Free Collapse Depth by Todd Tucker

staring at charts. The ship had completed its preparations to submerge, and they’d just taken a sounding, confirming that the water beneath them was as deep as expected. After two nauseating days rolling on the surface, everyone was eager to submerge, so the XO was encouraging the OOD, Lieutenant Kaiser, to hurriedly shift the watch to the control room and get down from the bridge.
    The last lookout dropped down from the ladder, directly in front of the conn, and Kaiser came soon after. The Nav noticed that there was only one “Open” indication left on the Chief of the Watch’s panel, a single green “O” in a row of amber lines; the indicator for the lower hatch to the bridge. As Kaiser spun the ring that sealed the hatch, the nav watched the light turn from a green “O” into an amber-colored straight line, a line that continued the length of the COW’s panel. It was an elegant representation of their status: the ship was completely sealed.
    Suddenly, his own throat began to tighten, as if the wheel that Kaiser spun also controlled the flow of oxygen into his lungs.
    “The ship is rigged for dive,” announced the OOD.
    The navigator realized with sudden, overwhelming panic that he was locked in a steel tube driving through the ocean, and would remain so for more than one hundred days. He felt the ship running out of air, his lungs constricting, starving. There was a chorus of voices in control then, the usual yammer of everyone doing their part to get the ship submerged safely. But Mark knew at least a few of those voices muttering in the background were voices in his head, warning him about the danger only he could see.
    He stumbled out of control into the watchstander’s head at the bottom of the ladder; one of very few places you could be truly alone on the boat. Everyone noticed him stagger out, of course, but the same people had seen him virtually live in control for two exhausting days. And this was his first patrol, before there’d been even a whisper about his odd behavior amongst the crew or the wardroom. Most of the men assumed he’d just done an admirable job of controlling his bladder until an opportune time, or perhaps had finally succumbed to sea sickness. Mark splashed water on his face from the head’s tiny steel sink, and tried to pull himself together. Gradually he began to control his breathing enough to return to the control room, where an endless series of charts awaited his review.
    Ever since then, he’d recognized that the first day at sea was the hardest, that moment when the ship became a submarine. It was a moment he dreaded, but one he was prepared for. He knew that after that first day submerged, all patrol, every patrol, he’d have trouble separating what really happened to him with what was going on in his mind, the voices of the crew from the voices in his head. The problem, he knew, was getting worse. Stabbing himself in the leg was bad; Maple hadn’t been able to make eye-contact with him since. But he knew it was Jabo he had to be careful around, the smartest junior officer on the boat. The rest of the officers might think the Nav was just a little odd, a little stressed out. But he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to fool Jabo for long.
    Now it was the start of his fifth patrol. He had thought that he would just tough it out, his last patrol before rotating to shore duty, and then he’d vowed to himself to get help. He’d find a civilian doctor who would treat him in secret, away from the Navy’s watchful eyes. Maybe it was as simple as a pill he could take, he’d read about things like that. A good prescription and a shore tour were just what he needed. Maybe he and Muriel would even patch things up. Of course, that had all been wishful thinking before the patrol began and their orders changed.
    Now he knew he would never see land again.
    •   •   •
    The nav realized his eyes were shut, and snapped awake. The bright, fluorescent box of the Officer’s