The Tang Dynasty Underwater Pyramid by Walter Jon Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

seconds of our decompression stop ticked away. While Sztephen watched with puzzled interest, I reached for one of the Nitrox cylinders and removed the first-stage regulator, the device through which a diver actually breathes the contents of the cylinder. I then turned the valve to crack open the cylinder slightly and produced a satisfying stream of bubbles that rose unbroken to the surface. Then I did the same to another cylinder.
    Anyone on the surface, looking for divers, would be able to track us simply by observing our exhaust bubbles rising. I had now given them a false bubble trail to watch.
    Gesturing for Sztephen to follow, I kicked off from our line, positioned myself beneath the catamaran, and at slow, deliberate speed rose to the surface, my head breaking water between the twin hulls. Once there, I dropped my weight belt to the ocean bottom, then climbed out of my scuba gear, leaving myself just the mask, flippers, and snorkel.
    And my dive knife, which was strapped to my leg. Many divers— usually the beginners— buy knives the length of their forearm, formidable enough to fight the U.S. Marines singlehanded.
    Unfortunately for my current dilemma, I had developed a more realistic appraisal of the circumstances under which I might need a knife underwater, and my own blade was about the length of my little finger. It was unlikely to stop a sufficiently determined Pekingese, let alone the U.S. Marines. I whispered a query to Sztephen, and like a true professional he produced one no larger than my own.
    I sighed inwardly and explained my plan, such as it was. Sztephen, who liked my plan no more than I did but couldn’t think of a better, likewise climbed out of his gear. We then inflated the B.C.s just enough to float and tied them together with B.C. straps. It was unlikely we’d need the gear again, but it didn’t seem right to sink it.
    I listened carefully all the while, but all I heard was the rumble of the idling engines and the surge and slap of waves against the white fiberglass hull— no screams, no shots, no maniacal cackling from a sadistic enemy.
    It was time to do it, whatever it was. Those bubbles rising from the decoy cylinders wouldn’t last forever.
    The catamaran’s port hull was moored to our launch, so I swam to the starboard hull, took a breath, and swam beneath the hull to surface cautiously on the other side. No one seemed to be looking for me, and by this point I was hearing nothing but the throbbing of my own heart. The ocean chop lifted me most of the way up the hull, and with a strong kick with my flippers I managed to get a hand around a chrome stanchion used to support the double safety line that ran around the fore part of the boat. The stanchion was strong enough to support my weight, and I pulled myself up, crawled under the safety line, and lay on the deck for a moment gathering my wits and my breath.
    I was lying against the pilothouse of what clearly was a dedicated dive boat. The wide platform between the two hulls was ideal for moving gear around, and divers could simply jump off the back when they wanted to enter the sea. Cylinders were set in racks aft of me, and when I blinked up against the bright sun, I could see the silhouette of a crane intended to raise salvage from the depths.
    I pulled my mask down around my neck and worked my flippers off my feet. At this point Sztephan’s sun- bleached head appeared above the deck, looking at me wide eyed: I’d told him to wait a moment or two before following me, and wait to hear if there was gunfire. Apparently this warning had made an impression on him.
    I helped him aboard, hoping he wouldn’t make too much noise, and he was about as silent as the situation permitted. While he stripped off his flippers, I rose to a crouch and chanced a look through the open door into the boat’s pilothouse. No one was visible, so I crept inside, and then froze.
    Two figures were visible, and though I hadn’t met either one I recognized