Black wind

“Swanee River.” Summer looked at her brother with abashed curiosity.
    “You seem awfully happy, given that the biological bombs are missing in action,” she said.
    “Sister, we may not know where they are, but we sure know where they ain’t. Now, if it was me, I’d want to keep those eggs close to the hen.”
    Summer took a second to digest the comments, then her face brightened slightly.
    “The deck hangar? Where the aircraft are stored?”
    “The deck hangar,” Dirk replied. “And the Swordfish was even kind enough to leave the door open for us.”
    Once Snoopy was secure in its cradle, Dirk activated the main thrusters and the Starfish shot off down the deck of the submarine to the second torpedo blast. The detonation hole was easily large no ugh to allow the Starfish to drop into the interior, but the 11.5-foot ijarneter of the hangar was just fractionally too tight to allow any room for the submersible to maneuver any farther. Dirk studied the gash in the aircraft hangar before inching the Starfish into the opening. The deck had been blasted away in pockmarked sections, leaving step-through holes that led into the dank bowels of the submarine. Dirk slowly guided the Starfish lower until he spied firm decking near the forward edge of the gap that was large enough to support the submersible. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the airplane propeller they detected earlier was hanging just to his right. He gently eased lower until the Starfish’s supporting skids tapped onto solid decking.
    As he powered off the Starfish’s thrusters, a momentary silence filled The submersible. Together, they peered down the enclosed hangar that stretched in front of them like an endless tunnel. Then the quiet was broken by a muffled metallic clunk than rang through the water.
    “Dirk, the propeller!” Summer shouted, pointing out the bubble window toward the right.
    The mounting bracket that held the spare three-bladed Seiran bomber propeller had long ago corroded in the salt water yet against all reason had somehow maintained sufficient integrity to hold the heavy blade onto the wall for sixty years. Not until the stirred waters from the Starfish’s thrusters blasted against it did it decide to give up its mission and crumble from the wall in a rusty glob of dust. As the bracket fell away, the heavy propeller dropped straight to the deck, landing on the tips of its lower two blades with a clang.
    But the show wasn’t over. They watched in helpless fascination as the propeller fell forward, its upper blade skimming just in front of the Starfish’s bubble window, inches from Summer’s face. It appeared to move in slow motion as the force of the water suspended the movement of the steel blades. A secondary clang echoed through the water as the blade and nosepiece hit home, the entire assembly dragging across the submersible’s right robotic arm and falling onto the front skid plates. A cloud of brown sediment rose and obscured their vision for a moment, then, as the water cleared, Summer noticed a small trail of dark fluid rising up in front of them, as if the Starfish were bleeding. “We’re pinned,” Summer gasped, eyeing the heavy propeller lying across the front skids.
    “Try the right arm. See if you can lift the blade up and I’ll try and back us out,” Dirk directed as he powered up the thrusters.
    Summer grasped the joystick and toggled it back to raise the arm. The metallic appendage began to rise briefly, then fell away limp. She repeatedly toggled the joystick control back and forth but there was no response.
    “No good,” she said calmly. “The blade must have cut the hydraulics. The right arm is as good as amputated.”
    “That must have been the fluid we saw. Try the left arm,” Dirk replied.
    Summer configured a second joystick and applied power to the submersible’s left mechanical arm. Working the controls, she tried stretching the arm across the viewing window and down to the fallen propeller. Since the left arm was both smaller and shorter than the right arm, it allowed for less maneuverability. After several minutes of bending and twisting the arm in various configurations, she finally worked the claw to a position where she could grab the edge of the propeller blade.
    “I’ve got a grip, but it’s at an awkward angle. I don’t think I’ll be able to exert enough pressure,” she said.
    Pushing at the controls, her words fell true. The arm attempted to pull the