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Voyage to the
Bottom of the Sea
The Flying Sub

      Patterson cinched up his restraints, and looking puzzled, said, "This is odd.  Langley gave no indication of any rocky weather out here."  His fingers played over the control touch-screen.  He glanced at the monitor on his right. "Barometric pressure's stable.  No.  Wait, it's starting to inch down.  Satellite view shows no defined storm. Just a confused dense mass of clouds centered over Kraken's last reported position. Looks like lightning, too.  This is weird.  This mess didn't exist until just a minute ago."
      Ahead of them, a shaft of lightning suddenly leapt between murky clouds and lit the now seething mass from within.  Seconds later, thunder bashed the Flying Sub.
     Harlow was past all pretense of nonchalance.  Nerves on edge, he spoke louder in order to be heard over the howl of the storm and the roar of the Flying Sub's increasingly noisy engines.  "Are we going to turn back or risk going in there? The Flying Sub's not capable of getting on top of this, is it?"
Unusual (painted?) lightning background with matted-in Flying Sub.
       Patterson cracked a reassuring smile and leaned toward him, raising his voice. "Think about it, Bill.  I know you landlubber security boys don't get to play much with these flying submarines, but, well, it's a submarine too, you know.  Hang on, we're about to get wet."  He looked out at the storm.  "Err . . .wetter," he said, an afterthought.
      Increasingly heavy rain lashed the Flying Sub as Patterson played the controls.  The pitch of racing engines rose and fell as constant computer corrections kept them as stable as ship's systems allowed.  The yellow streak that was FS-1 dropped into a precipitous dive, losing altitude rapidly.  They plummeted through turbulent murk as globs of lighting erupted around them.  Patterson wanted out of the storm as quickly as possible. In a purposely even voice he called out, "We're about fifteen seconds from hitting the deck, Bill. Relax your body if you can.  These restraints are designed to absorb the shock."
     The Flying Sub arrowed downward through what seemed like deafening night.  Harlow protested over the loud whine of the engines, "I think my stomach's on the ceiling!"   

Studio model composited with underwater background.
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        FS-1's computer system automatically adjusted the engines to attain entry speed as they approached the wind-whipped waters.  Following a sudden rush of deceleration, they pierced the ocean's surface at a steep angle.  Harlow let out a long yell like someone just going over the top on a roller coaster.  The scream of the storm was abruptly gone and the whine of the engines dropped to a comfortable level. Seconds after impact, they were leveled off one hundred feet below the surface on a southerly heading at 20 knots.
      Harlow let out a whoop. "Wow!  Now that was a rush!"

Excerpted from  "The Nemesis Syndrome"

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