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"Goddamnit!"

Second Class Petty Officer Tom Massick, one of the machinists aboard the Providence, was still wondering how he ended up with the job of draining a clogged auxiliary condenser that circulated pumped-in seawater to cool the ship. That was as standard a process as could be, except when something went wrong, like today. It was a simple fix, but a horrible job given the stench-riddled muck sure to pour out once he cleared the clog, and the rubber apron he had donned was ill-suited to keep the discharge off him.

"Goddammit," he said again, as he twisted open the valve and pulled it off to reveal a mass of clenched seaweed infused with ocean refuse and waste matter up close and personal.

In Massick's mind, some whale had taken a shit that had washed into the Providence with the huge volume of seawater that was drawn in continuously as a part of the ship's cooling system. So here he was, senior man of the group, drawing a job that belonged to a rookie. The problem was, there weren't any rookies with the required experience aboard the ship's test voyage under the sea, which left Massick playing the role of a deep-sea Roto-Rooter man with tools not unlike the plumbing variety belted around his waist.

His snake tool cut through the clump that was clogging up the works, but it was wedged in too tightly to extract no matter how hard he tugged. Massick twisted the snake tool free and went to plan B: effectively, a grabbing device with multiple fingerlike prongs that would close on the clump to give him the leverage he needed to yank it out of the condenser and free the clog.

The stench was nauseating, not something anyone could ever get used to, especially in the barren environment of a submarine's interior, which seemed to have no smells at all. Massick's stomach turned and he held his breath, as he worked his grabber tool into the clump and then squeezed the handle to clench the prongs together.

He added a second hand to the first to close the device with enough of the clog snared to yank it out. Even then, Massick figured it would take several yanks to do the job, given the size and concentration of the clump. He held one hand on the handle and the other on the extension rod.

"One... two... three..."

With that, he yanked. Incredibly, the clump came free on the first tug, dragging with it tentacle-like strands that smacked him in the face and ended up in his mouth when it dropped open to cry out in surprise. The clump was followed by a multi-gallon flood of water that had been trapped behind the clog, now freed to burst out in a stream powerful enough to nearly knock Massick from his feet. Though left standing, he was now soaked from head to toe in rancid water and muck that coated him in a stench that left him retching.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Massick screeched, suddenly feeling nauseous.

Which was pretty much what he was covered in.

* * *

"Con, sonar. We have two bogies on-screen rising fast!"

"Rising? From where, sonar?"

"The bottom, sir."

In times past, Fincic would have assumed those bogies were some species of marine life. The Providence's state-of-the-art system, though, was able to distinguish between organic organisms and foreign, potentially adversarial objects.

"Con, sonar! Two hundred meters and closing!"

"Chief, evasive maneuvers. Right full rudder. Increase to max speed."

"Con, sonar! One hundred meters and closing!"

"Aye, sir. Evasive maneuvers. Right full rudder. Increase to max speed."

"Configuration?" Fincic demanded, anxiety growing in him over this potential threat. "Signature?"

"Undetermined, Captain. The objects are too small to get a clear reading on!"

"Con, sonar! Fifty meters and closing!"

Fincic could feel the Providence bank sharply to starboard. Because he had no real-time visual of the closing object, he couldn't know whether the maneuver would be enough to steer clear of whatever it was. He rejected the notion of an attack as quickly as he'd considered it. No one, including naval command, knew their position and barely a handful of people knew of their mission. But the Russians were known to frequent these waters on provocative missions of their own, and Fincic couldn't help but recall reports of a Typhoon-class Russian sub being detected in the area just a few days ago.

"Chief, set battle stations. Condition red."

And with that, a new alarm began to sound.

* * *