Dr. Nasele.

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They told me you were experienced in harsh waters. James said, as he pointed out the pearls of

sweat that had formed on my forehead. Yeah, I do. I replied. Moments before hurling the remnants of

a less than appetizing lunch off the side of our ship. It's just that you look a bit green

around the gills. He continued with the smirk. We just met a few hours ago. I'd been airlifted

to USS Orion, a sea-lift handling of bistle transport capsules for a classified project conducted

by the United States Navy. I guess they failed to mention that I'm much better under water.

In submarines, a shotback. Considering the circumstances, his casual demeanor left an uncomfortable

atmosphere among the workers. They all knew what my visit entailed, but just like myself,

they were scant with information. All I knew was that there might be a contagious infection

at the bottom of the ocean, and my job was to either disprove it or to confine the entire crew aboard

the station. As soon as we were positioned securely on top of the Tonga trench, we were rushed into

the transport capsule. A minuscule, vertical submarine designed simply to take us to the base on

the ocean floor. 20,000 feet below us. Talos. I entered the sub, feeling excited, while also

dreading the return to the deep blue. It had been 10 years since serving as a hospital corpsman,

one of a few actually stationed aboard a submarine. Over the years, I had clearly lost the natural

sense I once had for the ocean, yet I longed desperately for it. Whenever you're ready, doc,

one of the crew members said, impatiently waiting to drop us into the abyss. I raised my thumb.

...