“What are you doing?” Michaela’s wheeling thoughts tried to make sense as she leaned away from Casey’s cold pack. That’s when she saw the blood and vomit staining her jacket.

“You hit your head. It’s still bleeding. You know how scalp wounds are.”

“Shit on a shoe,” she murmured against the throb in her skull. “What happened to that lobster thing?”

“I guess it’s still down there,” Casey told her. “I pretty much had my hands full. Not to mention that the impact had me a bit pie-eyed and stunned. We were sinking at a forty-degree list, bleeding air from the number two tank, so I blew the ballast. Never prayed so hard in all my life as I watched the depth gauge.”

“Where’s Varina and Jaim?”

“No clue. They blew ballast before we did. Pissed the beast off if you ask me. There’s nothing on com. I’ve looked around, not that I can see much as deep as this thing drafts. Com was breaking up. Like the antennae is only directional. Haven’t heard a peep since Kel said he was coming to get us.”

Michaela shifted, felt a whole new pain run up her left arm. “Damn, that hurts. Help me out of this seat.” Her left arm didn’t want to move. Was really smarting, which really sucked toilet water given her world-class headache. It was all she could do to keep from throwing up again.

With Casey’s help, she got unbuckled, gasped, and winced with each jolt to her arm. She made it back to one of the passenger seats when the side of the launch appeared through the transparency at the sub’s nose.

Just to sit, gasp for breath, and wish her head would clear was like a small victory.

Casey undogged the hatch, pulled out the ladder, and called, “Michaela’s hurt. Hit her head, and I think her arm’s broken.”

Kel’s voice could be heard over the waves slapping on the hull. “Hang on. Let us get a line on the sub. Are you taking any water?”

“No. We’re tight. Where’s Varina and Jaim?”

“Deal with that later.” Kel’s voice had an unusual tension. “Let’s get Michaela out. Can she climb?”

Casey ducked back, her ash-blond hair swinging. The look in her gray eyes betrayed a deep-seated worry. “Can you make it up the ladder?”

“Guess I have to, huh? God, if my head would just stop hurting.” Michaela stood, wavered, had to have Casey prop her against the pitch and sway as the sub rolled with the swells. She got hold of the ladder with her right hand, put a foot on the bottom rung, and levered herself up, her left arm hanging in agony. With Casey pushing on her butt, she made the climb, stuck her head out to find Kel waiting. The man bent over, half-pulling her from the hatch.