As he searched the control room, methodically looking for the fabled chicken switches, he wondered for the first time why he had been spared. Maybe he was just genetically fortunate, immune to whatever it was, like one of those lone survivors in any of the many zombie movies he’d watched back in the real world. More likely, he thought, it had something to do with him being asleep during those first few hours. He was the only man on the entire crew asleep then, it had taken the direct permission of the captain to make that happen. Perhaps asleep, breathing slowly in the confines of his rack, he had somehow escaped the most dangerous phase of whatever the hazard was.
He was starting to despair at the number of valve handles and switches in control, all labeled indecipherably, when he stood between the two fallen planesmen.
Fuck it, he thought. I’ll drive us up.
Like shooting the .45, it was something he’d actually been taught, in the ship control trainers at Sub School in Connecticut. He pushed the dead nuke, gently at first, and then harder, as he made room for himself. He cringed when the man’s head hit the deck with a harsh thud. He sat down, put both hands on the wheel, and said a silent prayer before he slowly pulled the wheel toward his chest.
The stern planes indicator immediately showed the motion, a red arrow on a dial that moved up. Soon after, the ship responded, and began to move upward. Winn whooped for joy as he watched the numbers of the ship’s depth indicator decrease as he drove the ship toward the surface.
They accelerated as they got shallower, then the boat leveled off. Winn actually heard waves against the side of the ship; they were on the surface! He’d done it. He jumped out the chair and ran toward the hatch that led to the bridge.
He climbed the ladder and studied the hatch, eager to figure out how to open it. As he was looking, he felt the ship take a down angle.
Without his hands on the stern planes to override it, the ship’s autopilot and reasserted itself, and drove them downward.
“Fuck!” said Winn. He jumped down the ladder and back to the stern planes. He grabbed the wheel without sitting down and pulled it forward again. Again the planes and ship responded. But as soon as he let go, the ship wanted to drive itself deep again. Winn had no idea what the autopilot was, or that the button to disable it was just inches away from him.
Winn pulled off his belt, and tied it to the wheel, pulled it toward him, and then secured the other end of the belt to Diaz’s seat. It took him a few tries to get the knot right; knots were
Winn was sweating now, nervous at how close he was to success. Once again the numbers on the depth indicator decreased until he felt the moment they surfaced, when the ship rolled and he could hear the waterline against the hull. Now only the hatch separated him from blue sky and fresh air. He looked at the hatch with its steel wheel and heavy construction; it was one of the more primitive looking pieces of equipment on the boat. Winn had never operated it before but he knew he would figure it out. He had to.
It had an arm, a latch, just like on the watertight hatches inside the ship. He tried to use the latch, but the hatch was motionless as he tried to move it, as if it were welded shut. There had to be something else.
The other major mechanical feature of the hatch was a shiny steel wheel. Winn thought that must be the locking mechanism, and he would need to turn it. Another piece of timeless wisdom the Navy had communicated to him:
After a few hard turns, it spun freely, and he spun it all the way open. Then he put his shoulder against the hatch again, and pushed up with all his strength.
It didn’t budge.
He banged against it, until his shoulder was sore, but still it didn’t move.
He jumped down from the ladder and stared up at it. The ship was still on the surface, although he could see the knot on his belt was slipping and the angle of the stern planes was drifting down. In frustration, he pulled the .45 from his belt, released the safety, and fired at the hatch.
