The diver pressed a white plastic underwater slate flat against the inner surface of the circular quartz viewport.
Smeared across the plastic in thick, greasy red wax pencil were jagged block letters:
JULIAN -- MY O2 MIX IS TOXIC -- VANCE STERLING LOCKED THE TRUNK -- UNCLAMP INNER HATCH NOW OR I DIE IN 1996.
Julian Vance stood frozen before the glass, his breath fogging the cold outer brass bezel.
“Look at his breathing,” Lin Mei whispered, her hands shaking as she held her headlamp on the window. “His chest is heaving in short, violent spasms.”
“Look at the condensation pulsing against the inside of his faceplate,” Doctor Victor Corvo said, his clinical voice sharpening as he leaned over Julian’s shoulder. “Rapid, erratic ventilations consistent with acute hyperoxia and severe carbon dioxide retention.”
“Look at the water line inside the sphere,” Mac Cole noted, his face pale against the quartz rim. “The bilge water is at twenty-eight inches. That means the internal ballast sump has lost pneumatic pressure.”
“And look at the emergency bailout whip on his helmet side-block,” Lin Mei added, zooming her camera lens through the glass. “The brass Kirby Morgan helmet is still locked to his neck-dam, and the secondary demand valve is hissing into the flooded bell.”
