Retribution Road by Jon Coon (e reader comics .TXT) 📕

from mission critical projects to accommodate the senator’s request. They were then introduced to Master Chief Mike Kurczewski, who would oversee their training. Kurczewski was trim and direct and wore his starched uniform like it had been tailored by Brooks Brothers.

“Tell me about your project,” he began, “and what is it that makes you so special that this couldn’t be carried out by our divers?”

“I’m sorry, chief, but what you’re asking is classified. What you need to know is that I need thirty minutes bottom time at 270 feet inside a narco-sub we sank a week ago. I’ve been told your new MK29 surface-supplied rebreather is the best option. I’ve done both surface-supplied and self-contained heli-ox and tri-mix diving, and since your guys are going to have salvage barges on site, and a recompression chamber, the MK29 sounds like the way to go.”

“What do you know about the MK29?”

“Only that it’s new and expensive and that if you guys are diving it, you must have put it through more testing than a Lunar Lander.”

Kurczewski laughed. “Right on all counts.” He shifted his attention to Carol. “And you, ma’am. What are we doing for you?”

“My name is Carol. I’m a diver and a trauma nurse. I’d like to be there to keep an eye on Gabe. I’ll do anything you need to help, and I won’t get in your way. I promise.”

He tilted his head and studied her for a moment before answering. Then he nodded and held out his hand to her. “All right, welcome aboard. Let’s get started.”

He led them to a large room with MK15 and MK16 rebreathers stacked in racks.

“NASA engineers developed the technology,” he explained. “We made some refinements to make the 16 non-metallic so we could use it around magnetic mines. There are more dives on those units than all the other gas rebreathers ever built. But just a word of caution, I remember my instructor saying that the only thing more dangerous than one of these rebreathers is well-directed small-arms fire in a phone booth. After thirty years of diving these rigs, I’d say that statement was too conservative.”

They stopped in front of a large locker, which he unlocked, then he lifted out a gleaming helmet.

“It’s thirty pounds of titanium. Some of the parts were made on a 3D printer and cost a fortune. But it dives like a dream. The rebreather is a slightly updated version of an MK14 with a surface-supply hose as a backup and com in the umbilical. We’ll do some pool dives tomorrow or for as long as it takes for you to get comfortable. And when you’re ready, we’ll move into open water. That’s about it. Any questions?”

The helmet had the heft and feel of a Kirby Morgan, with which Gabe was very experienced. And he was happy to learn that the recirculator could also function as a thirty-minute bailout system, an improvement over the ten-minute bottles most divers carried. After an hour in the pool and buoyancy drills, completely different than scuba, he felt quite comfortable.

Carol, after demonstrating scuba proficiency, was allowed to watch Gabe going through his paces in the large, deep training pool. Then she began what would be a short course in hyperbaric medicine. When they were done, Gabe and Carol invited the master chief to join them for dinner.

Kurczewski had enjoyed an amazing career. He’d been stationed all over the world and had done every conceivable kind of diving, from dropping out of submarines and airplanes to deep salvage and rescue. He told the story of Navy divers tapping Russian telephone cables at 500 feet and working with dolphins to locate lost divers. It was a career beyond comparison, and the chief was a master storyteller. Then came the moment Gabe had been expecting.

“Now tell me about this project of yours,” the chief said. He folded his hands on the table and waited.

Gabe told about the cartel and the sub full of Semtex at the refinery. That led to the initial escape but eventual sinking of the second sub.

“Defusing the Semtex inside that sub was one hell of a dive, Gabe. You can play in my dive locker anytime.” From his pocket, he produced a brown coin the size of a silver dollar. “This is our challenge coin. It identifies you as one of our community. The challenge part is that if we’re out for adult beverages and you’re caught without the coin, you win the bar bill. That’s my coin, and I’d be proud for you to have it.” He slid it across the table to Gabe.

The coin had the master diver emblem of an MK5 dive helmet, with dolphins on either side and an inscription that read, NAVY DIVING AND SALVAGE TRAINING CENTER. On the obverse were large letters that said TOP 3.

“What’s this?” Gabe asked.

“Top three ranks—chief, senior chief, master chief.”

“Mike, I’m touched by this. Thanks very much. I’ll treasure it.”

“My pleasure, man. It’s an honor, and I can get another one.” He grinned.

Gabe smiled and put the coin in his pocket. Carol was quiet. Unusually so.

The chief picked up the conversation where they’d left it. “So you’re looking for something in that sub that will lead you back to the cartel?”

“Right,” Gabe answered. “Hopefully something that will lead us to their contacts here in the States and on up the food chain.”

“I want to help. How about if I sign on as your DSO?”

“That would be great, but will they let you?”

“Rank still has some privileges, even in our modern Navy.” He grinned. “And besides, I’m loaning you our gear. Someone needs to make sure it comes back in one piece.”

The next three days of diving were uneventful and ended with Gabe doing a 200-foot dive in the wet pot: a large chamber with a water tank that could be pressurized to depth. At the conclusion, the chief was there with an Experimental Diving Unit shirt for Gabe and a pat on the back.

“You’re ready.