Chapter 2 — The Cable Splicer Beneath the Sea

Leaving Vũng Rạng Port

The Vạn Lý left the wharf at 2:15 a.m., its propeller stirring up black water thick with the smell of motor oil and seaweed. From the foredeck, Minh Thư watched the high-pressure lights of Vũng Rạng port gradually recede, shrinking into a string of sparkling beads on the horizon, until the ship rounded the tip of the breakwater and the whole port disappeared behind a mass of dense darkness.

"First time sailing at night?" Bách stood next to her, carrying a heavy toolbox in his hand, his voice softer than before in the cockpit.

"First time actually sailing, for a real repair," Thư replied, trying to keep her voice normal even though her stomach was tightening with each first wave hitting the side of the ship. "Before now, I was only on shore, reading data through the screen."

"Data on a screen and standing here in the middle of the ocean at three o'clock in the morning are two completely different things." Bách smiled, not meaning to be sarcastic. "But rest assured, this ship has never made anyone so seasick that they had to return to shore. Except for last year's intern, but he ate three bowls of noodles before getting on the ship, it's his fault." Thư laughed, the tension eased a bit. She looked around the deck, where the spare cable reels were secured with chains, the hydraulic crane folded neatly under a waterproof tarp, and in the furthest corner, near the entrance to the saturation dive chamber, Sơn was standing alone, still clutching the orange safety rope he'd been checking since midnight.

"Does Sơn often stand there?" Thư asked softly.

"He often stands there every time the ship prepares for a difficult shift." Bách lowered his voice, his eyes still looking at Sơn. "I just joined so I don't know, but Mr. Sơn used to be the most daring person in the team. Everyone called him first for any type of diving. Now..." Bách stopped, not finishing his sentence, as if he himself wasn't sure how to express the rest. "Now he checks the equipment so carefully that one time we had to wait for him for nearly an hour just to get in the water."

"So is it a bad thing?"

"I don't know." Bách is honest. "There are people on the team who say he's too careful and slows down, wasting precious time. Some people say that thanks to him being careful, our team hasn't had another incident in the past three years." He emphasized the last two words deliberately, enough for Thư to realize there was something behind the sentence, but she did not ask further, feeling the boundary of a story that was not yet time to tell.

In the cockpit, Hòa stood in front of the radar board, monitoring the signals of fishing boats on their way to shore to avoid the storm. Small dots of light moved in the opposite direction of Vạn Lý like a school of fish fleeing from something invisible behind. By sitting at the ROV control station, verifying that the entire DP2 dynamic positioning system will keep the ship firmly on the repair point once they arrive.

"What is the current wind speed in the cable break area?" Hòa asked without turning around.

"Fifteen knots, waves about one meter two high." By reading data from the forecast screen that updates every thirty minutes. "Within safe limits for diving, but according to forecast models, this number will gradually increase from tomorrow afternoon, and increase much faster from tomorrow evening onwards."

"That means I have about a day and a half of working in ideal conditions, then things get harder by the hour." Hòa nodded, as if confirming the plan in his head.

The video intercom screen on the chart table lit up, signaling an incoming call from the Liên Hải operations office. Receiving the call, the image of Nghiêm Việt Trung appeared, sitting in a room with cold white fluorescent lights, behind him was a fiber optic network map hanging on the wall.

"Captain, I just received the report from the Cồn Nga medical station," Trung spoke as soon as the image stabilized, not wasting time greeting. "They are having difficulty remotely monitoring a case that requires urgent consultation with a higher level hospital. Without cable, the backup satellite connection is not enough to transmit real-time ultrasound images."

"I understand the urgency, Mr. Trung," Hòa replied, not letting his emotions dominate his voice. "But I need you to understand the opposite: my team is moving at the maximum safe speed, and when we arrive, we still need time for the ROV to pinpoint the break point before dropping people. There are no shortcuts to that step."

"I'm not asking you to skip that step," Trung replied, his voice softened a bit, although his eyes were still as tense as guitar strings. "I just wanted to ask, is it possible to shorten the time to prepare for a saturation dive in half? I understand your standard procedures allow for flexibility in certain emergencies."

"The process allows for flexibility in work order, not in decompression time," Sơn spoke for the first time, entering the camera frame from behind Hòa. "Decompression time is calculated according to actual depth and bottom time, not according to anyone's wishes, including me. Shortening it does not help us work faster, it only increases the risk of decompression sickness for divers, and if that happens in the middle of the sea, eighteen nautical miles from shore, you will lose the entire cable repair team, not just a few extra hours."

On the screen, Trung was silent for a moment, looking straight at Sơn through the camera as if reconsidering something. "Okay. I won't suggest that anymore. But I need you guys to update me continuously, every hour if possible. I have to answer to the provincial leaders and to the families who are calling the switchboard asking when the signal will be back."

The call ended. Hòa let out a long breath and rubbed his hands over his face. "He's not wrong," he said, almost to himself. "It's just that he's seeing a list of people to save, and I'm seeing five specific people on this ship."

Bằng kept his eyes glued to the screen, typing a few keys to save the call log according to the correct procedure. "I think they're both right, Captain. The problem is that neither one of them can compensate for the other."

"That's why people need someone in the middle to decide." Hòa glanced at Sơn, his eyes were both a question and a form of implicit trust. "And I don't intend to be that person alone. Mr. Sơn, when I get there, I'll need your assessment before I sign off on any dives. Not because I don't trust myself, but because you're the only person on this ship who has ever been on both sides of such a decision."

Those words made the atmosphere in the cockpit quiet down a beat. By stopping typing. Outside the window, a wave larger than the previous one hit the side of the ship, causing Vạn Lý's whole body to tilt slightly and then regain his balance.

"I get it," Sơn replied, his voice unchanged, although his hand tightened around the edge of the chart table for a moment and then let go.

Chu Tuệ Lam entered the cockpit at that moment, the medical file had been updated with a few more pages. "Decompression chamber ready to go, two monitoring beds, enough oxygen stored for seventy-two hours at a time if needed." She placed the file on the table. "I also checked Thư's physical condition, all indicators met the standards for a support role on the surface of the water, even though she had never experienced an actual saturation dive."

"I don't need to dive, right?" Thư asked, her voice both relieved and somewhat disappointed, standing in the cockpit door frame.

"Not this time," Lam replied directly. "Your role is to control communications, monitor umbilical cord parameters, and provide surface support. It's not a less important role, just a different mission. A successful saturation dive requires at least four people doing their jobs on board, not just two in the water." Thư nodded, remembering that statement as the first principle of the profession she was about to learn in the coming days. She left the cockpit, walked out onto the deck, stood a few steps away from Sơn, quietly watching as he turned out, where the night wind began to carry heavy moisture, different from the dry air when leaving the port. He looked up at the sky, the initially thin clouds had now thickened into a layer of opaque gray, obscuring most of the starlight. Off in the distance to the southeast, a silent streak of lightning flashed and died, unaccompanied by any thunder—too far to hear, but close enough to remind him that the ship was racing against something much faster than it.

She realized that Sơn's eyes at that time were not like the eyes of someone worried about the weather. It was like the eyes of someone trying to read something that happened a long time ago, written in a language that only he understood. She didn't ask. There are questions that need to be saved for another night, when the ship is less rushed.