"Owen! Owen!"
Beth shouted his name as she splashed through the rising water, rushing toward the collapsed mud.
"You can't die, Owen… you can't…"
She clawed at the thick sludge with her bare hands, but it was futile—whatever she cleared away was instantly replaced by more mud flowing in from around it.
The others hurried over, joining in desperately. Dozens of hands began scooping, digging, searching.
"I've got him!"
A prisoner shouted as he grabbed Owen's arm sticking out of the mud. But no matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn't budge—the thick mud had a grip like quicksand, sucking Owen deeper with every second.
"Move! Let me through!"
Attal pushed his way forward, holding a length of flexible tubing he'd scavenged from one of the nearby vehicles. He checked the line—clear. Without hesitation, he traced the buried arm to Owen's head, then shoved the tubing into Owen's mouth.
It was a lifesaving move.
Attal was easily the calmest among them, and this decision likely saved Owen's life. Trapped under the muck, Owen had no way to breathe. If the tube hadn't given him air in time, he might've suffered irreversible brain damage from hypoxia—even if they managed to dig him out.
Owen's mind had remained conscious the whole time. He knew where he was. He had thrashed with all his strength, but the weight pressing down on him was too much—he couldn't move. That thin plastic tube was his only lifeline.
As the first burst of fresh air hit his lungs, he gasped and choked. Seconds later, hands found his shoulders, his arms. He was hoisted free—mud-caked, half-drowned, but alive.
They rinsed him as best they could, dunking him briefly in the water to get the worst of the sludge off. His face was scratched, his clothes soaked, but the relief in the group was palpable.
By some miracle, Owen had survived.
…
Outside the tunnel.
Another internal blast had rocked the already unstable Lincoln Tunnel, injuring several members of the cleanup crew.
John McClane stepped into the mobile command post. He'd only come to observe, but was greeted by a flurry of excitement.
"We've got video! Video feed just came back online!"
Everyone rushed toward the surveillance monitors. McClane joined them, eyes scanning the grainy black-and-white displays.
Most screens showed nothing but wreckage. But one—just one—had people. They were blurry, backlit by reflected water and debris, but McClane instantly recognized a figure.
It was Owen.
"How the hell did the feed come back?"
A rescue worker nearby asked.
"Could've been that last explosion," someone else replied. "Might've knocked the circuits partially back into contact. Feed's unstable, but at least we're seeing something again…"
McClane's eyes stayed fixed on the image. No hesitation—he grabbed a nearby mic and keyed it.
"Owen! Steve Owen, can you hear me?"
"Sir, please step back. This is official equipment—"
A technician tried to intervene, but McClane shoved him away.
"NYPD. That man's a friend."
"Owen, it's John McClane. If you can hear me, hang tight!"
Nothing.
"He can't hear you," said one of the techs. "Video's working—audio's still out."
McClane set the mic down slowly, jaw clenched.
"Then tell me," he said, turning to the nearest rescue official, "what's the situation?"
The man was busy rotating the camera, surveying the tunnel's interior.
"Looks like the river's breached the tunnel wall," he explained. "Water's already up to their knees. Jersey side's caved in too—water's got nowhere to go. It's backing up, flooding the center."
More rescuers entered, carrying a large model of the Lincoln Tunnel. They gathered around it, discussing plans.
"What if we blast in sideways?"
"No. Too unstable. Any detonation could bring the whole thing down—and then it's game over."
"Yeah, but if we don't blow it, hand-digging'll take days. They won't last that long…"
McClane looked at the model. He spotted a small cylindrical structure on the side.
"What's this thing?"
One of the rescue guys answered without even looking up.
"Old service alcove. Breakroom for workers back when they were digging the tunnel. Been sealed off for decades."
McClane's brow furrowed in thought.
…
Inside the tunnel.
The glimmer of hope brought by the earlier explosion had already faded. When Owen confirmed that the leak hadn't been fully sealed, morale plummeted again.
"Everyone spread out," Owen said, clapping his hands for attention. "Search every inch—look for a way out. Any weak point, any opening."
The group dispersed. Beth watched the others spread through the wreckage, but her attention never left Owen. She could tell he wasn't telling them everything.
Sure enough, Attal sidled up beside him.
"There's really no other way out?"
Owen glanced around. Lowered his voice.
"There's one. But it's a last resort."
"What is it?"
He hesitated. But this man had just saved his life.
"If the water rises enough, it'll compress the air in here. If we time it right, we can blast a hole in the roof—use the pressure to push ourselves out."
Attal blinked.
"It might eject us?"
Owen nodded.
"Or blow us to pieces. If there's not enough pressure built up, we'll just drown. That's why it's only an option when all else fails."
Attal nodded grimly. Not much of a plan, but better than nothing.
Just then, Beth's excited voice echoed through the tunnel.
"Look! The camera—it's moving! The camera's moving!"
Everyone turned. Shouts followed.
"Hey—hey! Over here!"
"Help us! We're in here!"
"We're alive—send help!"
Dozens of arms waved at the blinking red light of the camera. Owen splashed toward it, heart pounding.
Outside, in the command post, the rescuers watched those desperate faces through the fuzzy monitor.
Their own hearts broke.
They could see them. But they couldn't help them. Any misstep now could cause a collapse—and then the river would finish what the explosion started.
Onscreen, Owen had picked up the old tunnel phone. He was yelling into it. Their own team leader shouted back through the mic—neither could hear the other.
The team leader hurled the mic onto the table.
He screamed, punching the wall. Powerless to do anything but watch.
"This is worse than losing them," he muttered. "Watching it happen… knowing we can't stop it…"
McClane had had enough.
"Tell me," he barked, grabbing the camera joystick, "where is that old service room?"
"What?"
"The breakroom. You said it's still there. Where?"
"Uh… sector three. Backup station point."
McClane stared at the map. The wheels were already turning.
------------------
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Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 256)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 336)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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