Terminal Run

While they waited for permission, Alameda reached for her coverall zipper and pulled it down a few inches and fanned her face.

“Hot in here,” she said, flashing Pacino another winning smile. He gulped nervously — the compartment was actually air-conditioned to feel like a November morning.

“Engineer, Control,” the phone crackled.

“Engineer.”

“Engineer, Control, you have permission to enter the spec op compartment. Notify Control when the compartment is closed out.”

“Engineer, aye.” Alameda hung up the phone. She put both hands on the hatch operator and spun the wheel. The large metal banana-shaped dogs came off the hatch jamb and retracted toward the center of the heavy steel hatch. She pushed down on the latch and swung the hatch open and stepped through to the other side. Pacino followed her, the space dark until she clicked a brass rotary switch that lit up the space. Pacino had expected to be inside a cavernous equipment bay for the deep diving submersible, but he was in a cramped airlock seven feet in diameter and ten feet tall. There was a hatch in the overhead and another hatch similar to the one he’d just stepped through on the far bulkhead.

“What’s the hatch above for?” he asked.

“That can be used as another escape trunk in addition to the forward escape trunk and the aft airlock. The main purpose of this is to gain access to the submersible. We call it a DSV, for deep submergence vehicle. If you call it a ‘dizzy-vee’ like the crew does, I’ll disqualify you,” Alameda said, her hand on his shoulder. He felt it tingle for an instant, until she pulled her hand away to shut the hatch behind them, cranking the hatch wheel to seal them in.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Carrie, Patch,” she said. “Go ahead, open this hatch.”

Pacino operated the hatch mechanism the same way Alameda had. The metal dogs were not visible from this side of the hatch. He unlatched the door and pulled it open, surprised to find himself looking at yet another hatch. This one was set inward by a meter, just enough room for the circular hatch to be opened. He looked at Alameda.

“This is called the docking collar. It is latched hard to the hull of the ship and makes a watertight seal around the outer hatch of the airlock. Pull the ISO T-wrench off the hatch and insert it into the hole. Then spin the wrench clockwise.” Her tone of voice had grown gentle, even affectionate. Pacino realized something was going on between them, and despite himself, he wanted this. He wanted her.

Pacino inserted the T-wrench into the hole. It was much like a tire iron going on a lug nut, except the nut was connected to a shaft that was turning the interior hatch mechanism to withdraw the hatch dogs. Finally the T-wrench could spin no more.

“Unlatch it and open it up,” Alameda whispered.

Pacino unlatched the hatch and pulled. It was spring-assisted, and the massive metal of the hatch came open easily. He pulled the hatch all the way open to a latch on the bulkhead of the connecting tunnel and looked at Alameda.

“Turn on the light switch just inside and to the right of the hatch.”

Pacino reached in, thinking about Alameda. He stole a glance at her. She had become breathless, her pupils dilated. A sweat had broken out on her brow. And he could smell something pleasant, the faint trace of perfume. He turned away before she could notice, and found the light and switched it on. All he saw was another tunnel with hatches on either side. For a second he wondered if Alameda were playing a joke on him.

“This is an interior airlock for the DSV. Step inside the airlock and shut the hatch to the docking collar.”

Pacino shut the steel door and latched it, then spun the operating wheel until the hatch dogs connected with the seating surface.

“Go to the forward compartment of the DSV through that hatch.” Alameda pointed to the hatch on the right. Pacino opened it. It led into a cramped space full of panels and reclined couches looking up at instrument consoles. He was reminded of the old-fashioned space capsules.

“Go forward to the central couch and climb in. That’s the commander’s seat.”

Pacino squeezed through the panels to the console and slipped into the horizontal couch, staring up at a featureless gray-painted console. Alameda laughed.

“You’rein it backward. Turn around.”

Pacino wrenched his body to turn around, glad that Alameda couldn’t see his blushing face. This end of the couch was more suited to doing business. He looked up at a control console, a flat-panel display that curved all the way around his head. The display was dark. Above Pacino’s head was a curved black surface that continued on either side of his face.