But saving the men’s lives was exactly what Pitt was up to.
“Short of a granny knot, that’s the best we can do,” Giordino said, sweat dripping off his brow.
He was operating the robotic arm, or manipulator, which was again clutching a strand of the diving bell’s lift cable. Leaving Fletcher and the bell in the shadows, Pitt had traced the length of the cable until finding the frayed end near the sunken Alta.
He had Giordino grab the cable end and drag it to the metal shed they had passed in the debris field earlier. The prefabricated welder’s shed had stood on the ship’s deck but was sheared off when the Alta struck bottom. The shed had somehow landed upright. Although heavily dented, it stood fully intact in the soft sand.
With a good deal of finessing, Pitt and Giordino secured the cable around the shed’s hinged door, then looped it around the sides and roof several times.
“Won’t win us a merit badge for knot tying,” Giordino said, “but now our kite’s got a tail.”
“On to the scientific portion of the experiment,” Pitt said.
Giordino let loose of the cable, and Pitt guided the submersible close to the Alta. He settled the submersible on the seafloor and watched as Giordino reached with the manipulator and clutched a brown helium tank by its valve.
Giordino gave Pitt a cautionary gaze. “These babies ain’t light.”
“Mere child’s play.” Pitt raised the submersible just off the bottom and applied power to the reverse thrusters.
The submersible eased backward. The helium cylinder held firm, then slipped across the sand. Pitt worked the controls until he had dragged the tank alongside the welder’s shed, positioning its valve near the open door.
“There’s one,” Pitt said.
“Not a popular move with our batteries.” Giordino looked at their gauges. “We’re down to thirty-five percent remaining power reserves.”
Pitt nodded and maneuvered the submersible toward the next cylinder. They had repeated the process six more times, lining up all seven tanks beside the shed, when Giordino announced they could do no more.
“Power reserves approaching single digits, boss. It’s time we think of heading for daylight.”
“Okay, maestro. First open up the tanks, and let’s see if this bird will fly.”
Pitt hovered the submersible over the cylinders so Giordino could reach down with his manipulator and open the valves. A cascade of bubbles rushed past the viewport as he opened the first valve. When Giordino had opened the last cylinder, Pitt moved back a few feet and Giordino nudged the tanks forward, allowing the spewing gas to rise into the confines of the welder’s shed.
It was a crazy gamble but their only chance of saving the divers. Pitt hoped to raise the cable enough to lift the diving bell off the wellhead structure. To do so, the welding shed would act as a lift bag and pull the cable to the surface.
Pitt maneuvered the submersible until it hovered just above the shed.
“You sure you want to park it here?” Giordino asked.
“We might need to hold it steady, as well as give it a boost. See if you can grab hold of it.”
Giordino reached out the manipulator arm and latched onto a knuckle in the shed’s peaked roof. Pitt purged the ballast tanks. A wall of rising bubbles obscured their view and any sensation of movement, so Pitt eyed a depth gauge. The digital readout held steady, then began decreasing a foot at a time.
He grinned. “We’re moving.”
Peering into the distance from the diving bell, Fletcher saw the submersible ascend. For a second, he thought its lights illuminated a small house beneath it. He rubbed his eyes and watched the lights of the submersible disappear, his hopes of escape vanishing with it.
Little did Fletcher know he was attached to the rising structure.
Using the weight of the submersible to balance the roof, Pitt managed to keep the shed level as it filled with gas and attained buoyancy. More importantly, the shed continued to rise while trailing the steel lift cable beneath it. As the structure ascended, the sea pressure would diminish, causing the gas inside the shed to expand. With luck, the expanding gas would provide the needed lift to offset the growing weight of the cable.
“Five hundred feet,” Giordino said. “We’re riding a regular freight elevator.”
“Feels more like a mechanical bull.” Pitt jockeyed the submersible to one side. He had to constantly work the thrusters to keep the shed’s roof level. If the shed tipped, the gas would escape and the whole works would plummet to the seabed.
The odd assemblage continued to rise in a curtain of bubbles. Ascending higher, the expanding helium ultimately displaced all the water in the shed. Its sides began to bulge as the expanding gas sought its escape, streaming out of every crevice, as well as the open door. The shed’s ascent accelerated, pushing the submersible with it.
The Sargasso Sea had been alerted to stand clear but at the ready. Pacing her stern deck, Kevin Knight stared at the water. A disruption caught his attention and he watched as a circular froth erupted. A few seconds later, the bright yellow NUMA submarine broke the surface, rising completely out of the water. Knight saw that it was sitting on some sort of structure that resembled a tiny house. As it settled slightly and the submersible moved clear, Knight recognized it as the welder’s shed from the Alta.
At Pitt’s direction, the Sargasso Sea moved in quickly and snared the looped cable with a crane and hook. The structure was hoisted onto the stern deck as a waiting throng of crewmen secured the cable with clamps and braces. The loose end was unwound from the shed and fed onto a drum winch that had been cleared of its own cable.
As the winch began reeling in the cable, the ship’s lift crane deposited the welder’s shed over the side and retrieved the submersible.
Pitt and Giordino had barely climbed out of the hatch when Knight jumped in front of them.
“Are they still alive?”
“For the moment,” Pitt said. “The bell lost several of its emergency gas cylinders, so they don’t have much time to spare.”
The crew waited anxiously as the winch spooled up the cable. No one knew what they would find at the other end. Finally, there was a commotion near the stern rail and Pitt saw the top of the diving bell break the surface.
“Snag it with the lift crane and prepare to transfer it to the decompression chamber,” Pitt said. “We’ll need some welders to cut away the lower frame to access the hatch.”
The bell was hoisted aboard and the crewmen swarmed to work. A technician ran up to Pitt as welders’ sparks began spraying across the deck.
“I’ve spliced the bell’s communications cable with our comm system,” the technician said. “One of the divers inside wants to talk to you. His name is Warren.”
Pitt followed the technician to a console set up near the bell. He picked up a handset as a man inside the bell waved through the viewport.
“Hi, Warren. My name’s Pitt. How are you making out in there?”
“A lot better now that I can see some sunshine,” Fletcher said. “For a while, I thought we were going to be a permanent part of the wellhead. That was a crazy way to lift us, but I’m sure glad you tried.”
“Apologies for the rough ride. How are your partners?”
“Tank’s good, but Brown has a broken leg. He’s been in and out of consciousness.”
“We’ve got a doctor waiting in our decompression chamber, just as soon as we can get you into it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Pitt, we appreciate everything. Tell me, though, what happened to the Alta?”
“She sank in a sudden explosion. No casualties, thankfully, but nobody seems to know what happened. We’ll talk again once we get you transferred to the chamber.”
Fletcher nodded. “Call me crazy, Mr. Pitt, but I saw an unknown submersible shortly before the cable snapped. I think somebody may h
ave deliberately sunk the Alta.”
Pitt looked into the diver’s hardened eyes and realized it was the least crazy thing he had heard all day.
10
A bright azure sky belied the sorrow that hung over Havana. The source of the melancholy was a funeral procession that crept through the crumbling streets of Cuba’s capital, where the calendar seemed fixed at the year 1959. The pockmarked streets, which over the centuries had been trod by Spanish conquistadors, British redcoats, American doughboys, and Russian generals, were lined ten deep by ordinary Cuban citizens. Seemingly every resident of the island had come to bid a final farewell to El Caballo.
Fidel Castro Ruz, the fiery father of the Cuban revolution, had finally lost his battle with mortality. It had been nearly sixty years since a young Castro had broken exile and landed on Cuba’s southwest tip in a borrowed sailboat with a ragtag army of eighty-one guerrilla fighters. In a coup that was nothing short of miraculous, he’d fueled rural grassroots support and overthrown the Batista government, marching triumphantly into Havana less than three years later.
Castro’s love affair with Marxism had failed to transform Cuba into the utopia he had envisioned, however, and his half-century reign, ending in 2008 when he’d passed power to his brother Raúl, had been marked more by political repression and economic suffocation than freedom and prosperity. Yet he remained a revered figure to Cubans, most of whom knew no other leader.
The horse-drawn funeral caisson, escorted by an honor guard in crisp white tunics, inched into the Plaza de la Revolución and eased past a large viewing stand. Cuba’s government and military elite took center stage, surrounded by an array of international dignitaries. The best seats were reserved for representatives from Venezuela, China, and Nicaragua, along with a handful of Hollywood actors. Raúl Castro stood at attention and saluted his brother as the procession marched past the towering José Martí Memorial.
Raúl and his vice president, a fellow octogenarian who walked with a cane, returned to the Interior Ministry Building for a small reception. The Cuban ruling elite, consisting of the Council of State and the Council of Ministers, along with key members of the National Assembly, the Communist Party, and the Revolutionary Armed Forces, assembled in an impromptu line and paid formal respects to President Castro.
A sharp-dressed man with silver hair completed his condolences, then crossed the room, inadvertently brushing into a general engaged with an aide.
“Excuse me, General,” he said, stopping to face the man he bumped.
General Alberto Gutier’s hawkish face crinkled as he regarded the man through steady teak eyes. “Minister Ruiz.”
“It is a sad day for all of Cuba,” Ruiz said. “El Caballo was the heart and soul of the revolution.”
Gutier smirked at the mention of Fidel’s popular nickname, the Horse. “One man can start a revolution, but it takes many to sustain it.”
“True, but there can be no advancement of the cause without dynamic leadership.” Ruiz gazed at Raúl’s aged vice president, who had been helped to a chair near Castro and was inhaling oxygen from a portable tank.
Turning back to Gutier, he spoke in a low tone. “It won’t be long before a new order will rule Cuba. Vigorous, worldly, and progressive.”
“You couldn’t mean yourself?”
“Why, what an excellent suggestion,” Ruiz said. “I’m glad I can count on your support and shall look forward to your continued contributions to the Council during my presidency.”
The two were bitter rivals. Both served in Castro’s cabinet, Gutier as Minister of the Interior and Ruiz as Foreign Minister. And both curried the president’s favor, knowing the power to rule the country next was within reach. To Gutier’s chagrin, Ruiz was widely considered the favorite to replace the ailing vice president and stand ready as Castro’s successor.
Gutier gave Ruiz a frigid stare. “There’s a better likelihood that you will be polishing my boots first.”
“Come, now. You really don’t expect to ascend the ranks, do you?” He leaned forward and whispered in the general’s ear. “There’s a rumor that Minister Ortiz’s death was no accident and that the Army was somehow involved. Bad press for you, my dear friend.”
It was Gutier’s turn to smile. “Perhaps it is true,” he whispered back. “In which case, I hope that you drive carefully.”
The normally glib Ruiz turned his back on the general and meandered toward a group of friendly associates.
Gutier dismissed his aide and looked about the room, trying to hide his contempt. Most of the Cuban leadership consisted of old cronies of El Caballo who clung to power with one foot in the grave. Ruiz was right about a new generation waiting in the wings, but what he saw of that crowd repulsed him. They were all like Ruiz, products of a privileged upbringing who spouted revolutionary adages while quietly living like celebrities at the expense of the state.
Not that Gutier didn’t enjoy his own trappings of power. He was just used to a more austere lifestyle. With a younger brother, he’d been raised in a Santiago shack by a destitute mother after his father had been killed defending Cuba in the Bay of Pigs invasion. When his widowed mother had married an Army officer, his economic status improved, if not his happiness.
His stepfather was an alcoholic who regularly beat the boys and their mother. Perhaps out of guilt, Gutier’s new father introduced his adopted sons to Army life and maneuvered them into officer training school. After years of abuse, the brothers returned the favor when they came of age by strangling the man and tossing his body into the Cauto River. Escaping without suspicion, Gutier and his brother had their first taste of murder with impunity. It wouldn’t be their last.
Through cunning and aptitude, the elder Gutier rose quickly through the ranks, establishing a reputation for ruthlessness. He caught the eye of Raúl when the younger Castro commanded the Revolutionary Armed Forces. Promoted to Raúl’s staff, he served as an effective, if not always popular, problem solver.
With Raúl’s ascension, Gutier was appointed Interior Minister, but only after a more seasoned general suffered a debilitating paralysis after ingesting an unknown toxin.
Gutier bid farewell to a group of assemblymen and departed the reception. Hopping into a Russian-made military truck, he was driven across Havana to a small airfield at Playa Baracoa. He transferred to a helicopter that took him east along the coastline, passing the entrance to Havana Harbor and the heights of Morro Castle. Thirty miles down the coast, the helicopter landed in a field next to a small marina. Gutier was then taken in a launch into the indigo waters of the Straits of Florida.
The launch approached a luxury yacht moored in the bay. An Oceanco-built boat that measured over two hundred feet, its sleek opulence towered over the small launch. Gutier read the vessel’s name, Gold Digger, in yellow lettering on the stern, as they approached a lowered stepladder. A crew member escorted the general into an air-conditioned salon.
Mark Ramsey was mixing cocktails behind a mahogany bar. “General, good of you to come. I wasn’t sure you would be able to keep our appointment on such a somber day.” He turned off a television monitor that was displaying Fidel Castro’s body lying in state.
“My official duties were fulfilled earlier,” Gutier said. “It may be a somber day for Cuba’s history but I think a bright one for its future.”
Ramsey handed him a daiquiri. “To the prosperity of Cuba.”
“To Cuba.”
Ramsey led him to a dining table scattered with documents, where each took a seat.
“It’s been a difficult week,” Ramsey said. “I lost a drill ship under lease from the Norwegians and you lost a national icon. All this on top of the terrible accident with Minister Ortiz.”
“No man lives forever. Fidel’s imprint on Cuba shall remain long-lasting.”
“His absence leaves an inspirational void for your country. Perhaps one that a man
like yourself could fulfill.”
Gutier displayed a poker face. “Man cannot predict his destiny. Tell me about your ship incident and the state of your oil-drilling prospects.”
“The Alta was a modern drill ship that specialized in deepwater operations. She was laying the foundation for an exploratory well in quadrant R-29 of our leasehold.” He slid a chart in front of Gutier and pointed to a section northeast of Havana. “This is one of two areas for which we had acquired oil exploration rights, as signed by Minister Ortiz before his passing. I hope there will be no problem in continuing to honor the agreement.”
“Minister Ortiz represented the Cuban government. The agreement will be honored. Now, what of this sunken ship?”
“An unknown explosion sent her to the bottom in less than ten minutes. The crew got away safely, but three divers were trapped on the seafloor. If not for a passing American research ship, they would have died. As it is, there was no loss of life.”
“That is fortunate. The vessel was insured by the owner?”
“In this instance, the operator was responsible for insuring the ship while it was on the job.” Ramsey’s lips tightened at the thought of the deductible that would come out of his pocket.
“When do you plan to return to the site?” Gutier asked.
“Our second leased rig is working on our other site off the western coast. We view that region as lower potential, so we’ll transfer operations in a week or two and complete the test well that the Alta started.”
Gutier looked Ramsey hard in the eye. “I would ask that you refrain from any further work in area R-29 for at least three weeks.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It is my desire,” Gutier said gruffly.
Ramsey slid the chart in front of him. “General, I know it took considerable effort within your government to allow our consortium to come into your territorial waters. I appreciate what you’ve done for us. But we were given authorization to explore only two small offshore quadrants, neither of which our geophysicists rated highly promising. For us to have success and allow you to develop an export oil market, we need access to additional seafloor.”