Three men sailed in a small Coast Guard cutter. In the Atlantic off the coast of Massachusetts, the three Coast Guard officers were alone except for the sun, the sea, and the occasional seagull or dorsal fin. The boat was thirty feet long and consisted of an enclosed cabin and an open-air stern. At the stern were two long cushioned benches, a flare gun with ten cartridges, and a manual crank anchor in case the mechanical anchor failed. In the cabin were a chair before the wheel, control panels for the engine, radar, and sonar, the throttle, a computerized map, a first aid cabinet, a radio, a fire extinguisher, and an arms cabinet, containing two high-powered seven-millimeter Browning rifles with telescopic, infrared sights, two twelve-gauge shotguns, and two nine-millimeter Berettas, all with ample ammunition.
The boat’s skipper was Lieutenant Commander James McGee. Lieutenant Blake Christopher, first mate, and Ensign Samuel Williams accompanied Jim. The sky was clear, and the waves were calm.
“How far from shore are we now, Skipper?” asked Blake.
“About five clicks, Mr. Christopher,” replied Jim.
Samuel lit a cigarette. “I still don’t get this, sir,” he said, exhaling smoke which appeared bluish in the shafts of sunlight. “What kind of parents let their six-year-old daughter go on a cruise with strangers? And why didn’t these people report that she fell overboard while they were still at sea?”
Jim cleared his throat and glared at Sam.
“That is none of our concern, Ensign Williams,” he barked. “You heard the captain’s briefing same as I did. Our job is to find that little girl. Sally Huff.” Minutes later, he said, “We’re there, gentlemen. I’ve divided the search area into ten-mile grid squares. We’ll search them systematically. If that fails, we’ll search underwater. Now, start looking!”
Blake and Sam walked aft and searched with binoculars. After three hours of searching all ten grid squares, they had spotted the occasional schools of cod and salmon, shark, sailfish, and marlin fins, even a pod of right whales. But not a single human soul.
“Mr. Christpher,” Jim said, “you’re up first. Remember,” he cautioned, “don’t stay under longer than thirty minutes, and don’t try to swim to the bottom. Water’s too damn’ deep here.” Jim paused. “The commander’ll likely send out the dredgers later. If the girl ain’t on the surface, she’s on the bottom or in a shark’s belly. Once she starts decomposing, she’ll rise and probably wash ashore in a few days.”
Blake and Sam exchanged a mutual scowl at Jim’s callous and grisly summary of a little girl’s fate. But Jim had had years of experience doing this. He was, as they say, ‘an old salt.’ Blake donned his scuba gear and dove into the azure but foreboding sea. He shone his flashlight around the cerulean ocean depths. He saw more schools of fish and another bull shark, but they darted from him. But he didn’t see a girl. As he continued to search, something grabbed his leg, tugging him rapidly down several fathoms. Into the dark abyss he plummeted. He looked at his legs, seeing with horror that a one-foot-wide tentacle was wrapped around his left calf. Be calm, he thought, laboring to remember his deep-sea scuba training. He strove against the intense water pressure to remove the eight-inch knife on his right hip from its sheath. He bent downward and struggled to reach his leg with the blade. His breath was frantic with fear and effort. Thousands of bubbles of oxygen and carbon dioxide escaped his mouthpiece, obscuring his vision. He reached the tentacle, and stabbed and sawed at the sucker-lined appendage. A cloud of ink and blood drifted upward. The beast released him. Like a bee flailing its wings, Blake’s legs pumped, thrashed, and pummeled the brine. Minutes later, he reached the starboard side of the aft of the boat, and Jim and Sam helped him aboard.
“What the hell happened!” exclaimed Jim. “You were under for thirty-two minutes. I told you not to stay down that long, Mr. Christopher!”
“We saw a lot of blood and bubbles,” Sam added.
Gasping for breath, Blake choked, “Jesus fucking Christ! There’s a giant fucking squid down there.”
“That’s highly unlikely in these waters, Mr. Christopher,” intoned Jim, “especially at this shallow a depth.” But the skipper’s eyes drifted down to Blake’s left leg. Stuck to his calf was a rubbery hunk of flesh lined with gray suckers.
Blake closed his eyes and pressed his palm to his quivering forehead. He was silent for minutes. Then he reflected, “That monster probably got the girl. Sally.” He gathered his thoughts and said, “I’m resigning my commission now and never going underwater again.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Sam. “After all, you’ve spent years training for this. What other skills do you have? Besides,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “you’ve got a fine-looking woman to go home to every night. She might be displeased at her reduced income.”
Blake’s brows furrowed. “What? You’ve never met Maria. How do you know what she looks like?”
“I saw her picture in your office.”
“No, you didn’t. You’ve only been in my new office. I just got that office two days ago. I haven’t moved my personal stuff from my old office yet.”
“You’re right,” said Sam. “I saw her at a party two weeks ago.”
“What party? Maria hasn’t been at a party in months.”
Jim’s thin lips crinkled at the corners.
“The Emerson’s anniversary,” said Sam, his face betraying fear. “You were on night duty then.”
“You’re lying, you son of a bitch,” Blake snarled.
“So, you’ve been giving your brother-in-arms’ wife the old poke between the legs, eh, Mr. Williams,” said Jim. “I hope she was worth a court-martial,” he said with a knowing smirk. Blake’s temples throbbed furiously. He leapt upright, grabbed the key to the arms cabinet from Jim’s belt, and raced toward the cabin. Jim ran after him. They struggled for the key. It fell to the deck.
“Stand down, Lieutenant Christopher!” Jim bellowed. “Ensign Williams will be court-martialed, but so will you if you don’t stop this instant.” He said with a wry smile, “Besides, it’s Williams’ turn next. Maybe the squid will get him.”
Featured Image Credit: Sumaid pal Singh Bakshi / Unsplash
