The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
louder, clearer the second time. "Jack ... anyone!" MacFarlane's voice was becoming more distraught, if that was possible. "For pity's sake, he-e-lp mmeee-eeee....!
Shivers ascended Pierce's spine and lingered at his neck. He was vaguely aware that his eyes were bulging. "Bill?" He gasped out the name. "Bill, what's he doing now?"
"Nothing," Rose came back incredulously. "Just standing."
"Okay, get over to him."
"On my way, Jack."
"Listen, Bill," added Pierce hastily, "Take it easy going into that stuff. If you start to feel anything - light-headed, burning, anything - just get out. Leave Eddie and abort the dive."
"I'm nearly there, Jack," panted Rose. "A few more feet. I was right - it's a sort of purple colour. I'm just touching the edge of it. There's only a tingle like a small electric current. I think I'll be okay...
"Get out, Bill!
"But it's just a ting..."
"Abort the dive! Right now!
"I can't leave him, Chief!"
"You do as you're damn well told!" Pierce was yelling into the microphone stalk.
"I'm almost there. Reaching out."
"That's a negative, Bill. Do not, repeat: do not touch him!"
"It's alright, Jack I'm there. I've got him. It’s okay, Jack, we're ....ooommphhh!"
"Bill?" It sounded as if Rose had just lost all of his air in a single rush. "Bill, what happened? Are you...?" A peculiar cry reached Pierce. The unearthly wail rose in key and volume until it was a high-pitched whistle. It continued to slide up the scale until it surpassed audible reception, at least of any human ear.
Rose cut in as the sound faded. He was gasping, fighting for air. "Jack__ He's gone__ up." He continued breathing deeply for a few seconds. "Sorry. Not making much sense. He hit me. Fetched me a beauty. Knocked me silly and just went. He's going up, Jack. Don't know if I can catch him."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah. I can manage, but Eddie...."
"Leave him, Bill." Meyer was almost touching Pierce. He had only been subjected to the same level of suspense as Doug Bromley, but the one-sided conversation was apparently too much for Les to bear. He reached over the diving supervisor's shoulder for the switch to the speaker button. Jack Pierce slashed the hand away. "Let him go, Bill. Let him come up."
"I don't think he'll stop, Jack. He took off like a cruise missile."
"Don't worry about Eddie. The chamber's ready. We'll put him straight in as soon as he surfaces. You just look after yourself. Are you alright?"
"Bit winded. Jeez, that little Scotch bastard packs a wallop. But I'm okay now. If you want, I can have a sticky-beak around the stack, see if I can find out what made Eddie...."
"Negative, Bill!" barked Pierce. "Forget the stack. Just get out of that stuff and come up."
"It's gone Jack. As soon as Eddie went, it kind-of disappeared."
"Come up anyway. Make your ascent steadily. Observe natural decompression, but if something else happens, something peculiar - anything, Bill - just come straight up. You can keep Eddie company in the chamber. And talk to me all the way. All the way, do you copy?"
"Five by five, Jack. I'm on my way. Moving up past the blue pod. I can see traces of hydraulic...."
Pierce was listening to every word, but he was more interested in the tone of Bill's voice than in what he had to say. Still listening, he spoke to the standby divers waiting beside the moon pool, giving them just enough information, but no more. Then he returned his attention to the two men in the room with him. He looked at them, at their faces. Bromley was genuinely concerned. Meyer looked like a father who had received news that his kid had crashed the Volvo. Top of his list of phone calls would be the repair shop. Somewhere in the rest was the hospital.
Pierce spoke directly to the toolpusher. "Eddie's had a spot of trouble. We don't know what it was yet. Maybe we'll find out when he comes up." He paused, listened to Rose's commentary for a moment then continued. "He seems to be in shock, so he won't be observing the usual decompression stops on his way up. You heard me organising the chamber. As long as we get him straight in, he'll be okay."
6
Usually when a diver was coming up it was necessary to retrieve the air-line at a rate compatible with the speed of ascent, giving consideration for decompression stops. Also, bubbles preceded him into the moon pool, announcing his arrival. In this instance, however, Eddie came up so fast that even the escaping air couldn't keep up with him. If anyone had doubts that his achievement was physically possible, Eddie laid those doubts to rest when he hit the surface.
The moon pool exploded. It was like the after-shock of a depth charge. A surge of white foam heaved up in the centre of the pool. A retrieval diver was already in, treading water near the edge, waiting to catch Eddie as soon as he surfaced. The wash hit him, slamming him against the steel plating of the side. Then it drew him back and he was spluttering sea-water.
Those standing around on the catwalk caught their breaths in surprise and a moment later felt spray on their faces. Kenny Pratt recovered quicker than the others. He looked for the retrieval diver and saw him floundering about half-way to the centre of the pool. "Angelo! You okay?"
"Shit!" spluttered Angelo, then: "Yeah. Where is he?"
Kenny looked and was unable to spot Eddie at first. Then someone shouted: "There!" Kenny saw him. At least, there was a rat-hat bobbing around near the middle, just in front of the slip joint. The turbulence was easing and the water was returning to its original, flaccid murkiness. "To your right, Wog," Pratt called out. Angelo turned and began paddling towards the hat. It was slowly sinking. He grabbed below the surface where he thought Eddie's body suit ought to be and missed. The hat had disappeared. Angelo duck dived. He was back up again in a matter of seconds and gasped out: "Got him!"
Eddie came in like a tired fish. It took a few grunting, puffing, anxious moments to drag him up the ladder to the catwalk. They were precious moments, all ticking away much too fast. More were wasted taking the helmet off.
Faces gawped. They were the same kind that sought out disasters like road accidents, those drooling countenances hungry for stimulation, excitement. Above all, they wanted to witness gore and dying, maybe figuring if they saw enough of it, they wouldn't have to experience it themselves first hand. They shuffled closer. There was nothing to fear, not from a man who was lying either unconscious or dead.
Then MacFarlane let loose. The action appeared subconscious as if the young diver was in the grip of a terrifying nightmare and battling with an imaginary foe. Nevertheless, the surprised crowd leapt back. Someone reeled as Eddie's flailing arm slapped his head. The victim fell against the bystanders, pushing them further away.
They all watched. Eddie opened his eyes and stared up at the underside of the rig floor above him. His expression was not one of confusion as might have been expected. Rather, he seemed eminently satisfied. His eyes had that strange twinkle of latent insanity and his mouth opened wide. He appeared about to laugh, but all that issued from his throat was a long, orgastic sigh.
He sat up. There was no effort involved. He didn't use his elbows or his hands to assist, just bent from the waist and sat up. His legs were tucked beneath him in the relaxed way a young woman might be apt to sit. He panned his gaze around the circle of people and grinned. A giggle vibrated in his throat. Kenny Pratt started out for him, berating the others close at hand. "Come on, you bastards, let's get him up." Eddie turned to Kenny and giggled again. Kenny was stooping, reaching out. Eddie took his hands and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "The blanket," Pratt ordered, then said to Eddie: "You're alright now, mate."
Eddie giggled.
Pratt's expression changed. The benevolent smile was contorting. Eddie began