This story first appeared in the print zine Media Rare, published in 1985. I've checked it over in an attempt to catch my OCR software's attempts at creative interpretation, but I may have missed a bit or two. And, no, I haven't a clue any more what the title means....

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea:
Depth Sonde
-- by Linda S. Maclaren and Gina Martin

I

In the inky darkness of the Atlantic Ocean, the SSRN Seaview hovered motionless in liquid space, its powerful engines throbbing quietly with harnessed energy. Newest submarine in a joint U.S. Navy/Nelson Institute project, this latest marvel of the nuclear age was ostensibly designed for oceanic research, a task for which it was impressively suited. In addition to the array of scientific functions performed by Seaview, the sub also carried the newest designs in both strategic and defensive weapons. These weapons insured that the submarine could become a deadly adversary in the event of war. For this reason, the Navy had been only too glad to lend a few Navy personnel to complete Seaview's crew roster.

Until the time when a declaration of war brought Seaview under the control of the Navy, it was still the property of its creator, Admiral Harriman Nelson, USN (Ret). Nelson, if nothing else a pragmatic scientist, recognized a good deal when he saw it and spent nearly all his time aboard the submarine. From this mobile scientific platform, he cruised the oceans of the world on various projects valuable to governmental and civilian agencies alike.

This particular project, requested by the National Geographic Society and the Smithsonian Institute, involved a careful seismic study of a geologic fault in the ocean floor. The fault, an offshoot of the major fault line that could be traced around the world, had been inactive for centuries. Now, a volcano had erupted off the coast of Greenland, creating some speculation that other portions of the fault might be stirring into activity. Though Seaview's location was over a thousand miles from the eruption site, its delicate instruments were picking up accurate readings of all seismic activity.

To further study the fault, Seaview's diving bell was lowered toward the ocean floor. Though the depth was several hundred feet below the estimated crush depth of the submarine itself, Nelson had specifically designed this new bell to withstand the stress and more. It was now suspended far below the submarine, delicately balanced above the ocean bed like a spider clinging to a strand of web. This strand, in truth a strong cable, was the bell's only means of motivation; it possessed no maneuvering capabilities of its own.

Inside the bell, Seaview's Captain and Executive Officer, Lee Crane and Chip Morton respectively, were completing the last of the oceanographic survey. It was unusual for both command officers to be off the submarine simultaneously, but Morton had complained of being left behind to "man the bastions," as he'd stated it, so Crane had agreed to take him down in the bell. Besides, it gave Engineering officer O'Brien an opportunity to brush up on his command training. The Third Officer now bore the temporary title of Acting Captain.

O'Brien idly pondered the meaning of the title. After all, 'acting,' he supposed, could mean he was pretending to be the Captain, acting the part, so to speak; then again, it could mean that the temporary Captain had to be a man of action, ready to meet all challenges with cool appraisal and prompt response (he rather liked this definition); or, he sighed to himself, it could mean "in place of," a substitution for the real thing, like a second-string quarterback called in to replace the star player. If he could not star, he was expected at least to maintain the status quo and not rock the boat. He winced in embarrassment at his own silent pun.

"Sir, we're getting an unusual seismic reading from the volcano," Seaman Patterson reported from the special seismic station installed specifically for this study.

O'Brien roused himself, then realized Patterson had been speaking to Nelson, who was by the station in moments.

"It's spreading all along the fault line!" Nelson snapped, reaching for the microphone on the nearby periscope rail. He keyed it open. "Missile Room, raise the diving bell!"

O'Brien grabbed another mike from the chart table. "Attention all hands -- brace for turbulence!" In the background, he could hear Nelson desperately trying to warn the diving bell.

In the Missile Room, where the control center for the diving bell was located, Chief Sharkey couldn't mistake the urgency of Nelson's command. With expert precision, he reversed the winch and adjusted retrieval for maximum recovery speed. Unless someone warned the bell, its occupants were in for a surprising jolt.

In the next instant, Seaview was hit by the promised turbulence. The tremendous surge was far greater than anticipated, and even those who had found secure handholds were helplessly tossed about the wildly pitching sub. Sharkey was torn from the controls and slammed against a nearby bulkhead. Even as he struggled back to his feet, he heard the ominous whine of a winch gone berserk. Smoke poured from the winch housing as the cable wound onto the drum too fast, all resistance gone from its other end.

Sharkey grabbed the controls and stopped the winch before a full-scale fire erupted. He was breathing heavily, but not from exertion. The freely spinning drum told its own story -- the diving bell was no longer attached to the cable.

In the Control Room, Nelson grabbed for the railing around the periscope station as the first wave of turbulence washed over the sub. O'Brien, having mistakenly believed his grip on the chart table would be sufficient, toppled against him. For several seconds, everyone was totally helpless as the sub bucked in the grip of the current. Then, ever so slowly, the movement lessened and men were able to return to their stations. Seaview established a more stable position as helm control was restored.

"What happened?" O'Brien asked in undisguised amazement. Despite his alarm, the question was a reasonable one -- a calm, unflappable officer under the worst circumstances, he still lacked experience in the Control Room, and he was smart enough to realize it.

Nelson was at the seismic station, quick to confirm what his senses had already told him. "We were dragged down by some sort of current," he replied automatically to O'Brien's question. "'It looks as if the fault has opened up, creating a huge fissure." He turned away from the scope and reached for the mike. "Missile Room, report on the diving bell."

Sharkey's voice was tense. "Admiral, the cable severed about mid-way when that turbulence hit us. The bell is free."

Nelson absorbed this information with no outward sign of reaction. One would never have known his closest friend was in the diving bell, or that he realized the full implication of Sharkey's report. "Very well, Chief, report to the Control Room."

"Aye, sir."

Nelson looked at O'Brien. "How deep did the current take us?"

"Down nearly three hundred feet from our original position, Admiral," O'Brien replied promptly. He hadn't wasted any time getting the status. "We're four hundred feet above the ocean floor -- or what used to be the ocean floor -- and three hundred feet above crush death."

"Damage report?"

"No damage."

Nelson pondered barely a moment. "All right, then. Three hundred feet is a satisfactory safety margin. Initiate a standard search and recovery scan over the trench."

"Aye, sir."

Though Nelson had only to pick up the microphone to reach any part of the sub in moments, he was too keyed up to stand still. He made his way aft to the Communications Room. "Sparks, any contact with the diving bell?"

"Negative, Admiral," the Radio Operator replied. "I think both systems are working, though. Maybe their receiver was turned off accidentally during the turbulence." He didn't have to add that someone would have turned it back on had anyone aboard the diving bell been able to do so. This meant the two officers in the bell were unconscious...or dead.

"Keep trying." Nelson moved forward to the sonar station. "Anything, Kowalski?"

"Nothing, Admiral," the Seaman answered. "Look at the configuration of that trench, though -- it must be a couple of miles long, and it's deeper than anything I've ever seen!"

Nelson's scientific mind quickly predicted the surface consequences of this incredible wrenching along the fault. But earthquakes and tidal waves were beyond his control. The immediate matter was more within his influence, and much more personal.

"How deep do you think the bell was dragged, sir?" Kowalski asked.

"No way to tell -- we'll just keep looking until we find it."

When Nelson returned to the chart table, Sharkey had already joined O'Brien and received a quick run-down of events.

"You mean the ocean floor just cracked open?" the Chief asked in surprise. He wasn't one to worry about scientific explanations. "And we nearly got sucked into the trench?"

"That's it exactly," Nelson confirmed. "The diving bell wasn't so lucky -- it's lost somewhere inside the chasm, and we have to find it."

Sharkey glanced from Nelson to O'Brien. The Acting Captain seemed disturbed by something. The Chief voiced the probable question: "Admiral, even if we find the bell, it may be too deep to recover."

Nelson's tone was sharp. "We'll know that when we find it, won't we?"

Sharkey wasn't offended by the Admiral's brusqueness. He was familiar with Nelson's behavior under stress. "Aye, sir. I'll brief the men."

O'Brien had heard of Nelson's incredible temper and drive when confronted with a challenging situation. But on those occasions, O'Brien had been comfortably clear of the storm, tucked away in his Engine Room. The Captain and Exec served as buffers between himself and the Admiral. There was no such buffer now.

"If you're waiting for an engraved invitation, Mr. O'Brien," Nelson commented coldly, "consider it delivered."

"Yes, sir -- uh -- no, sir!" O'Brien stammered, caught in his thoughts. He abruptly reached for a microphone and took out his discomfort on his own men in the Engine Room.

Nelson's next call was from the Radio Room. He grabbed a microphone eagerly. "Are you in contact with the divine bell?"

"No, sir," Sparks replied.

"The Institute is calling you." Nelson muttered a faint curse under his breath, annoyed that he would have to waste time answering the call. Yet this had been a fact-finding expedition for his own Institute of Marine Research and other prestigious organizations. Since the unprecedented splitting along the fault line, such facts became even more imperative. Nelson would have to relay what he'd learned.

He worked his way back to

the Radio Room, not wanting to

tie up communications equipment in the Control Center. Troubling thoughts nagged at him: How deep had the bell been dragged?

1,000? 5,000? Further? How much pressure could the bell withstand before it simply collapsed in upon itself?

II

Consciousness returned slowly. The first sensation was of silence -- the eerie, total stillness of his surroundings. Gradually, he became aware of the myriad pains radiating throughout his body. Any thought of movement was incomprehensible at the moment. It was enough to realize he was alive. There seemed to be a pulsating red glow in his head, but a prolonged analysis made him conclude the light was not really inside his' head, but rather from somewhere beyond his closed eyes.

Opening his eyes proved to be a major task, as one of them stubbornly remained shut despite his efforts. He reached up to wipe away the obstruction, and full consciousness slammed back with remarkable swiftness at the jolting pain the movement caused.

Images coalesced quickly: the sharp cant of the diving bell, the red light on the starboard control panel, the dimness of the emergency lighting, the thickness of the air, the weight across his legs, and the total discomfort of his position.

Captain Lee Crane stilled the tumbling flow of thoughts and tried to make a more objective examination of the situation. The silence of the diving bell indicated the operating systems were shut down. Though difficult to imagine a "front" or "back" to the bell, it was generally accepted that the control panel was on the starboard bulkhead, with "forward" being therefore established. The bell was canted sharply on its aft end, making the forward viewports seem to be above him. Crane was wedged in the modified 'IV" created by the curve of the rear bulkhead and what had once been the deck. The heavy staleness of the air meant life support no longer functioned. Crane made a mental note to see if he could repair the problem, and tried to calculate how much breathable air remained.

His right arm was broken and would be a painful handicap. Hs raised himself slightly on his left elbow. The weight on his legs hampered movement greatly. For the first time, Crane realized the weight was a body. Sudden concern drove other thoughts from his mind.

"Chip?" he called softly, his own voice sounding alien to him in the stillness.

There was no response from the unmoving figure.

Slowly, very carefully, Crane extracted himself from under the burden, gently moving the Exec into a more tolerable position against the bulkhead. Each movement required great effort, and when he was finished, his whole body was bathed in sweat. He felt faint.

In the dim emergency lighting, he tried to make an examination of the unconscious man. It proved difficult, and all he could determine was that Chip was 'unnaturally pale, his skin cold and clammy. There was an egg-sized lump on the back of his head. Beyond the determination of probable shock and concussion, there was nothing else he could do except keep Chip as comfortable as circumstances permitted.

Next, Crane turned his attention to himself. His right arm was broken just above the elbow, and there was an intense pain in his right shoulder, which convinced him the collarbone was broken as well. His right sleeve was soaked with blood, indicating the broken bone had punctured the skin. With his left hand, he carefully tucked his right hand inside his belt, hoping to minimize any inadvertent movements. Then, he explored why his eye wouldn't open. The matting of blood that extended from his hairline gave him the answer. Carefully wiping away the blood on his eyelid, he was relieved to have full vision restored.

His self-examination completed, Crane levered himself slowly to a crouching position from which he could better examine the diving bell. Except for the lack of functional systems, the bell itself seemed intact. There was no indication of rupturing in the shell or seams. A look at the life support circuits quickly convinced him that it would be impossible to repair them under present conditions.

The view through both side ports was completely blocked by rubble. Slowly, he climbed to his feet and peered out through the forward port. The bell seemed to be caught in some sort of cul-de-sac of rock. Crane remembered the urgent call from Nelson to brace for turbulence. The warning had come only a moment before the maelstrom had torn the bell from its cable. He and Chip had been unable to prepare for the jolt, and Crane was under the distinct impression that the current had dragged them down rather than propelled them up or sideways. The fact that the bell seemed to be caught in a chasm was especially unsettling -- there had been no such chasm where the bell had been exploring. This meant either the bell had been carried a long way in the turbulence, or else some giant, tectonic disturbance in the ocean floor had created the rift.

Suddenly weak, Crane sat down on one of the two seats in the bell'. Though he actually sat on what would normally be the backrest of the seat, the seat itself being tilted vertically, it was nonetheless a comfortable enough position. Crane wondered if he should try to move Chip into the other seat, then decided such movement could do the Exec more harm than good.

In frustration, he looked at the control panel. Testing switches and systems, he was not surprised when nothing responded. Then he discovered the communications switch was off -- well, that was certainly not an impossibility considering their wild tumble, He flipped the switch to the "on" position, and was pleasantly startled to hear the urgent hailing call from Seaview.

"Seaview to diving bell. Seaview to diving bell. Come in, please."

Crane's relief was evident, but he kept his tone calm, and neutral. "Diving bell to Seaview. This is Crane."

III

Nelson's report to his Institute of Marine Research was brief but complete. He was not surprised to learn that several earthquakes and tidal waves had resulted from the gigantic split along the fault line, or to hear that the volcano off Greenland had blown itself up in one great burst of magma and boiling seawater. Yet, even while relaying and receiving information, Nelson was always aware of the background sounds aboard Seaview: Sparks trying vainly to contact the diving bell; O'Brien quietly giving orders on the search pattern; Kowalski's reports from sonar, which became more discouraging as the minutes crept by. Thus, he was immediately aware of the answering call from the diving bell.

His conversation with the Institute was rudely terminated as he promptly switched to the diving bell's frequency. He mirrored Sparks' broad grin of triumph,

"Lee, this is Nelson. We read you loud and clear. Are you all right?"

There was a pause, as though Crane were deciding which information was immediately vital and which could wait for a later time, "It was a rough ride, Admiral, The main power systems are shut down - life support, stabilizers, manual ballast release." Crane's voice sounded tinny and distant. "Right now, I'm more worried about Chip. He's badly injured."

"We'll get Doc in here to talk to you," Nelson assured, signaling to O'Brien to do just that,

"Are you able to bring us aboard?" Crane asked.

Nelson hated to reveal the true nature of the situation. "No, Lee. The turbulence was caused by a chasm being ripped open in the ocean floor. The diving bell was drawn into it. At the moment, we don't have you located on sonar."

He could almost hear Crane's mind working: if the bell had been sucked into the chasm, then it was well below Seaview's crush depth. Thus, recovering the bell would be next to impossible.

Nelson hastened on to forestall the inevitable conclusion to this train of thought. "We're scanning every inch of the area now. The bell can't stay hidden forever, When we find you, we'll find a way to bring you UP."

Crane had never doubted Nelson's abilities, and he didn't doubt now that Nelson meant exactly what he said. But as the Captain of Seaview he was as worried about his sub as he was about his present predicament. "Admiral, we must be well below crush depth -- "

"We won't bring Seaview any lower than we have to, Lee," Nelson interrupted. "She's gone deeper without any damage." There was a hint of impatient petulance in his voice, but it was not directed against Crane. It was just a sign that his keen mind was furiously working on the problem, and he was dissatisfied with the lack of constructive results. "Lee, can you turn on your external lights? We might be able to pick up a visual reflection. "

There was a very long minute of silence during which Nelson feared they had been cut off. But it just took Crane an abnormally long time to comply with the request. Was the diving bell console just damaged, or was Crane suffering from injuries? Nelson felt a tightening in his temples.

"I have them on, Admiral," Crane reported finally. "All I can see are rocks through the ports -- we seem to be caught on some sort of ledge. "

Doctor Carpenter arrived then to hear Crane's report on Chip Morton's condition. His own frustration was clear. "Lee, about all I can advise you to do is keep him as comfortable and as warm as possible. He's obviously in shock, but I can't recommend any treatment without knowing about possible head or internal injuries," His words were almost an apology. "The wrong treatment right now could be worse than no treatment at all.

Crane's voice was listless. "All right, Doc. Thanks."

"What about yourself, Lee? Are you injured?"

"I have a cut on my forehead, and a broken arm. I've immobilized the arm as best I can. Other than that, I'm fine."

"Has all the bleeding stopped?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Okay -- try not to move around too much, Lee, or you might disturb that broken arm." Carpenter handed the microphone back to Nelson and commented, "Admiral, there's nothing that can be done until they're brought aboard."

Nelson nodded and turned his attention back to the radio. "Lee, can you read the depth gauge?"

"Negative -- it was destroyed during our little tumble." Crane paused, then asked, "What if you locate us? What then?"

"Then we figure out a way to get you back aboard." Nelson's voice never hinted that he doubted it could be done. It was only a matter of time.

And time was the one thing the two men aboard the diving bell did not have.

IV

Completing his status report to Admiral Nelson, Crane switched off the transmitter and tried to relax. There was nothing left to do, and sitting quietly conserved oxygen and eased the throbbing pain in his arm. His position was comfortable enough, though he had to brace a leg 'against the bulkhead to keep from sliding off.

He allowed his thoughts to drift to other things. There was the knowledge of their immediate plight, the certainty of death if Seaview did not find them quickly, the added sting that there was nothing he could do to help their situation. Coupled with this was worry for Seaview itself. Certainly, the submarine had made many ventures below crush depth with impunity. But at other times stresses had been exerted that Seaview was unable to resist. On those occasions, frames flooded, seams tore, and men died.

Crane knew, of course, that Admiral Nelson wouldn't endanger the submarine unnecessarily. Yet he also knew Nelson would behave with the stubbornness of single-minded purpose. Often times cold, hard, and objective in his pursuit of his goal, Nelson sometimes forgot he depended on men who were not as driven, not as brilliant, not as self-assured as himself. It could make relations aboard Seaview very difficult.

Crane smiled slightly at the image of O'Brien getting a rough initiation in the Control Room. The Engineering officer had never dealt first-hand with the Admiral. It took a certain amount of diplomacy and understanding to cope with Nelson, who, like many brilliant and somewhat eccentric -Scientists, could be a trial at times. Those times, Crane and Morton had borne the brunt of Nelson's vagaries, and they knew his tirades were never personal.

But Sharkey was there, Crane knew -- steady, dependable, and totally loyal to the Admiral. Sharkey would be busy now, smoothing the way to implement Nelson's orders, preparing to use his amazing knack for balancing diplomacy with outright threat to wring the maximum effort from his men.

Yes, the entire crew of Seaview was really quite incredible, Crane had to admit. Not only was every man handpicked for his specialty, but somehow luck had contrived to make them all compatible. Sharkey's intuitive skill at psychology was also a great help -- he seemed to know instinctively which men required a soft touch and who required a firm kick. His built-in radar system for spotting trouble before it could erupt had

certainly helped smooth the way for good relations between officers and crew.

Then there was Executive officer Morton. If Crane frequently found himself serving as a buffer between Nelson and the crew, Chip just as often served as a buffer between the Captain and the crew. Crane would be the first to admit there were times when he himself was a little too short, a little too overbearing. He was sometimes unsympathetic to the needs of the younger crewmen, especially those determined to find a grain of individuality within the structure of the Navy. Crane could tolerate only so much of this behavior, especially when regulations or another crewman's rights were violated. Chip was invaluable in maintaining the precarious balance of discipline. A quiet, easy-going man who could, relate easily to anyone, Chip's reasonableness was legendary, his powers of persuasion unequalled. In fact, he was frequently so easy-going that he sometimes tended to become invisible in the bustle of the Control Room. The guise, Crane knew, was a total fallacy: There was never a moment when Chip failed to be on top of a situation, ready to obey or initiate a command or make a precise, detailed report of the present status.

Thoughts of Chip quickly brought Crane full circle, and he was drawn back into the present his concern for Chip's safety paramount.

Morton never stirred, never groaned from the depths of his coma. His stillness, the stark paleness of his skin, the bloodless pallor of his lips -- these things frightened Crane. He felt frustrated by his inability to help this man when help was so desperately needed. A momentary flash of self-anger was quickly dispelled. There was no point in trying to fix blame for what had happened. It served no purpose anyway. Still, there was the knowledge that it had been his decision, and his alone, which had brought Chip into this situation. The Exec should have been aboard Seaview, in temporary command. This troubled Crane more than he cared to admit.

Almost unconsciously, Crane glanced at the control panel. Their emergency battery power was draining slowly. What little

life support remained was being used up steadily. The oxygen gauge impartially registered its despairing news. Crane read it with little reaction. The ratio of carbon dioxide to oxygen was rapidly increasing. Soon, there would not be enough oxygen to support life.

He glanced at the unmoving figure of Chip Morton. Somehow, he would insure Chip's survival. He knew Nelson would find the bell eventually, knew that a way would be found to raise it. Chip had to be alive when that time came.

Crane would see to it.

V

Doctor Carpenter was less than enthusiastic about Chip's chances for survival. "He may require immediate surgery, and even after you raise the bell, there will be hours of decompression required before we can reach the occupants."

Nelson hadn't given the subject much thought, but he devoted time to it now. "What about the decompression chamber, Doc? Couldn't you set up some sort of operating facilities in there?"

"Not, for surgery," Carpenter maintained. Still... "But maybe I could be in the chamber with them, use some emergency

medical training to keep Chip alive until I can get him to surgery. Even reasonable first aid could spell the difference between life and death. "Fine. Why don't you plan on it then? You can get the decompression chamber ready, and we'll notify you as soon as we have the bell on board."

After Carpenter left, Nelson chided himself for overlooking such an obvious problem. Normally, if decompression were required, the bell itself could serve as a decompression chamber. It could be hooked up to the monitoring equipment and regulated by technicians at the bell controls. Chip's medical problems negated that lengthy wait for proper decompression. He would have to be rushed into the diver's decompression unit, where Carpenter would be waiting. Unfortunately, the Doctor would undergo some rather unpleasant sensations as he worked in the pressurized chamber.

Nelson turned his attention back to the oceanographic chart on the table before him. He and O'Brien were trying to reconstruct the precise nature of the disturbance, hoping to discover a clue to the direction of the current that had dragged the bell down. Their evaluations were so far producing little more than headaches.

Sharkey joined them briefly. "Admiral, we've finished another sweep of the trench. No sign of the diving bell."

O'Brien glanced at Nelson to see the impact of the report. Whatever the Admiral felt, it was carefully hidden. "Then we'll go down another three hundred feet and try again."

Another three hundred feet. The edge of the trench. Crush depth. These fragmented pieces were instant realizations to O'Brien. He caught his breath, then exhaled slowly. Command decision -- that's what the whole thing came down to, he realized. His duty to obey the order of a superior officer was in conflict with his duty to protect Seaview and her crew. This was the stuff that separated a Captain from every other officer on board: The necessity to find that fragile balance between two conflicting points, to weigh them almost instantaneously, to evaluate all the angles, and to arrive at a correct decision.

O'Brien had never wished more to be back with his engines.

"Mr. O'Brien?" Nelson queried almost gently, as if aware of the young officer's struggle.

O'Brien made his decision. "Aye, sir. Three hundred feet." He gave the order with as much authority as he could muster, then watched the depth gauge dip into the red zone of crush depth. He took Seaview down slowly, and Nelson didn't raise any objections. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they sank downward, O'Brien constantly ready for any alert from any department that they were taking on water. No reports came. The descent went smoothly, until they-hovered just a few feet from the ocean floor, the trench an ugly scar beneath them.

"Ahead slow, " Nelson ordered quietly, engrossed in his charts. O'Brien hadn't even told him they'd finished the descent; somehow, Nelson just knew. It was uncanny.

O'Brien complied with the order, then glanced toward the observation nose where four seamen were visually scanning the trench for any sign of reflected light. Seaview itself was running without external lights, and the ocean was an inky void. O'Brien knew this scene was being repeated at every possible viewport on the sub -- men straining to see some sign of the diving bell's lights. O'Brien was skeptical of their chances; if the sensitive sonar couldn't distinguish the bell from the surrounding rocks, it was possible the bell was buried in debris, in which case the lights probably wouldn't be visible either.

Nelson continued to work at the chart table. Though part of his mind concentrated on the task, his senses were tuned to the hundred little sounds from within the submarine. Even the silence from the vigilant watchers at the observation nose told him something.

They traversed the length of the huge trench with minute precision, literally combing it inch by inch for some sign of the diving bell. The sonar readouts gave such a complete picture of the chasm, Nelson felt he could draw the gaping scar while blindfolded. In spots, it was far deeper than first believed -at one point, simply an enormous hole thousands of feet deep. If the bell had been dragged in there, it would be impossible to recover. But the occupants of the bell would have been crushed, and Nelson vividly remembered his conversation with Crane, the forced optimism refusing to acknowledge just how desperate the situation really was.

Yet even Nelson would admit the diving bell was not visible from Seaview. Though it seemed hours since the sub had descended to the ocean floor, in reality only thirty-six minutes had passed. In that time, Seaview had completed two passes over the chasm.

Nelson straightened to ease tired back muscles. His analysis had led him nowhere, at least for the moment. "We'll never find it from up here," he commented quietly. "I'm going to take the Flying Sub into the trench."

O'Brien was convinced he'd imagined Nelson's statement. When it became clear the Admiral meant what he said, he tensed for a confrontation. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but I can't permit you to do that."

Nelson was surprised. "I'm not discussing it with you, Mr. O'Brien. I'm telling you."

O'Brien refused to be threatened by the cold conviction in Nelson's voice. "No, sir, you aren't."

Nelson looked at the Acting Captain for a long moment, then looked to Sharkey for support. The Chief studiously examined a point of interest on a nearby bulkhead and refused to meet the Admiral's eyes.

Nelson's temper almost got the better of him. "You're treading on very thin ice, Mister."

"Yes, sir, and you may fire me if you want -- once you have Captain Crane's approval, of course." O'Brien decided to try compromise instead of open warfare. "Admiral, if we find one positive clue to the diving bell's location, then we'll send the Flying Sub after it. Until that time, I will not permit you to launch the sub -- the currents inside the trench are just too strong."

The reasonableness of this logic was not lost on Nelson, which frustrated him even more. "But what we're doing now isn't working!" he protested, trying to impart some of his own sense of urgency to O'Brien.

For the second time in a few minutes, O'Brien was faced with a major command decision. Yet the decision was made within moments, though he passed a part of the proverbial buck to the Admiral. "Sir, you designed this submarine -- how much deeper can we take her?"

Nelson calculated quickly. "Another two hundred feet."

The Acting Captain gave the order quietly, dispassionately. "Down another two hundred feet -- we'll try a sonar sweep right through the trench."

Nelson didn't offer any thanks or apologies, but went immediately to the sonar station to add his eyes to the search.

Sharkey stared at O'Brien for a long moment, his bewilderment evident.

"Something else, Chief'?" O'Brien asked.

"Uh -- meaning no disrespect, sir," Sharkey began hesitantly, "but Seaview is already below estimated crush depth. Now you're taking us even deeper. But you refused to let the Admiral take the Flying Sub out to search. I -- I don't understand the logic of that, sir."

O'Brien smiled slightly. "I don't either, Chief. It just seemed more reasonable to take a calculated risk, which is part of our job anyway, rather than allow one man to commit suicide."

"I see, sir," Sharkey replied finally. As he left the check on his men, the Chief decided O'Brien had come a long way in the short time he'd been in command.

VI

A groan from Chip brought Crane abruptly awake. The air inside the bell was stuffy and thick, and Crane knew there was not much oxygen left to them.

Moving carefully, he slipped off the seat and crouched beside the injured Exec. "Chip?" he asked quietly.

The response was more than he'd hoped for. Chip opened his eyes and looked cautiously around the bell. When he tried to rise, Crane held him down with a gentle hand.

"Don't try to move around."

"What happened?" was Chip's first question.

As briefly as possible, Crane told him the events since their departure from Seaview. As expected, Chip took the information calmly.

"I wonder why they can't locate us?"

"I don't know for certain -- sonar seems to be picked up all kinds of interference from debris." Crane moved back to his seat. "How are you feeling?"

"I think someone cleaved my head with an ax," Chip replied truthfully. He smiled weakly. "My father always warned me about volunteering -- remind me never to do it again."

"I will," Crane promised, returning the smile. "For now, the less we talk, the more oxygen we conserve."

But Chip was already slipping back into the dimness of unconsciousness. "I wonder if we set a new depth record?" he mused irrelevantly, his eyes closing.

There was no need for Crane to find an answer. After a fruitless moment spent trying to ease the ache in his arm and shoulder, he gave up and closed his eyes again letting his thoughts drift where they would.

VII

"Brace for turbulence!"

O'Brien's warning came within moments of Patterson's observation of a new and intense seismic upheaval. Even so, it was not quite soon enough. Men toppled from their stations as the sub rocked in the powerful current. There were flares from several short-circuited control panels, but damage control personnel, staggering along the heaving deck, quickly put them out with emergency fire equipment.

Seconds counted now. "Report on damage!" O'Brien snapped into the mike, adding in the next breath to helm control, "Prepare to surface when I give the order."

Nelson strode up beside him, his face grim. "You're taking us up?"

"If I have to," O'Brien replied, just as seriously. He had debated for an instant on blowing the emergency ballast at the first sign of turbulence. He was glad now he had resisted the temptation -- such an abrupt change from the neutral buoyancy of the submarine would have made it virtually uncontrollable, and the walls of the trench were too close for comfort. Again, by stroke of luck or subconscious response to training, he had made the right decision to hold position and ride out the current. Now, he needed to see if damage required them to head for the surface.

The reports were not encouraging. "We're flooding from frames 56 through 60," came the reply from damage control. "Pumps are presently effective."

O'Brien looked at Nelson, regretting what he had to say. "That's it, then. We're taking on water. We have to go up."

Nelson's despair was most clearly evidenced by his lack of argument. He knew as well as anyone that a submarine, especially one below crush depth, was doubly vulnerable as soon as one of its seams was ruptured. An insignificant tear in the outer hull could be catastrophic in a moment if it gave way to the stress of sea pressure. There was no other alternative that would not be unreasonably hazardous for all the crew.

Sharkey arrived in the Control Room after inspecting the damaged areas. He saw clearly the defeat in the faces of Nelson and O'Brien, and knew they had arrived at a reluctant decision. "Sir, I've checked the damaged frames. We're taking on water, but it doesn't seem too serious yet."

O'Brien glanced at Nelson. "Is there anything we can do from just above crush depth?"

"We've tried that already." Nelson shook his head hopelessly. "But, when one choice is all you have, that's the one you have to take."

"All right -- we'll take her above crush depth and try again," O'Brien agreed. He gave the necessary orders.

Sharkey's report had been the deciding factor. O'Brien knew if this search attempt failed, at least he and the entire crew would know they had done everything possible to find the diving bell. It would help ease the torment of the loss.

Nelson moved slowly away from the table, a man coming to terms with his own sense of failure. "I'll have to notify the diving bell," he said, so quietly that O'Brien nearly missed it.

"Aye, sir," he acknowledged.

When Sparks renewed contact with the diving bell, Nelson took the mike and made his voice as strong as possible. "We've had a little problem here, Lee -- it may delay things."

"What sort of problem?" Crane asked instantly, his concern evident despite the exhaustion in his voice.

"That last bout of turbulence caught us below crush depth. We're taking on a little water. Nothing serious," Nelson hastened to add, "but we'll have to take her up before resuming the search for you."

Even to himself, Nelson's words rang with hollow encouragement. The promised search from above crush depth was a false hope. Nelson knew it; O'Brien knew it; and the truth could not be hidden from Lee Crane.

Why, Nelson wondered, was there so very little to say when there seemed to be so much that needed saying? The tourniquet of tension around his temples tightened another notch, bringing a deeper furrow to his brow. Failure -- the loss of two fine officers, one of them his best friend -- was a bitter pill for Harriman Nelson to swallow.

VIII

Crane sat quietly, numbly trying to comprehend what Nelson was telling him. When the Admiral finished, Crane took several moments to formulate his words.

"That's it then," he said finally, his voice leaden with acceptance. The air in the diving bell was so thick and stale even those few words required an additional breath.

"No, Lee," Nelson tried to assure him, his own voice stubbornly refusing to yield to despair. "We'll simply think of something else."

Crane glanced at Chip, whose only movement was the rise and fall of his chest as his lungs labored in the fetid air.

"All right," he replied at last. "Keep me posted."

He put the mike down on the floor beside him. Ignoring the wave of nausea, he crawled to the SCUBA locker, literally panting with the effort. Sweat dripped from his face, stinging his eyes, but he hardly noticed. The door to the locker finally came open as he wrenched at it with his good arm. Two emergency air tanks and attachments were stored in the locker. Hauling them out, convinced each tank weighed at least five hundred pounds, he dragged one back to the console. Very carefully, he arranged the tank so it was securely wedged under the seat. Then he fastened the breathing apparatus to the tank, opened the valve, and eased the mouthpiece into Chip's mouth.

Almost immediately, Chip's labored breathing returned to a more normal rhythm.

Repeating the journey for the second tank, Crane found another secure area to wedge it. By now, his exhaustion was so great, his mind so dulled, it took him several minutes to realize what he wanted to do. It was useless simply to attach a second breathing device to the tank. When the first tank was empty, Chip probably wouldn't be conscious or have the strength to change tanks. And, if Crane's suspicions were realized, neither would he. After mulling through the problem many times, he finally performed the simple task, though now seemingly incredibly complex, of attaching the second tank to the first. It would activate when the first tank ran empty. Chip had oxygen enough for two hours.

Satisfied with his efforts, Crane sat back against the hard, cold bulkhead and tried to still his trembling, exhausted body. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing, trying to regulate it despite his body's demand for more oxygen.

The radio buzzed. "Seaview to diving bell." Tiredly, he groped for the mike.

"Crane." There was no point in wasting words with a formal acknowledgement.

There was a brief silence, one that Crane would come to realize as Nelson's search for a suitable question. "What is your oxygen reading now?"

Crane couldn't see the indicator. His vision was failing, from his head injury or lack of oxygen, he didn't know. Or particularly care. He made up a false report, adding, "At least two hour's of oxygen left." He didn't add that the estimate was based on the cylinders attached to Chip. Crane had no idea of the oxygen level in the bell, but it certainly didn't feel like two hours' worth. "After that -- " he let his voice trail off. Any comment would seem trite or inane.

"You have the emergency tanks in the diving locker," Nelson pointed out.

"Can't reach 'em," Crane lied.

There was a pause. "I see." The two words indicated Nelson saw much more than Crane wanted. The Admiral's next words were a quiet plea. "Hang on, Lee. We'll find a way to reach you."

"I know you will," Crane replied, then depressed the mike button to sign off.

It was a pattern to be repeated several times over the next hour. Nelson sometimes invented questions to disguise his concern for Crane, a concern that was becoming more evident in the tenseness in his voice, the long pauses while he sought some word of encouragement.

The final call Crane heard came at the end of the hour. He stared at the mike, almost idly wondering if he had the strength to answer it. The whole thing didn't seem worth the effort.

Except Nelson was waiting. He would be expecting a reply.

Crane weakly grasped the mike and depressed the button twice. He couldn't find the energy to lift the mike or speak, but the two clicks would signal he was still alive. It was all he could do. Two clicks answered his acknowledgement. Once again, the bell was silent.

Slowly, a fog descended across Crane's mind, drawing a veil over his thoughts and consciousness. It became a kind of solitude, where no pondering about life or death or old friends could intrude. It was just a vague, gray scattering of images without coherent bond or pattern. Time ceased, sound ceased, sensation ceased in this nether world. It was very peaceful.

Even the sudden lurch of the diving bell did not disturb him. He wasn't even aware of the wrenching buffet that slammed him down into the total black void of unconsciousness.

IX

Although he was not alone in the observation nose of Seaview, he might as well have been. Nelson stood at the very edge of the huge observation window, leaning his shoulder against a bulkhead to find a comfortable position, his eyes staring into the dark, silent waters outside. Near the center of the window, two seamen continued to strain tired, red-rimmed eyes into the depths of the trench, seeking some sign of the diving bell. No one was ready to give up. Respectfully, they kept their distance, aware Nelson was deeply lost in his own thoughts.

Seaview cruised just above crush depth, and the seeping water had lessened appreciably. There was little danger to them now.

Nelson knew it had been the right decision, the only decision. He couldn't argue with facts. He had dealt with facts all his life and could not deny them now, especially where the facts concerned the stress capabilities of his own submarine.

Outside was the dark, mysterious sea he'd spent most of his life studying. The sometimes malevolent, sometimes gentle force that gave life to the earth and all its creatures -- the strength of the sea was undeniable, irresistible. There could be no victory over this force, only the awareness of a greater understanding. The sea was impartial, merciless in its neutrality -- when man lost to the sea, he could only blame himself for his foolishness and the reckless curiosity that had driven him to challenge it.

Nelson had seen men die before. Close friends and total strangers had succumbed over the years to the compelling might of the sea. On many occasions, he had nearly been one of the victims, yet somehow he had always won; not a victory, really, except against his own limitations in an environment man could enter only at great personal risk. Because he had survived, Harriman Nelson did not understand defeat.

Perhaps that was part of the problem, part of the tenacious stubborn streak that wouldn't let him give up the search. Still, it was only a part. Nelson was experienced enough, mature enough, to recognize defeat and acknowledge his own lack of acceptance for what it was. What he could not accept now was the price that came with this defeat. It was a price far too high -- the lives of Lee Crane and Chip Morton. The loss could never be replaced. It could only be lived with, carefully locked away in the deepest recesses of memory, to be looked at only painfully. Forgetting was the price of survival.

O'Brien came forward to the observation nose and stood beside Nelson. "Admiral, we've finished another sonar sweep over the trench. Still nothing."

Nelson glanced at his watch, saw the amount of time that had elapsed. "It will be too late soon, anyway."

"They still have enough air for another hour," O'Brien said, trying to sound hopeful.

Nelson shook his head. "Enough for only one of them, Mr. O'Brien. Only one of them."

O'Brien was silent for a moment, confused. "The tanks?" he asked at last. "He's leaving the tanks for Mr. Morton?"

No answer was necessary.

O'Brien's voice cracked a little with emotion. "We can go back down again -- back into the trench. Maybe we'll be lucky the second time."

"You've done everything right so far," Nelson refused gently. "Don't ruin it now."

"But the bell has to be down there somewhere! And we should be able to find it!" For once, O'Brien's own guilt at his helplessness was plain. "Lee's buying us every minute he can -- why can't we find them?"

He realized he was trembling when he felt Nelson's hand on his arm. "We'll find them," Nelson said softly, firmly. "As you said, we still have another hour."

Again, O'Brien wondered at the strength of the man before him. The man was a rock, an anchor. It was ironic that O'Brien had come forward hoping to cheer him up, only to realize his own despair and find himself drawing strength from Nelson.

The Admiral pushed him away gently. "You'd better get back to your post."

"Aye, sir," O'Brien answered and turned away.

Nelson, suddenly aware he was not presenting a picture of inspiration to the tired, dogged men still gamely searching for the diving bell, turned and went back to the Control Room. "Let's try a sweep over the deepest part of the trench again," he suggested. "The current would have been strongest there."

"Aye, sir," O'Brien acknowledged and gave the orders.

Patterson shouted from the seismic station. "Another shock wave, Admiral!"

'Here we go again!' O'Brien thought despairingly, grabbing for a mike. "All hands -- brace for turbulence!"

Nelson grabbed the periscope rail to keep from slamming into sonar. O'Brien, having learned from past experience, resolutely held on close by.

On top of the first roll came a yell from the observation deck. "Admiral!" was all Riley could cry out before he was thrown from his feet and rammed into the nearest bulkhead. As the motion reversed itself and he rolled back, Riley grabbed the safety rail around the Flying Sub hatch and grimly held on.

The rolling did not stop completely before he was scrambling back to his post at the observation nose. "Admiral, I saw a light down there!" he shouted excitedly.

Nelson was beside him in an instant. "Are you certain?" he demanded, aware that Riley might have simply struck his head on the bulkhead and imagined it.

"I'm certain, Admiral," Riley insisted, staring hopefully into the blackness outside the submarine. "Just before the turbulence hit us. I'd swear to it, sir! And the light was moving." He pointed out the approximate location. "It had to be the diving bell."

"The current could have moved it," Nelson muttered. "Maybe you did see the bell."

He turned to find O'Brien and Sharkey behind him. His voice challenged O'Brien. "I'm taking the Flying Sub now, Mr. O'Brien."

O'Brien looked at Riley, then at Nelson, then swung around toward the sonar station. "Kowalski, did you see the diving bell on your scope?"

"I don't know," the Seaman replied unhappily. "There were a lot of rocks and other debris moving around -- but it's 'possible."

O'Brien frowned in frustration and turned back to Nelson, who misinterpreted the look.

"You're not going to stop me." The words were a grim promise.

Then O'Brien grinned. "Would I argue with an Admiral?"

Nelson reached for the hatch to the Flying Sub.

"Admiral," O'Brien continued, "you'll need someone to pilot the sub while you activate the recovery arms to grip the bell. You can't do both, certainly not in the turbulence of the trench."

"I'm ready, Admiral," Sharkey reported matter-of-factly.

Both officers looked at him in surprise. Sharkey was already in a sub jacket. He handed another to Nelson, who accepted it with a slight smile.

"Very well, Chief. Let's go."

Riley and O'Brien stood by as Nelson and Sharkey climbed down the ladder into the Flying Sub. As Riley secured the hatch after them, he called, "Good luck, sir!"

O'Brien returned to the navigation table and took up the mike. "Prepare to launch Flying Sub," he said quietly, a note of anxiety in his voice. There was no use in minimizing the dangers the Flying Sub would encounter once it entered the trench.

X

As Nelson took the Flying Sub into the yawning chasm, Sharkey checked the mechanical retrieval arms for operational efficiency, though such checks were routinely made during the sub's periodic inspections. Then he busied himself with arranging emergency oxygen equipment -- not for the two aboard the diving bell, as it was impossible to get it to them -- but for themselves, in the event the Flying Sub lost life support. It was a make-work gesture, he knew, since there was no way to predict the sub's behavior so far below its safe operating limits.

Once they were deep in the trench, Nelson proceeded dead slow. "I'm turning off all interior and exterior lights, Chief," he announced. "See if you can spot the diving bell."

The near-total darkness was unnerving. The only illumination came from a dim emergency light on the console, which Nelson covered with his hand, further reducing interference. They strained their eyes against the blackness.

"Chief, below and a little starboard," Nelson said suddenly. "About five o'clock. Do you see it?"

Sharkey strained forward in concentration. Was that a faint glow from below, or was it just wishful thinking? "Yes, sir, I see it," he said jubilantly.

"I'm taking the Flying Sub down there. Contact Seaview and see if they're in contact with the bell."

"Right away, sir," Sharkey promised and reached for the transmitter.

Nelson was so engrossed with maneuvering the little sub down to the area of light that he didn't hear the words Sharkey spoke to O'Brien aboard Seaview. But he did hear the words finally directed at him. "Admiral, Mr. O'Brien says they've been unable to contact the bell."

Nelson didn't acknowledge the report. 'Hang on, Lee,' rang the unspoken thought in his mind. 'Just hang on a little while longer!'

The light was clearly visible now, a diffuse beam in the silt-laden water. Visibility was very poor in the murkiness, but Nelson was able to take the Flying Sub down without incident.

"Sir, we're showing some pressure stress on the starboard hull," Sharkey commented. "There are a few drops of water on the inside of the screen."

Nelson nodded but continued the descent. Finally, he could see the bell clearly. It was nearly buried in debris and rock, it's rear viewports angled upward.

"Take the controls, Chief," Nelson said, relinquishing them to take up the mechanical arms.

While the chief held the Flying Sub steady in the wash of current, Nelson maneuvered the arms into position to grasp bell. It was time-consuming work, though not particularly difficult. Nelson silently cursed the slowness with which he had to maneuver the delicate arms, carefully using them to clear away enough debris to avoid damaging the gripping vises while exposing more of the bell. Almost unconsciously, he could hear Sharkey in quiet conversation with Seaview, giving a running account of their progress. Yes, there would be many aboard Seaview anxiously listening to the report, lending their spiritual support to the effort.

"I've got it," Nelson said at last, strain evident in his voice. He couldn't see any sign of life inside the bell, but the viewports were small and fogged with condensation. "Pull us back very, very slowly."

The Chief complied, and the bell came free of the clinging debris. "Sir, we're taking more water through the starboard screen."

"Take us up slowly, Chief, until we're clear of the trench," Nelson ordered quietly, still absorbed with the task of holding onto the bell in the unpredictable current. "Then raise us as quickly as you can. Notify Seaview to have medical personnel standing by."

"Yes, Admiral," Sharkey replied patiently. "Mr. O'Brien has taken Seaview up to two hundred feet."

Nelson jerked his head away from his view of the bell and stared at the Chief. Anger gave way to quick understanding. "Of course, the diving bell."

"Yes, sir. Mr. O'Brien already has a team of divers in the water to hook a cable to the bell and bring it aboard. He wanted to have Seaview at safe diver depth."

"Good." Nelson turned back to the bell. "I take it there's still been no contact with Lee or Chip?"

"No, sir," Sharkey replied, a grim edge to his voice. "At least, we're under the two hour limit for the SCUBA tanks." It was small encouragement, but something to take the bitter sting out of the possible failure to reach the injured men before the bell's oxygen level fell too low to sustain life.

Sharkey maneuvered the Flying Sub with his usual keen expertise, rising as quickly as safety permitted, his eyes constantly straying to the pressure gauges and the telltale trickle of water at the seam of the viewing screen. It had already lessened considerably since they'd begun their ascent, and Sharkey was optimistic there would be no further problems.

As promised, the team of divers was awaiting their return. Sharkey had not even brought the Flying Sub to a complete stop beneath the giant Seaview before they were rigging a cable to the bell.

The lead diver signaled to the Flying Sub. Nelson released the mechanical arms and watched the cable take up the stress of the little bell. Soon, it was hauled into the docking bay.

"Get this sub back to its berth," Nelson ordered, impatient to be aboard Seaview again. If there was a record for docking the Flying Sub, Chief Sharkey certainly broke it that day.

Nelson ran all the way to the diver decompression chamber.

XI

Crane was convinced he had somehow taken the oxygen away from Chip while in his near-unconscious stupor. He tried to sit up and tear away the facemask, guilt supplying the necessary strength. "Chip!" he called, chagrined that his efforts to save his Executive Officer had failed because of his own selfish desire to survive.

Strong arms caught him before he could sit up. A hand stubbornly held the oxygen mask in place.

"Easy, Lee," cautioned a surprised voice. "It's all right."

Full consciousness returned, and Crane opened his eyes. Distorted images recorded themselves on his senses: Sound of oxygen hissing; smell of medicine; a metal room -- not Sickbay, not his quarters. The diving bell? Well, there was a viewport -- but on the other side was the face of Admiral Nelson, staring back at him.

The ragged pace of his heart, stimulated by the surge of adrenaline through his system, slowly faded to normal, as did his breathing. He was aware of Doc Carpenter crouching beside him and watching him closely, a needle and syringe in hand.

Crane shook his head slightly. The hypodermic, probably filled with a sedative, disappeared. Carpenter removed the oxygen mask. "How do you feel, Lee?"

"How's Chip?" Crane asked instantly, finally aware that he was lying on a cot in the decompression chamber aboard Seaview.

"He'll be fine, though I'll be watching him closely for a couple of days. I'll know more after I've x-rayed him." Carpenter moved aside a bit so Crane could see the unconscious figure on the cot beside him. Chip still looked pale, but now there was a touch of color to his face. "You know, Lee, that extra oxygen from the SCUBA tanks probably saved his life."

A thin, metallic voice came over the tiny speaker. "How are you feeling, Lee?"

Crane looked toward the viewport and Nelson. "Fine, Admiral, just fine. How did you manage to find us?"

"I'll tell you later, when you're out of there," Nelson replied. "Just let the Doc patch you up and try to get some rest. Seaview is in good hands."

Crane nodded slightly. Chip was going to be all right. Everything was going to be fine now. He relaxed and closed his eyes. "How did O'Brien like his day as Captain?" he mumbled sleepily.

Nelson chuckled. "I think you'll find him ready to get back to his engines, Lee. He'll be counting the minutes until you're back at the con."

There was no response from Crane. He was asleep.

Nelson glanced toward Carpenter, who waved away any concern. "They're both going to be all right, Admiral."

Nelson nodded and switched off the speaker. Turning away from the chamber, he grinned at Kowalski, who was at the decompression controls even though he should have been off duty. "How much longer?"

"It will be several hours yet, Admiral," Kowalski replied. "We want to make certain."

"All right. Contact me the moment you bring them out. I want to be here."

"Of course, Admiral."

Nelson left the Decompression Room, located just off the Missile Room and diving lockers. Sharkey was waiting for him, the question on his face giving way to a big smile when he saw Nelson's expression. "They're both going to be all right, Admiral?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, Chief. They're both going to be fine."

Sharkey smiled self-consciously, embarrassed by his own show of emotions. "Good. That's real good."

Nelson started to say something, then knew that thanks were unnecessary. "Carry on, Chief," was all he said as he left the Missile Room.

Behind him, he heard Sharkey's impatient bark at the crew.

"What is this? You all think you're entitled to a holiday or something? There's work to be done, and you gold bricks aren't going to take it easy just 'cause the Captain and Exec aren't around to keep you in line. If you think you can -- "

Nelson chuckled as the voice faded behind him. He nearly bumped into O'Brien in the corridor. "How are the repairs coming, Mr. O'Brien?"

"We're ready to get underway when you give the order, Admiral," O'Brien replied.

"Fine." Nelson started to walk on, then turned back. "Oh, Mr. O'Brien?"

"Yes, Admiral?"

"You did a good job today."

O'Brien blushed at the unaccustomed praise. "Thank you, sir."

Nelson good-naturedly pointed him in the direction of the Control Room. "Let's go home, Mr. O'Brien," he ordered, gently pushing the Acting Captain ahead.

O'Brien grinned. "Aye, sir."

THE END