It was too late now, too late for arguments, no time for drawnout goodbyes. Pitt grabbed Giordino by the arm and half pushed, half heaved the tough little Italian through the hatch of the first submersible.
"You should be just in time to greet the admiral," he said. "Give him my best."
Giordino didn't hear him. Pitt's voice was drowned out by falling rock that smashed against the dome and reverberated all around them. Then Pitt slammed the hatch shut and was gone.
The six big men stuffed inside seemed to fill every square centimeter of the interior. They said nothing, avoiding each other's stares. Then, as if all eyes were following a thrown football in the last seconds of a game, they watched expectantly as Giordino weaved like an eel through their packed bodies into the pilot's seat.
He swiftly switched on the electric motors that ran the submersible over rails into the air lock. He rushed through the checklist and had just programmed the computer when the massive interior door closed and water began surging through special restriction valves from the ice-cold sea outside. The instant the lock was filled and equalized with the immense water pressure, the computer automatically opened the exterior door. Then Giordino took over manual control, engaged the thrusters to maximum power, and drove the sub toward the waves far above.
While Giordino and his passengers were in the lock, Pitt quickly turned his attention to the boarding of the second submersible. He ordered the NUMA team women to enter first. Then he silently nodded for Stacy to follow.
She hesitated at the hatch opening, shot him a strained, questioning look. She was standing quite still as though stunned by what was happening around her.
"Are you going to die because I took your place?" she asked softly.
Pitt flashed a madcap smile. "Keep a date open for rum collins at sunset on the lanai of the Halekalani Hotel in Honolulu."
She tried to form the words for a reply, but before they came out the next man in line pushed her none too gently into the sub.
Pitt stepped over to Dave Lowden, chief vehicle engineer on the project. About as perturbed as a clam, Lowden pulled up the zipper on his leather bomber jacket with one hand while pushing his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose with the other.
"You want me to act as co-pilot?" Lowden asked in a low voice.
"No, you take her up alone," said Pitt. "I'll wait for Giordino to come back."
Lowden could not control the saddened expression that crossed his face. "Better I should stay than you."
"You have a pretty wife and three kids. I'm single. Get your ass in that sub, and be quick about it." Pitt turned his back on Lowden and walked over to where Plunkett and Salazar were standing.
Plunkett also showed no shred of fear. The big ocean engineer looked as content as a sheepherder casually eyeing his flock during a spring shower.
"Do you have a family, Doc?" Pitt asked.
Plunkett gave a slight shake of his head. "Me? Not bloody likely. I'm an old confirmed bachelor."
"I thought as much."
Salazar was nervously rubbing his hands together, a frightened light in his eyes. He was achingly aware of his helplessness and a certainty that he was about to die.
"I believe you said you had a wife?" Pitt asked, directing his question to Salazar.
"And a son," he muttered. "They're in Veracruz."
"There's room for one more. Hurry and jump in."
"I'll make eight," Salazar said dumbly. "I thought your submersibles only held seven."
"I put the biggest men in the first sub and crammed the smallest and three ladies in the second. There should be enough space left over to squeeze in a little guy like you."
Without a thank-you, Salazar scrambled into the submersible as Pitt swung the hatch cover closed against his heels. Then Lowden dogged it tight from the inside.
As the submersible rolled into the air lock and the door closed with a sickening finality, Plunkett slapped Pitt's back with a great bear paw of a hand.
"You're a brave one, Mr. Pitt. No man could have played God better."
"Sorry I couldn't find an extra seat for you."
"No matter. I consider it an honor to die in good company."
Pitt stared at Plunkett, mild surprise in his eyes. "Who said anything about dying?"
"Come now, man. I know the sea. It doesn't take a seismographic genius to know your project is about to collapse around our ears."
"Doc," Pitt said conversationally through a heavy tremor, "trust me."
Plunkett gave Pitt a very skeptical look. "You know something I don't?"
"Let's just say, we're catching the last freight out of Soggy Acres."
Twelve minutes later, the shock waves came in an endless procession. Tons of rock cascaded down from the canyon walls, striking the rounded structures with shattering force.
Finally the battered walls of the undersea habitat imploded and billions of liters of icy black water boiled down and swept away man's creation as completely as though it had never been built.
>
The first submersible burst through a trough between the swells, leaping like a whale before belly-flopping into the bluegreen sea. The waters had calmed considerably, the sky was crystal clear, and the waves were rolling at less than one meter.
Giordino quickly reached up to the hatch cover, gripped the quadrant of the handwheel, and twisted.
After two turns it began to spin more easily until it hit the stops and he could push the cover open. A thin stream of water spilled inside the sub, and the cramped passengers thankfully inhaled the pure, clean air.
For some it was their first trip to the surface in months.
Giordino climbed through the hatch and into the small ovalshaped tower that protected the opening from the waves. He'd expected to find an empty ocean, but as he scanned the horizons his mouth gaped in horror and astonishment.
Less than fifty meters away a junk, the classic Foochow Chinese sailing ship, was bearing down on the floating submersible. Square projecting deck over the bow and high oval-like stern, it carried three masts with square matting sails stretched by bamboo strips and a modern type jib. The painted eyeballs on the bows seemed to rise up and peer down at Giordino.
For a brief instant, Giordino could not believe the incredulity of the encounter. Of all the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, he'd surfaced at precisely the right spot to be rammed by a ship. He leaned over the sub's tower and shouted inside.
"Everybody out! Hurry!"
Two of the junk's crew spotted the turquoise submersible as it rose on a swell, and they began yelling at their helmsman to steer hard to starboard. But the gap was almost closed. Pushed by a brisk breeze, the gleaming teak hull bore down on the people spilling out of the sub and leaping into the water.
Nearer it came, the spray flying from the bows, the massive rudder swinging hard against the current.
The crew of the junk stood rooted at the railing, staring in amazement at the unexpected appearance of the submersible in their path, fearful of an impact that could shatter the junk's bow and send it to the bottom.
The surprise, the reaction time of the spotters before they shouted a warning, the delay of the helmsman before he understood and twisted a modern wheel that replaced the traditional tiller, all worked toward an inevitable collision. Too late the ungainly vessel went into an agonizingly slow turn.
The shadow of the great projecting bow fell over Giordino as he grasped the outstretched hand from the last man inside. He was in the act of heaving him out when the junk's bow raised on a swell and came down on the stern of the submersible. There was no loud tearing noise of a crash, there was hardly a noise at all, except a soft splash followed by gurgling as the sub rolled to port and the water poured in through the open hatch.
Then came shouting on the decks of the junk as the crew pulled on the sails, dropping them like venetian blinds. The ship's engine coughed to life and was thrown into full astern as life rings were thrown over the side.
/> Giordino was pitched away from the junk as it slipped past only an arm's length away, yanking the last passenger through the hatch, grating the skin from his knees, and falling backward, forced underwater by the body weight of the man he saved. He had the foresight to keep his mouth closed but took saltwater up his nose. He snorted clear and gazed around. Thankfully, he counted six heads bobbing on the swells, some floating easily, some swimming for the life rings.
But the submersible had quickly filled and lost its buoyancy. Giordino watched in rage and frustration as the deepsea craft slid under a swell stern-first and headed for the bottom.
He looked up at the passing junk and read the name on her ornately painted stern. She was called Shanghai Shelly. He swore a storm at the incredible display of dirty luck. How was it possible, he cursed, to be rammed by the only ship within hundreds of kilometers? He felt guilty and devastated for failing his friend Pitt.
He only knew that he must commandeer the second sub, dive to the bottom, and rescue Pitt no matter how vain the attempt. They had been closer than brothers, he owed too much to the maverick adventurer to let him go without a fight. He could never forget the many times Pitt had come through for him, times when he thought all hope had vanished. But first things first.
He looked about. "If you're injured, raise a hand," he called out.
Only one hand went up-- from a young geologist. "I think I have a sprained ankle."
"If that's all you've got," grunted Giordino, "consider yourself blessed."
The junk came about and slowed, coming to a stop ten meters to the windward of the sub's survivors.
An older man with snow-white hair in a windblown mass and a long curling white mustache bent over the railing. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Is anyone hurt? Shall we lower a boat?"
"Drop your gangway," Giordino directed. "We'll climb aboard." Then he added, "Keep a sharp watch.
We've another sub about to surface."
"I hear you."
Within five minutes of the exchange, all of the NUMA crew were standing on the deck of the junk, all except the geologist with the bad ankle who was being lifted by a net over the side. The man who had hailed them walked up and spread out his hands apologetically.
"God, I'm sorry you lost your vessel. We didn't see you until it was too late."
"Not your fault," said Giordino, stepping forward. "We came up almost under your keel. Your lookouts were more alert than we had any right to expect."
"Was anyone lost?"
"No, we're all accounted for."
"Thank God for that. This has been one crazy day. We picked another man out of the water not twenty kilometers to the west. He's in a bad way. Says his name is Jimmy Knox. He one of your men?"
"No," Giordino said. "The rest of my people are following in another submersible."
"I've ordered my crew to keep their eyes peeled."
"You're most courteous," Giordino said mechanically, his mind taking one step at a time.
The stranger who seemed to be in command glanced around the open sea, a puzzled look on his face.
"Where are you all coming from?"
"Explanations later. Can I borrow your radio?"
"Of course. By the way, my name is Owen Murphy."
"Al Giordino."
"Right through there, Mr. Giordino," said Murphy, wisely putting his curiosity on hold. He motioned toward a doorway in the large cabin on the quarterdeck. "While you're occupied, I'll see your men get into some dry clothes."
"Much obliged," Giordino threw over his shoulder as he hurried aft.
More than once, after the narrow escape from the submersible, the picture of Pitt and Plunkett standing helpless as millions of tons of water thundered down on them flashed through Giordino's mind.
He was coldly aware that he was probably already too late, the chances of their being alive were somewhere between zero and nonexistent. But the thought of abandoning them, giving them up for dead, was never remotely considered. If anything, he was more determined than ever to return to the seabed, regardless of the nightmare he might find.
The NUMA submersible piloted by Dave Lowden surfaced half a kilometer off the junk's beam.
Thanks to the skilled ship handling of Murphy's helmsman, Shanghai Shelly came to a smart stop less than two meters from the sub's hatch tower. This time, all the submersible's crew, except Lowden, stepped aboard dry.
Giordino rushed back on deck after alerting Admiral Sandecker of the situation and advising the pilot of the flying boat to land alongside the junk. He stared straight down at Lowden, who was standing half in and half out of the sub.
"Stand by," hailed Giordino. "I want to take her back down."
Lowden waved negatively. "No can do. We developed a leak in the battery casing. Four of them shorted. Not nearly enough power left for another dive."
Lowden's voice trailed away in icy silence. In the blank numbness of total failure, Giordino struck his fist against the railing. The NUMA scientists and engineers, Stacy and Salazar, even the crew of the junk, stared mutely into the beaten expression that lined his face.
"Not fair," he muttered in a sudden seething anger. "Not fair."
He stood there a long time, staring down into the unsympathetic sea as if penetrating its depths. He was still standing there when Admiral Sandecker's aircraft appeared from the clouded sky and circled the drifting junk.
Stacy and Salazar were shown to the cabin where Jimmy Knox lay barely conscious. A man with balding gray hair and a warm twinkle in his eyes rose from a chair by the bed and nodded.
"Hello, I'm Harry Deerfield."
"Is it all right to come in?" Stacy asked.
"Do you know Mr. Knox?"
"We're friends from the same British survey ship," answered Salazar. "How is he?"
"Resting comfortably," said Deerfield, but the expression in his face suggested anything but a fast recovery.
"Are you a doctor?"
"Pediatrics actually. I took a six-week hiatus to help Owen Murphy sail his boat from the builder to San Diego." He turned to Knox. "You up to some visitors, Jimmy?"
Knox, pale and still, lifted the fingers of one hand in the affirmative. His face was swollen and blistered, but his eyes looked strong, and they brightened noticeably when he recognized Stacy and Salazar. "Bless the Lord you made it safely," he rasped. "I never thought I'd see the two of you again. Where's that mad Plunkett?"
"He'll be along soon," said Stacy, giving Salazar a keep-quiet look. "What happened, Jimmy? What happened to the Invincible?"
Knox weakly shook his head. "I don't know. I think there was some kind of explosion. One minute I was talking to you over the underwater phone, the next the whole ship was ripped apart and burning. I remember trying to raise you, but there was no response. And then I was climbing over debris and dead bodies as the ship sank under me."
"Gone?" Salazar muttered, refusing to accept what he heard. "The ship sunk and our crew gone?"
Knox gave an imperceptible nod. "I watched her go to the bottom. I shouted and kept a constant lookout for the others who might have survived. The sea was empty. I don't know how long I floated or how far before Mr. Murphy and his crew spotted me and picked me up. They searched the immediate area but found nothing. They said I must be the only survivor."
"But what of the two ships that were nearby when we began our dive?" asked Stacy.
"I saw no sign of them. They had vanished too.
Knox's voice died to a whisper, and it was obvious he was losing a battle to keep from slipping into unconsciousness. The will was there but the body was exhausted. His eyes closed and his head rolled slightly to one side.
Dr. Deerfield motioned Stacy and Salazar toward the door. "You can talk again later, after he's rested."
"He will recover?" asked Stacy softly.
"I can't say," Deerfield hedged in good medical tradition.
"What exactly is wrong with him?"
"Two or more cracked ribs as fa
r as I can tell without an X ray. Swollen ankle, either a sprain or a fracture. Contusions, first-degree burns. Those are injuries I can cope with. The rest of his symptoms are not what I'd expect from a man who survived a shipwreck."
"What are you talking about?" Salazar asked.
"Fever, arterial hypotension, a fancy name for low blood pressure, severe erythema, stomach cramps, strange blistering."
"And the cause?"
"Not exactly my field," Deerfield said heavily. "I've only read a couple of articles in medical journals.
But I believe I'm safe in saying Jimmy's most serious condition was caused by exposure to a supralethal dose of radiation."
Stacy was silent a moment, then, "Nuclear radiation?"
Deerfield nodded. "I wish I was wrong, but the facts bear me out."
"Surely you can do something to save him?"
Deerfield gestured around the cabin. "Look around you," he said sourly. "Does this look like a hospital? I came on this cruise as a deckhand. My medical kit contains only pills and bandages for emergency treatment. He can't be airlifted by helicopter until we're closer to land. And even then I doubt whether he can be saved with the therapeutic treatments currently available."
"Hang them!" Knox cried, startling everyone. His eyes blinked open suddenly, gazing through the people in the cabin at some unknown image beyond the bulkhead. "Hang the murdering bastards!"
They stared at him in astonishment. Salazar stood shaken. Stacy and Deerfield rushed toward the bed to calm Knox as he feebly tried to lift himself to an upright position.
"Hang the bastards!" Knox repeated with a vengeance. It was as though he was uttering a curse.
"They'll murder again. Hang them!"
But before Deerfield could inject him with a sedative, Knox stiffened, his eyes glistened for an instant, and then a misty film coated them and he fell back, gave a great heaving sigh, and went limp.
Deerfield swiftly applied cardiopulmonary resuscitation, fearful that Knox was too devastated by acute radiation sickness to bring back. He continued until he was panting from fatigue and sweating streams in the humid atmosphere. Finally he acknowledged sadly that he had done everything within his limited power. No man or miracle could bring Jimmy Knox back.