The Dark Deeps (19 page)

Modo glanced around the room. Was Griff really gone? And would he really attempt to take over the ship? If they were on the surface, they’d have to be right next to land or another vessel. Otherwise the comrades would capture them. Or rather, they’d capture Modo. No one would even see Griff.

He shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it now. He opened the door. The Klaxons were overpoweringly loud as he ran down the passage and the stairs onto the bridge.

A female Icarian immediately intercepted him. “Mr. Warkin, return to your room.”

Without turning from her station, Captain Monturiol said, “Mr. Warkin can stay and observe how one defends a
country. By now these trespassers should be well aware of our borders.”

“But you’ve given them no warning,” Modo said.

She continued to stare out the periscope. “They have had fair warning. The Icelanders no longer fish our waters. Nor do the Finns, the Faeroese, or the Irish. Anyone who now enters does so with the knowledge that they are trespassers. It’s an act of war to cross into Icaria’s territory.” She twisted a brass knob, no doubt to magnify the outside world through her periscope. She spoke in Catalan, and a comrade at a bank of levers lifted two of them. Immediately Modo felt the
Ictíneo
rising. They must have been pushing water out of the ballast tanks.

Modo went to the porthole. It was black outside the glass, though he thought he saw a glimmer of light on what might be the surface of the water.

“
Objectiu a la vista,
” Captain Monturiol said. “
Abast vuitanta-cinc metres. Sentanta-cinc metres. Seixanta-cinc metres. Quaranta-cinc metres.
” Modo realized she was counting down the distance. He bit his lower lip and imagined the people on the other ship, moving on the water, with no idea that this shark was charging toward them.

His heart skipped a beat. What if Octavia was on that ship? Or Mr. Socrates? What if they were looking for him? “
Preparació per a l’impacte
. Mr. Warkin, brace yourself.”

Modo grabbed a railing just before the
Ictíneo
struck.

The impact threw him forward. The logbook fell to the floor. The captain gave orders and the
Ictíneo
reversed its engines, moving slowly backward.

“Diana!” the captain announced. A small cheer rose from the Icarians. Captain Monturiol adjusted another knob on the periscope, then turned and looked directly at Modo, her eyes gleaming in satisfaction. “We have breached the hull of a fishing ship, slightly above the waterline, Mr. Warkin. It will not sink, but the crew will limp back to port to warn others about these waters.”

“If your calculations had been off, you could have sent that ship to the bottom,” Modo scolded.

She stepped closer to him, her hand on her cutlass. His neck felt hot and he searched his pocket for a handkerchief.

“Mr. Warkin”—her voice was a harsh whisper—“soft men and women do not forge countries; that is what I learned from my father’s death. Did his peaceful protestations get him any closer to the Icaria he dreamed of? No. We must be hard. Every other country is out to undermine us. Being vigilant is the price we pay to keep our land safe. You are in Icaria now, and you would do well to remember that.”

“I will, Captain Monturiol,” he replied, but his mind was on the
Hugo
. Monturiol had never apologized for almost killing him.

M
odo returned to his cabin, still thinking of how the collision could have easily sent those fishermen down to the bottom of the ocean, all because they had crossed an invisible line known only to a few Icarians underwater. It was madness.

And yet, what frightened him more was the look of absolute determination in Monturiol’s eyes. She would be ruthless if she believed it would serve Icaria. The sooner he could get off the
Ictíneo
, the better.

He knelt down beside the cot. The wireless was several inches from where he had left it.

“Hello?” he whispered. “Are you there, Griff?”

No answer. Modo moved the glass plate and sent out a message, keeping it short.

Ictíneo struck fishing ship stop 14:54 GMT stop that is my latest position stop

If they had not received his message by now, they would assume he was dead. He pictured Octavia in a black dress, mourning. And what would Mr. Socrates feel? Tharpa? He liked to think that they were missing him. However, the Permanent Association would no doubt carry on quite effectively without him.

“Stop being a dawdler, Modo,” he whispered.

He felt lighter; the
Ictíneo
was ascending. He put the telegraph away, this time placing it in the darkest corner below the cot.

When he arrived at the bridge, Captain Monturiol and several Icarians were standing next to Colette. The captain smiled at him, a surprise after their last conversation. Perhaps this was how she apologized. “You are growing accustomed to the
Ictíneo’s
ways, are you not, Mr. Warkin? You sensed that something had changed. I am sure Colette would be pleased to tell you what we will be doing next.”

“We’re getting some fresh air,” Colette said. She seemed to glow a little. “Imagine that, Mr. Warkin. We’re actually going to see the sun again!”

Monturiol clapped her hands. “Yes, we are surfacing. Our oxygen tanks are low. I fear we have a leak, as we are still using more air than I had calculated. We will fill our tanks, sniff the rotten carcass that is the world, and retreat to the womb of Mother Earth again.”

It finally dawned on Modo: the lost oxygen had gone into Griff.

“Doesn’t she have a wonderfully poetic way of putting things?” Colette said. “Are you certain you’re not part French, Captain?”

“I can assure you I have no French blood.” Monturiol grinned. She could be quite beautiful. “No English blood, either.”

“Well, one can’t have everything,” Modo said, and was surprised by an even bigger smile from the captain. For a moment he could see why the Icarians followed her.

“To the surface, then.” She signaled and one of the comrades climbed the spiral staircase to open the hatch. Pure, bright, glorious sunlight shone down into the ship. Modo moved into it, letting the rays fall on his head, his shoulders. He had missed the sun!

“Come, my friends,” Captain Monturiol said, “let us go topside.” She began climbing the ladder.

Modo felt like a mole popping out of the dirt. At the top of the ladder, he stepped onto the deck of the
Ictíneo
, his hand shadowing his eyes. Nothing but ocean in all directions. He breathed deeply. He’d almost grown used to the clammy atmosphere of the submarine ship.

Now he could see the length of the
Ictíneo
clearly, and its size was staggering. At least seventy-five yards from stem to stern, glistening with copper bolts. Each plate slid over the next, layered like fish scales. Guide wires were strung so that it was possible to walk from stem to stern without the danger of ocean waves washing a seaman away.

“She is a beauty, is she not?” Captain Monturiol said. “We are standing on my father’s dream. Have you noticed the overlapping plated hull? He plucked the idea from Nature herself.”

Modo heard Griff’s now too-familiar cough and looked around. Even in the bright sunlight the boy was invisible.
Griff had spoken about taking control of the ship while they were topside. Was the cough a signal? It would be pointless to try—they were nowhere near land.

They strolled to the bow of the
Ictíneo
and Modo continued to breathe deeply, finding the air even sweeter. “Your father must have been quite the man,” he said.

“He was, Mr. Warkin. He was a man of
seny i rauxa—
sense and passion. He believed men and women should be equal. He had to hide from the Spanish police, all because he had a free mind. He wrote to my sisters and me every day when he was in exile in France. His first love was his family. Building a submarine ship was his second.”

“I would have liked to meet him,” Colette said softly. Was she acting? Modo wondered. Her words seemed genuine enough.

“The Spanish government killed him.”

“He was murdered?” Modo grabbed the guide wire.

“By bureaucrats! By paper pushers and weak-kneed, small-minded generals from Madrid. They raised his first submarine ship out of the water, declared it useless. In their jealousy of us Catalans, they smashed it up for scrap wood. Then they put my father in prison, just for printing political pamphlets. Seeing his submarine ship destroyed broke his heart and he died.”

Ah, Modo thought, it wasn’t exactly murder. But sad all the same. “Then who built this?”

“I did, following my father’s plans and with Cerdà’s brilliant eye for engineering and finances. He had amassed a fortune in Cuba. It has all gone into the
Ictíneo
and Icaria.”

Modo remembered that she’d mentioned a second
submarine ship. He was about to ask where it had gone, when someone shouted from the tower. One of the men was pointing west. Captain Monturiol lifted her spyglass from her belt and looked through it. “A balloon! Who would be foolish enough to cross the Atlantic in such a frail vessel?”

Modo squinted at the sky and soon could see a gray oval shape. Could Octavia and Mr. Socrates be in that balloon searching for him? Octavia!

“It may have blown off course,” Colette said to Modo, excitement in her eyes. Ah, she imagined it could be a French balloon. But there was no balloon capable of crossing the Atlantic, let alone one with a navigation system sophisticated enough to find them. But what if it was tethered to a ship? No sooner had Modo entertained that thought than Monturiol said, “There is a rope extending down into the ocean, though I cannot yet see what exactly it’s connected to. The balloon is close enough to read her markings now; it’s called the
Etna.
”

“The
Etna?
” Colette said. “Is it a Greek vessel?”

Monturiol adjusted her spyglass. “I cannot say, but now I can see a ship on the horizon.” She lowered the spyglass. “I have never seen such a beast!” She gave it another look. “It has been painted to match the water. Their flag is black; they do not want anyone to know their country of origin.”

A black flag? Would Mr. Socrates sail under a black flag?

Modo could now make out the ship. Though it was not much more than a square in the distance, he counted five funnels. By that measure alone it was massive! The whole ship faded from his vision. Modo wanted to rub his eyes in disbelief.

“Did you see that?” Colette whispered.

The ship reappeared, and a great puff of smoke was followed by a boom. Something shot toward them, whistling and screaming, and exploded twenty yards to the port side of the submarine ship. Waves washed over the
Ictíneo
.

Captain Monturiol had stood tall through the volley. “Comrades,” she said evenly, “return to your stations. We are under attack.”

W
ithin minutes they were all down the ladder, and an Icarian closed the hatch. If it was Mr. Socrates out there, why would they fire first? A warning shot? It had been a tad too close. Modo looked around for some sign of Griff. If he was still out there, he was as good as dead.

“Guests! Return to your cabins,” Captain Monturiol commanded. “You are not trained for battle!”

“Go back to my cabin?” Colette exclaimed. “What do you expect me to do? Read a book?”

“I’d prefer to remain on the bridge too,” Modo insisted.

“Fine, but if you become a nuisance you will be forcibly escorted to your cabins.” Then Monturiol hollered in Catalan and the Klaxon sounded. A moment later the ship dove so sharply that Modo and Colette had to grab the handrail along the wall. Colette stood close to Modo, her knuckles white.

A dull thud sounded, as though a large hammer had struck the side of the
Ictíneo
. Modo covered his ears and tried to maintain his balance. If a big enough hole was blown in the side, they’d be trapped in a sinking sardine can. “It can’t be the British,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t do this.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Colette replied, also in a whisper. “You Brits tend to shoot first, then ask questions.”

He was about to disagree, then remembered Mr. Socrates’ words:
We must either have that technology or destroy it
. Was that the goal now? He’d have no idea that Modo was on board. Would he stop if he did know?

Another thud. A third. A fourth. But they were fading.

The
Ictíneo
dove farther, its engine working so hard that the whole ship shook. The comrades calmly adjusted the levers, following Monturiol’s every command. Whoever was in the crow’s nest would be staring straight at the bottom of the ocean.

Colette nudged his hand. “What sort of ship was that?” she whispered. “Not a corsair. And it was
camouflé!
Disguised with paint so that it appeared and disappeared. It wasn’t a nationality I recognized.”

“And judging by its size, it’s heavily armed,” Modo replied. “If we try to ram it, its metal hull may be so thick that the
Ictíneo’s
ram will be torn off. Then we’ll sink.”

Modo thought he’d been speaking quietly, so he was surprised to hear the captain say, “That will not happen. Cerdà built the ram to cut through any metal known to man. I trust his design. I am curious how you two know so much about warships, but we will discuss that at an appropriate time.”
She said something in Catalan to one of the Icarians, and the ship began to level out. “We shall approach with caution. That balloon can spot us from a distance and can see a good depth into the ocean. They cannot strike while we are this deep. They’ll be surprised when we stab their underbelly.”

She gave another command and Modo felt the ship turning. They sped through the water for three or four minutes, then turned so sharply he was forced to hang on tight. They ascended, then slowed as Captain Monturiol stared through her periscope.

Modo glanced out the porthole. He could see the surface above them. The ship sat still as Monturiol watched her enemy. The Icarians waited silently for her next command.