Chapter 20 — The Cable Splicer Beneath the Sea

Final Connection

The center of storm number nine swept across the sea off Cồn Nga island in the early morning, bringing with it recorded winds exceeding level twelve, the strongest gusts in the storm's entire journey since its formation. Even though it was anchored in the shelter bay, the Vạn Lý ship still shook violently with each gust of wind, causing even the most tightly tied items on the deck to make continuous banging sounds.

In the cockpit, Hòa did not leave his position for many hours, his eyes glued to the mooring parameters and wind speed, ready to adjust the ship's position at any time necessary. Bằng sat next to the cable monitoring station, a small screen continuously displayed the signal status of the newly reinforced cable, his eyes did not leave the attenuation chart even though he checked dozens of times during the night.

"Still stable," he muttered, almost like a mantra, each time the graph appeared as flat as the previous tests.

The paint, having largely completed the decompression process, is now only in the final stage, which is less rigorous but still requires a few more hours before it is allowed to completely leave the saturation chamber. He monitored the situation through the internal communication, clearly heard each of Bằng's reports, and felt the tension in the young engineer's voice even though he tried to keep it professional.

"Does the loss fluctuate, even if it's just a small fluctuation?" Sơn asked through the comm, unable to sit completely still even though his body was forced to stay in the compartment.

"No, it's been completely steady for the past four hours, even when the wind was at its peak," Bằng replied, his voice now a bit more confident. “It seems like the shield and sandbags you put down are doing their job.”

At that moment, another emergency call appeared on the intercom system, this time not from the island medical station, but from Liên Hải's network operations center on the mainland, where engineers were monitoring the entire system overnight.

"We have noticed a sudden increase in traffic on the LH-CN1 route." A male voice rang through the speaker, slightly panicked. "It's not an incident, it's because all the people on the island are trying to contact, send messages, and call relatives at the same time in the middle of a raging storm. The system is under load near its limit."

"Does the cable route have enough bandwidth to handle it?" Trung asked immediately, standing up from his seat in the cockpit.

"Theoretically, it's enough, because this is the original design bandwidth of the line, it's just never been tested under such great practical pressure." The engineer on land replied. "We're monitoring closely, but so far everything is still within load capacity."

Bằng immediately opens another monitoring window on the screen, monitoring in parallel both the physical loss of the connection and the data load running through it. "Both indexes are stable," he confirmed after a few tense minutes of watching. "The junction is withstanding both the mechanical stress from the storm and the data pressure from the surge in communications demand."

Hòa took his eyes off the radar board for a moment and looked at Bằng's screen. "If the load continues to increase, is the system at risk of overload?" He asked, although this was not his expertise, the past few days had taught him enough to ask the right questions.

"There's a limit, but it's far from it." The engineer on the mainland answered through the speaker, his voice less panicked. "We are also temporarily prioritizing bandwidth for emergency services, limiting non-essential entertainment traffic, to ensure emergency calls and medical data flow through."

"Do it right," Trung confirmed that decision immediately, without further consideration. "Absolute priority is given to health and disaster warnings, everything else comes second."

Outside the cockpit window, a gust of wind stronger than the previous ones swept through, causing the entire ship to tilt to one side for a few seconds before the stabilization system regained balance. Hòa gripped the handrail tightly, his eyes never leaving the mooring parameters.

"The peak of the storm is probably right above us," he spoke, his voice remaining calm even though the situation outside was at its most dire.

A few minutes later, the wind intensity began to decrease, slowly but clearly, a sign that the center of the storm was moving away from the position closest to the ship. Bằng still did not take his eyes off the cable monitoring screen, even though the loss curve remained surprisingly flat from the beginning.

In the saturation chamber, Sơn heard the whole process, a feeling of both pride and relief crept into his body, which was still in the process of slow decompression. He imagined the scene on Cồn Nga island right now: thousands of mobile phone lights shining in the darkness of a stormy night, each call, each text message was an invisible wire connecting people who were worried about each other in the middle of the storm, all going through the same cable that he, Bách and Thư had laid down in the most dangerous hours of their lives.

"Does the island medical station have any new reports?" Sơn asked, remembering the preeclampsia case from the night before.

"Have." The letter replied that she had been monitoring that communication channel herself ever since she woke up from her nap. "They just successfully consulted with the provincial doctor for the second time an hour ago, through the same cable line I just repaired. The pregnant woman's condition is much more stable than last night."

A profound relief spread through Sơn's chest, unlike any sense of accomplishment he had ever experienced after a routine technical repair. This is not just an attenuation-compliant fiber splice. This is a link that keeps a tiny, unborn life from having another chance, keeping thousands of families on the island from having to experience the storm in absolute isolation.

Near noon, when the center of the storm had moved past the area, leaving behind a sea that was still rough but much less intense, Bằng announced the news that the whole ship had been waiting for all night.

"The storm has weakened to a tropical depression, moving deep inland." He read from the latest forecast news. "The LH-CN1 cable route remained in stable operation throughout the entire duration of the storm's landfall, with no interruptions recorded."

Chu Tuệ Lam, who had just completed a routine round of checking vital signs for three people in the saturation chamber, stopped to listen to the news through the common loudspeaker, a rare smile appearing on her lips. "I have witnessed many repair cases in this profession," she said, her voice carrying genuine respect. "But this is the first time I've seen a joint tested so severely right after completion."

"Maybe it needs to be tested like that so I can make sure it's strong enough," Bằng replied, his eyes still not leaving the screen even though the intensity of tension had decreased a lot. "A joint that has never been tested is just a joint that has not been proven."

Trung stood next to the cockpit window, looking out at the bay where the waves were now beginning to calm down, daylight gradually filtering through the fading clouds. He took out the satellite phone again and called his mother. This time his voice was no longer trembling like last night, but filled with a joy that was hard to hide.

"Mom, the storm has passed, and the cable line has been working fine all night," he said, hearing a sigh of relief from the other end of the line. "I'll call you back as soon as the ship docks."

Cheers echoed throughout the ship, from the cockpit to the engine compartment, a collective relief after days of continuous tension. In the saturation chamber, Sơn, Bách and Thư heard the news through the intercom. All three were silent for a moment, letting the moment sink into each of them in their own way, before Bách broke the silence with a simple sentence.

"That's it," he said, his voice carrying a lightness that didn't need to be embellished.

"Not quite yet," Sơn replied, although his voice could not hide his joy. "There's a few more hours of decompression before I can actually get out of here. But yes, the hardest part is done."

Thư lay looking up at the cabin ceiling, smiling to herself. "I still vividly remember the feeling when I placed the first sandbag, my hands were shaking so much that I almost dropped them," she said. "Thinking back now, a long journey has come in less than twenty-four hours."

"That's how this profession works," Sơn replied, his voice was warm. "Every dive can change a person, in a way that no textbook can teach. I just experienced the most condensed version of that."

Outside the steel shell of the saturation chamber, the sound of the wind had subsided to a more familiar murmur, like the sea gradually regaining its normal breathing rhythm after a night of fierce roaring.