Chapter 19 — The Cable Splicer Beneath the Sea

Voice From Decompression Chamber

The storm shelter appeared after nearly four hours of sailing in increasingly fierce waves and waves, a calmer area of water surrounded by a rocky mountain range jutting into the sea, where Vạn Lý could anchor relatively safely while storm number nine swept across the offshore waters. As soon as the ship was in a stable anchor position, Chu Tuệ Lam began the final decompression procedure for all three people in the saturation chamber, a process that would last for many hours, bringing their bodies from a pressure equivalent to eighty-five meters of sea water back to normal atmospheric pressure in small, precisely calculated increments.

"From now until completion, no one is allowed to leave the compartment, even if they feel completely normal." Lam reiterated the most basic principles over communication, even though all three had memorized it long ago. "Helium bubbles can form in the blood at any time if the process is interrupted, and the consequences can appear late, not necessarily immediately."

"Clear," All three responded almost in unison, too familiar with this discipline to even feel uncomfortable by it.

Outside, the sound of the wind whistling through the gaps in the deck doors had turned into a continuous, thick sound, with individual gusts no longer distinguishable. The ship shook slightly with each wave coming in from the mouth of the bay, although it was much less than the open sea where they had just left.

On deck, even though there were no more diving activities taking place, Hòa still did not leave the cockpit, continuously monitoring the ship's mooring position via radar, ensuring the ship did not drift in the bay even though it was partially protected from large waves. Trung sat next to him, no longer the constant tension of the previous days, replaced by a peaceful fatigue that rarely appeared on his face since the cable line was broken.

"Do you think that joint will survive the storm?" Trung asked, not because he still had doubts, but because he wanted to hear confirmation again from the most experienced person on the ship.

"Sơn and his team did every step right, properly reinforcing what the terrain required," Hòa replied, his eyes still not leaving the radar screen. "Nothing is absolutely certain at sea, but this is the best one can do with what one knows. For the rest, one must believe in the work that has been done." Trung nodded, looking out the window where the rain was starting to hit the glass, streaks of water flowing horizontally with the wind instead of falling straight down like normal rain. "I owe your team a much bigger thank you than what I said," he said softly. "Not just because of work. Because of the way you guys treated me, even when I pushed too hard in the early days."

"Everyone has times to push for their own legitimate reasons," Hòa replied. "What matters is how people react when prompted at the right time, and you reacted better than many people I've met in this profession."

In the saturation chamber, time passes more slowly than ever. Bách fell into a deep sleep, his body finally allowed to relax completely after many hours of extreme tension. Thư lay down and re-read the notes in her notebook, occasionally writing a few new lines, summarizing the lessons of that day in her own way.

Sơn can't sleep. He lay looking up at the ceiling of the cabin, his mind returning to the promise he had made to Thư the night before, and to himself even longer: to call Duy's mother.

"Bằng, can you connect the communication outside for me?" He asked over the intercom, his voice holding a rare hesitation.

"Okay, but only voice communications through the ship's internal system connected to the satellite, not personal phones," Bằng replied. "Who do you need to call?"

Sơn was silent for a moment before answering, realizing that this was the first time he had said this intention out loud to someone other than Thư. "Duy's family."

A short silence on the other end of the line was enough for Sơn to understand that Bằng had realized the weight of that request. "I will find the contact number in the company's old records and connect you immediately," Bằng replied, his voice softer than usual.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang through the speaker in the saturation chamber, then an older woman's voice spoke, a little sleepy because of the late hour. "Hello?"

"Miss, I'm Sơn," he spoke, his voice trembling slightly, a tremor that was completely different from the composure he had just displayed throughout the long and dangerous day. "Sơn, Duy's old teammate."

There was a longer silence on the other end of the line, long enough for Sơn to wonder if he should call or not, before the old lady's voice rang out, carrying a mix of surprise and emotion. "Sơn? Oh my god, it's been a long time since I called you."

"I'm sorry for being silent for so long," Sơn said, feeling his throat tight. "I don't know how to start, and the longer I wait, the harder it becomes to call."

"I understand," she replied, her voice was gentle, without any reproach. "Me too, there are times when I want to call you, but I'm afraid of making you feel awkward by bringing up the past."

"I'm in the middle of the ocean, just completing a very difficult fiber optic cable repair," Sơn said, his voice gradually becoming more stable as the story continued. "At one point, the situation almost repeated exactly what happened to Duy three years ago. But this time, I did it differently, and everyone was safe."

"I'm glad you told me that." The old lady's voice carried a sincere warmth. "Duy would certainly be happy, if he knew that what he taught me would not be lost, but could save more people."

Sơn closed his eyes, letting those words sink deep inside, a feeling of relief crept through each layer of guilt he had carried for the past three years, not completely erasing it, but somewhat easing its weight.

"I hope you always stay healthy," he said. "And I promise, from now on, I won't let the silence last like that anymore."

"I will wait for your calls," she replied, her voice carrying a smile that could be felt even through the noisy phone line. "There's no need for anything special to call, child."

The conversation lasted a few more minutes, more gently, about everyday things, before ending in a peace that Sơn never thought he could achieve when thinking about this call. He lay back down on the bed, looked up at the steel ceiling, and felt his breathing more regular than at any time in the past three years.

Thư, still lying in the corner of the compartment, heard the entire conversation through the common intercom system. He did not intentionally eavesdrop but did not turn it off because he did not want to interrupt that private moment with a clumsy action. She looked at Sơn, said nothing, just smiled slightly, a silent sharing more complete than any comment.

"Thank you for not turning off the communication," Sơn spoke after a while, his voice gentle. "I think, if it were three years ago, I would never have had the courage to say those things in front of anyone, even alone."

"You don't have to be strong alone all the time," Thư replied, repeating almost verbatim something Sơn once told her. "That's what I learned from you, in just these few short days." Sơn laughed softly, a rare laugh of relief. "Then perhaps you should repeat your own lessons more often."

"Mr. Bách talks in his sleep." Thư changed the subject, glanced slightly at Bách who was snoring lightly in the corner of the compartment, deliberately breaking the quiet atmosphere with a daily story. "Seems like I'm dreaming about sandbags." The two laughed softly, the laughter spreading in the tight space of the saturation chamber, a warm sound amidst the constant howling of the wind outside the steel shell.

Outside, storm number nine was approaching the shore, bringing gusts of wind and torrential rain to the entire coastal area, including Cồn Nga Island, where now, for the first time in many days, a slender stream of light was still flowing quietly through the sea, keeping that small island from being left alone in the midst of nature's fury.

In the saturation chamber, the decompression timer continued to move by small steps, slowly but surely, just like the process that Sơn had gone through over the past three years to find a piece of peace in his heart, not by a giant leap, but by small steps of patience, unable to shorten, unable to rush, only able to go step by step, slowly and persistently, until truly reaching the final point of balance.