The Quietest Thing in the Ocean - A Flash Vignette
In a classified region, at a classified depth, they sat waiting.
In a classified region, at a classified depth, they sat waiting.
“How much longer do you think?”
“Intel says they’ll be through soon.”
“What if they aren’t?”
“Then they aren’t. Intel’s wrong all the time.”
The submarine breathed around them.
Pipes clicked. Fans hummed. Condensation dripped in the dark. Metal groaned under a pressure older than life itself.
“Bad intel. What if we miss them entirely?”
“Then I guess we get reprimanded.”
“You make that sound so sexy. Maybe Officer Ryan can reprimand me.”
A small chuckle.
“Is there underwater HR? You scare me.”
To either side sat rows of torpedoes—sleek metal promises. Dim red light bathed the weapons and cranks, gauges, valves, seals. It was cramped. It was Warm.
It was home.
But sun had become a memory. Something abstract and faded. A thing they knew existed but could no longer remember feeling on their skin.
The PA crackled above.
“Maintaining position. Radar and sonar quiet. Stand by. Convoy expected within five minutes.”
and silence returned.
“I don’t think they’ll show.”
“Maybe not. I’m getting paid either way.”
“Yeah. Just not much.”
A snort echoed in the dark, then faded back into anticipation.
“Do you ever think about the target?”
“It’s my job to think about the target.”
“No. I mean their faces.”
A pause.
“I think about the crunch of their ship.”
—
“There are many faces to a ship.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else?”
The PA snapped alive.
“Arm and ready! Contact approaching at ten—”
The two torpedo men snapped to attention before a second voice cut in.
“Wait. Whale. Stand by.”
Dead static.
The anxiety it left behind hung like humid air, and the two unclenched their jaws.
“Jesus. False alarm.”
“Yeah. We’re okay. They can’t hear us anyway. We’re safe.”
“So they tell us.”
“Meaning?”
“Intel says we’re the quietest —Could that be bad intel too?”
“If it is then death will come quick, I suppose.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Can we stop? This introspective shit is scaring me.”
“Sorry. Sorry. My heart’s going.”
“I can hear it. Relax. It’s probably bad intel anyway. We’re getting worked up for nothing.”
So his breathing joined the machinery.
Drip.
Exhale.
Groan.
Exhale.
Fan whirr.
Exhale.
Then—
nothing.
No pipes. No hum. No exhales.
Just—
CRUNCH.
Then the rush. Violent.
Immediate.
Water arriving and taking its rightful place.
Bad intel is bad intel.
-MAKINGMRK
