Chapter 11 — The Cable Splicer Beneath the Sea

Caller From Island Medical Station

At three o'clock in the morning, while most of the crew took advantage of the six-hour break before the reinforcement diving shift, Minh Thư was still sitting at the communications control desk as assigned, eyes half-closed from fatigue but not daring to leave the screen. The signal from the newly reconnected cable was still weak and intermittent, just as Bằng had warned, but enough for a small stream of data to begin flowing through, carrying the first messages from Cồn Nga island after nearly two days of complete silence.

The video intercom screen suddenly lit up, an emergency call from the island medical station, routed through Liên Hải's surveillance system straight to the Wan Li ship as this was the nearest point that could provide technical support if the reconnection went wrong. Thư was startled awake, pressed the call button, and woke Hòa up via the intercom at the same time.

The image appeared flickering, breaking into blocks of pixels before stabilizing within a few seconds. A woman wearing a white blouse, her face haggard from lack of sleep, sat in a small room with weak fluorescent lights.

"Hello, is this a cable repair ship? I'm the doctor on duty at the Cồn Nga medical station." The woman's voice was urgent but tried to remain professional. "We've just had the signal back for a few minutes, I need to take advantage of it now before I lose connection again."

"I hear you clearly," Thư replied, sitting up straight, her voice becoming absolutely serious. "Is there anything you need help with?"

"We had a woman in early labor, twenty-nine weeks, with signs of severe preeclampsia." The doctor spoke quickly, pointing the camera slightly towards a hospital bed in the background, where the silhouette of a young woman could be faintly seen being watched by another nurse. "We don't have an obstetrician at the station. We need to urgently consult with the provincial hospital via video to decide whether to transfer to the hospital by rescue boat in rough sea conditions or handle it on the spot. But over the past two days we have only had a few minutes of intermittent connection like this, not enough to transmit ultrasound images or keep a stable video call for more than a minute."

Hòa appeared behind Thư, quickly putting on his jacket and listening to the entire conversation. He signaled Thư to keep in touch, and at the same time called Bằng up through another channel.

"Bằng, check to see if there is any way to temporarily increase the bandwidth through the newly connected cable, even though it is not completely reinforced, to support this call?" Hòa asked as soon as Bằng spoke through the walkie-talkie. His voice was still sleepy but quickly sobered up when he heard the content of the request.

"The loss is fluctuating because the new cable is not yet fixed. Every time the current pushes it against the rock, the signal flickers a beat." By explaining, he started typing on his personal laptop keyboard even though he hadn't even gotten out of bed yet. "I can try some software tweaks to prioritize bandwidth for emergency medical data streams, but there's no guarantee of keeping the connection going for more than a few minutes at a time."

"Just try." Hòa ordered. "Every minute of connection right now is precious to them."

While Bằng worked, Thư kept video contact with the medical station. The call sometimes broke and then recovered. The sound sometimes delayed a beat, causing the conversation to become fragmented, but no one on either end of the line gave up.

"I'm not a medical officer, but I can connect you to a doctor on the mainland as soon as the bandwidth is a little more stable," Thư said, trying to reassure the physician whose exhaustion was increasingly evident through the screen. "We're doing everything we can to improve the signal."

"Thank." The doctor replied, her voice choked up a bit. "We've been trying to get by for the past two days with the station's only spare satellite phone, which is only enough to make intermittent voice calls, not enough to transmit any medical images. I can't imagine having to decide this case alone without professional opinions." Three minutes later, Bằng announced that the bandwidth prioritization software had been optimized. The video connection is much more stable, although it still stutters sometimes. Thư quickly connected the three parties with an obstetrician on duty at the provincial hospital, who had been notified in advance by Liên Hải and was waiting.

The consultation took place for nearly twenty minutes, with short interruptions that Thư and Bằng continuously worked together to fix whenever the signal flickered again. In the end, the provincial doctor made the decision: to stabilize the condition on the spot with a regimen guided in detail via video, instead of risking a transfer to the hospital in the middle of rough seas, a decision that without this connection, the island medical station would have had to make its own in the dark, relying entirely on its limited experience.

When the call ended, the physician on the screen bowed his head and clasped his hands in front of his chest in a simple but sincere gesture of thanks. "I don't know what to say other than thank you. You guys have no idea how many things you've saved in just the past twenty minutes."

Screen turns off. Thư sat silently for a moment, a feeling of relief and something greater than relief rising in her chest, different from any feeling she had ever experienced when just reading data on the screen during previous shore shifts.

Sơn appeared at the cockpit door, his hair still messy because he had just been woken up, but his eyes were completely awake. He stood listening to Hòa and Bằng summarize the whole incident, saying nothing during that time, just standing silently looking at the turned off screen, where a few seconds ago was the exhausted face of the island's doctor.

"That pregnant woman, severe preeclampsia at twenty-nine weeks," he repeated, his voice deeper than usual. "If that condition is not closely monitored over the next few days of the storm, it could progress to more dangerous complications."

"The provincial doctor has left a detailed monitoring regimen, and scheduled a follow-up consultation every eight hours if the connection allows," Thư replied, still a bit out of breath because her emotions had not completely calmed down. "But that means I need to keep a stable connection throughout the coming days, not just this one time tonight."

"That's exactly why the upcoming reinforcement cannot be delayed any longer, even by just a few hours," Sơn said, turning to look at Hòa. "I know the captain has given the team a six-hour break according to safety procedures, and I'm not suggesting breaking that. But I want everyone to understand, as soon as the break is over, we don't have the luxury to hesitate any more." Hòa nodded, not objecting. "I understand. The six-hour break remains the same, because your body needs it to work safely. But as soon as the clock strikes six hours, we'll leave immediately, without any further delay."

Bách, who had just been awakened by the noise from the cockpit, stood leaning against the door frame, listening to the whole story. "So now we're not just racing against the storm anymore," he said, his voice thoughtful. "But also racing to keep an unborn child the opportunity to be properly monitored." No one responded to that statement immediately, because there was no need to respond. Each person in the cockpit, in his or her own way, understood the true weight of what they were trying to accomplish, a weight that could not be measured in meters of cable or clock hours, even though their work still had to be calculated precisely in those same units.

Outside the cockpit window, the sound of the wind had begun to change its tone, no longer the simple whistling sound of a normal night at sea, but with a deeper, more urgent sound, a reminder that the six-hour break ahead, no matter how necessary, would pass in a state of waiting and not complete rest for anyone on board, including those not in the water, who could only sit and wait and listen to the growing sound of the wind out there.

Hòa placed his hand on her shoulder, a brief gesture but strong enough to convey what he wanted to say. "That's exactly why I can't let that connection break again," he spoke, his voice low and sure. "Not because of the contract, not because of pressure from anyone. Because cases like this will still happen, sometimes even while the storm is raging, when that medical station needs us more than ever." Bằng nodded, closed his laptop, looked out the window where the night sky was still covered with a thick layer of clouds, not a single star penetrated. "The upcoming reinforcement shift will not only be about completing unfinished work," he said softly. "It's about keeping the last moment repeatable, as many times as you want, throughout the stormy days to come."