzels. We could have died at 160 feet, or we could have died on the surface, but there you were, like a frigging angel, with tanks. I didn’t figure that deco plan, you did, on the fly. I, ah, wasn’t properly grateful at the time.”
“Since I was fixing what I’d screwed up, that might account for it.” His words were wry, but Lee relaxed.
“Wasn’t just you. I had a hand in it.” A deathbed confession needed the truth. “I should have asked more questions, prevented it before we ever suited up. Taken him to the Texel, something he could handle.”
