Season THREE– Episode 20 “A belch, or a burp?!”
Warning lights on the Blackfin Phantom submarine continued to flare. Below them the much too large shadow settled on the ocean floor while Admiral Horace Barnicle sipped his dirty martini.
Hazel kept her focus glued to the sonar—albeit her left eyelid fluttered with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. “It appears as though the creature is burping,” she alerted the team.
“A belch, or a burp?!” Barnacle spit a mouthful of liquor across the instrument panel. “Full throttle ahead! Full throttle ahead!” he commanded Sally. And yes—she had taken over the pilot’s chair.
Invisible to the naked eye and or the most elite form of radar technology known to mankind… Sally knew full well what to expect. The massive expulsion of air would produce a bubble large enough to capsize the submarine and turn her topsy-turvy. Speed was of the essence.
Ellie, now suited up in the co-pilot chair, was running diagnostics. “Sally, we have eight seconds and counting to move the length of TWO football fields! Go! Go! Go!”
Admiral Barnacle stood behind Eagle ONE, TWO, and THREE… Unusually quiet.
“Sir?” Hazel questioned. “Have you encountered this air bubble burping behavior pattern?”
He gave a sobering shake of his noggin. “Never. I have no idea what the hell we’re dealing with.”
“Twenty-eight more yards SALLY!” screamed Ellie. “With 3—2—1—Brace for impact!”
The sonar let out a loud, thunderous clap and shattered the glass monitor. Then another. Hazel removed the headset and there was a trickle of rose red blood trickling down her right ear lobe. She dropped from the viewing chair as the aft of the submarine began to rise.
Instinctively, Sally cranked back on the throttles to maintain level buoyancy, then opted to go full on REVERSE.
“For the love of Richard H. O’Kane (famous WWII submarine commander), what are you doing WOMAN!” Admiral Barnacle spouted.
Sally met his eyes with a flash of fire then spit flames at Barnacle, “Saving your sorry sailor’s ass! Hang on!”
The gears were griding—jet fueled propellers torquing without pleasure—grown men on board weeping.
“Sally we’ve just lost engines one and four. Their RPM’s have cut to zero,” Ellie calmly stated.
Then, with the two remaining throttles fully engaged in reverse, the stern of the submarine began to find neutral buoyancy. As hoped, Sally had successfully sliced the rind of the bubble with the rotating props and the potential threat of capsizing had been averted.
With the submarine leveling out… Ellie started to breathe. “That was damn close Sal, but we’re not fish food… Yet. The diagnostics show engines two and three holding strong.”
Hazel peeled herself off the floor like rubber backing of industrial carpet being separated from tacky glue. Her eyes were dazed from the constant ringing in her ears, but her spirits were high. “I’ll take a hard pass on any more confrontations that involve digestive gasses. Can’t say I could ever replicate that burp with a semi-trailer load of Victoria Bitter in my stomach.”
“Cheers to that,” Sally muttered, and rammed both active throttles forward, as if punching Admiral Martini in his proverbial barnacles. “Full ahead!” she commanded.
Admirable Barnacle, appearing to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, refilled his glass from a thermos only to watch the first tip of the glass spill down the starched collar of his pressed formal wear. Fumbling to refill he weighed the option of using this pinnacle opportunity to call it quits on booze but then thought “BAD IDEA.”
Two out of four functioning engines equaled half throttle speed. And just as the martini-shaken crew began to gather their confidence, the submarine gave way to a soft thud-thud-thud.
The non-functioning sonar provided nary a clue. But you could have heard a pin drop when three sharp, non-inviting knocks blasted against the hull.
Everyone froze. Except for Barnacle. Post knock-knock-knock his mouthful of vodka was spewing from his nose like a Neti pot working in unison with a Flonase spray. Not cool. Excessively wet.
It was Sally’s turn for her left eye to start twitching. “Tell me sea monsters don’t knock.”
Ellie, back in her surveillance chair, watched a cracked spiderweb screen come to life. To her astonishment there were two boldly blinking words: HELLO LADIES.
Barnacle caught a glimpse over her shoulder. “No one touches anything.”
Speaking of “No touching”, back on location at FSFO (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) Tawny Bishop had put up a STOP sign per Rusty’s attempt at his butt out awkward attempt at a thankful hug.
“Easy Flathers,” she cautioned. “The last dude that tried to hug me, still has “whereabouts unknown” on Lac des Bois.
“Yes Ms. Bishop. Just super appreciative you were able to locate our passenger boat,” Rusty obliged.
“Didn’t take much…Half the residents on the lake knew where this old tub was beached,” she continued. I had Stash McGivern drop me off there this morning with my canoe when he was making a mail run. It took me longer to dig the sand away to get her afloat, than anything else.”
“Well, either way, we’re certainly appreciative of your effort Tawny,” complimented Professor Scale. “Can I call you Tawny? And if so—does this mean you might be accepting our offer to join this little adventure of a camp we’re hoping to build?”
“Tell you what fellas—I like the deal you’re offering—I have my doubts about this business coming to fruition. But, yes, I am here to help.”
Link got the one and only hug from Tawny. When tugging at the cuff of her Levi’s, she picked him up for a squeeze.
“Was that “A belch or a burp?!” she exclaimed while returning Link to the planks on the dock.
Either way, it was enough for the newly bound threesome to erupt in laughter. A much overdue mood change for both Flathers and Scale.
–To Be Continued—