"What now?" Giordino asked, staring vacantly at the deck.
"What we came here to do," answered Pitt tiredly. "We go on with the salvage operation. Tomorrow we'll begin again to..."
"She's moved!"
No one reacted immediately.
"She moved," the sonar operator repeated. His voice had a quiver to it.
"Are you sure?" Sandecker whispered.
"Stake my life on it."
Spencer was too stunned to speak. He could only stare at the sonarscope with an expression of abject incredulity. Then his lips began working. "The aftershocks!" he said. "The aftershocks caused a delayed reaction."
"Rising," the sonar operator shouted, banging his fist on the arm of his chair. "That gorgeous old bucket of bolts has broken free. She's coming up."
48
At first everybody was too dumbstruck to move. The moment they had prayed for, had spent eight tortuous months struggling for, had sneaked up behind them and somehow they couldn't accept it as actually happening. Then the electrifying news began to sink in and they all began shouting at the same time, like a crowd of mission control space engineers during a rocket liftoff.
"Go baby, go!" Sandecker shouted as joyfully as a schoolboy.
"Move, you mother!" Giordino yelled. "Move, move!"
"Keep coming, you big beautiful rusty old floating palace, you," Spencer murmured.
Suddenly, Pitt rushed across to the radio and clutched Curly's shoulder in a viselike grip.
"Quick, contact Woodson on the Sappho II. Tell him the Titanic is on her way up and to get the hell out of the way before he's run over."
"Still on a surface course," the sonar operator said. "Speed of ascent accelerating."
"We haven't weathered the storm yet," Pitt said. "A hundred and one things can still go wrong before she breaks surface. If only-"
"Yeah," Giordino cut in, "like, if only the Wetsteel maintains its bond, or if only the bleeder valves can keep up with the sudden drop in water pressure, or if the hull doesn't take it in its mind to go snap, crackle, and pop. `If' . . . it's a mighty big word."
"Still coming and coming fast," the sonar operator said, staring at his scope. "Six hundred feet in the last minute."
Pitt swung to Giordino. "Al, find Doc Bailey and the pilot of the helicopter, and get in the air like a mad bull was on your ass. Then, as soon as the Titanic stabilizes herself, drop down on her forecastle deck. I don't care how you do it-rope ladder, winch, and bucket chair-crash-land the copter if you have to, but you and the good doctor drop down fast and pop the Deep Fathom's hatch cover and lift those men out of that hellhole!"
"We're halfway there." Giordino grinned. He was already out the door before Pitt could issue his next order to Spencer.
"Rick, stand by to hoist the portable diesel pumps on board the derelict. The sooner we can get ahead of any leaks, the better."
"We'll need cutting torches to get inside her," Spencer said, his eyes wide with excitement.
"Then see to it."
Pitt turned back to the sonar panel.
"Rate of ascent?"
"Eight hundred and fifty feet a minute," the sonar operator called back.
"Too fast," Pitt said.
"It's what we didn't want," Sandecker muttered through his cigar. "Her interior compartments are overfilled with air and she's soaring to the surface out of control."
"And, if we've miscalculated the amount of ballast water left in her lower holds, she could rocket two-thirds her length out of the water and capsize," Pitt added.
Sandecker looked him in the eye. "And that would spell finish to the Deep Fathom's crew." Then without another word, the admiral turned and led the exodus from the operations room to the deck outside, where everyone began scanning the restless swells in heart-pounding anticipation.
Only Pitt hung back. "What depth is she?" This to the sonar operator.
"Passing the eight-thousand-foot mark."
"Woodson reporting in," Curly intoned. "He says the Big T just went by the Sappho II like a greased pig."
"Acknowledge and tell him to surface. Relay the same message to the Sea Slug and Sappho I. " There was nothing left to do here so he stepped out the door and up the ladder to the port bridge wing, where he joined Gunn and Sandecker.
Gunn picked up the bridge phone. "Sonar, this is the bridge."
"Sonar."
"Can you give me an approximate fix on where she'll appear?"
"She should break water about six hundred yards off the port quarter."
"Time?"
There was a pause.
"Time?" Gunn repeated.
"Is now soon enough for you, Commander?"
At that very moment, a huge wave of bubbles spread across the sea and the fantail of the Titanic burst up into the afternoon sun like a gigantic whale. For a few seconds it seemed as though there was no stopping her soaring flight from the depths-her stern kept crowding into the sky until she came free of the water up to the boiler casing, where her No. 2 funnel had once stood. It was a staggering sight; the inside air bleeding down sent great torrents of spray shooting through the pressure-relief valves, shrouding the great ship in bit, blowing rainbowed clouds of vapor. She hung poised for several moments, clawing at the crystal blue heavens, and then, slowly at first, began to settle until her keel smacked the sea with a tremendous splash that sent a ten-foot wave surging toward the surrounding fleet of ships. She heeled down as if she had no intention of recovering. A thousand onlookers held their breath as she careened ever farther onto her starboard beam ends, thirty, forty, forty-five, fifty degrees, and there she hung for what seemed like a dreadful eternity; everyone was half-expecting her to continue the roll over onto her superstructure. But then, with agonizing sluggishness, the Titanic slowly began the struggle to right herself. Gradually, foot by foot, until her hull reached a starboard list of twelve degrees . . . and there she stayed.
Nobody could speak. They all just stood there, too stunned, too mesmerized by what they had just seen to do anything but breathe. Sandecker's weathered face looked ghostly pale even in the bright sun.
Pitt was the first to find his voice. "She's up," he managed in a barely audible whisper.
"She's up," Gunn acknowledged softly.
Then the spell was broken by the pulsing blades of the Capricorn's helicopter as it headed into the wind and angled over the debris-laden forecastle of the resurrected ship. The pilot held the craft on a level position a few feet above the deck and almost instantly two tiny specks could be seen dropping out of a side door.
Giordino scrambled up the access ladder and found himself staring at the hatch cover of the Deep Fathom. Thank God for small miracles the hull was still sound. Cautiously, he maneuvered his body on top of the rounded, slippery deck and tried the handwheel. The spokes felt like ice, but he gripped firm and gave a heavy twist. The handwheel refused to cooperate.
"Stop dawdling and open the damned thing," Dr. Bailey boomed behind him. "Every second counts."
Giordino took a deep breath and heaved with every ounce the muscles of his oxlike body could give. It moved an inch. He tried again, and this time forced half a turn, and then, finally, it began spinning easily as the air inside the sub hissed out and the pressure against the seal relaxed. When the handwheel halted at the end of its threads, Giordino swung the hatch open and peered into the darkness below. A stale, rancid smell rose up and attacked his nostrils. His heart sank when, after his eyes became accustomed to the darkness inside, he saw the water sloshing only eighteen inches from the upper bulkhead.
Dr. Bailey pushed past and lowered his immense hulk through the hatch and down the interior ladder. The icy water stung his skin. He pushed off the rungs and dogpaddled toward the after part of the submersible until hip, hand touched something soft in the dim light. It was a leg. Following it over the knee, he felt his way toward the torso. His hand came out of the water at shoulder level and he touched a face.
Bailey moved closer until
his nose was a bare inch from the face in the darkness. He tried to feel for a pulse, but his fingers were too numb from the cold water, and he detected nothing that indicated life or death. Then, suddenly, the eyes fluttered open, the lips trembled, and a voice whispered, "Go away . . . I told you . . . I'm not working today."
"Bridge?" Curly's voice scratched through the speaker.
"This is the bridge," answered Gunn.
"Ready to patch in the helicopter."
"Go ahead."
There was a pause and then a strange voice cracked onto the bridge. "Capricorn, this is Lieutenant Sturgis."
"This is Commander Gunn, Lieutenant; I have you loud and clear. Over."
"Dr. Bailey has entered the Deep Fathom. Please stand by."
The brief respite gave everyone a chance to study the Titanic. She looked uncompromisingly utilitarian and downright naked without her towering funnels and masts. The steel plates of her sides were blotched and stained with rust, but the black and white paint of her hull and superstructure still shone through. She looked a mess, like a hideous old prostitute who dwelt in dreams of better days and long-lost beauty. The portholes and windows were covered with the unsightly gray of the Wetsteel, and her once-immaculate teak decks were rotted and cluttered with miles of corroded cable. The empty lifeboat davits seemed to reach out in wraithlike pleading for a return of their long-lost contents. The overall effect of the ocean liner's presence came across the water like an eerie subject in a surrealistic painting. And yet, there was an inexplicable serenity about her that could not be described.
"Capricorn, this is Sturgis. Over."
"Gunn here. Come in."
"Mr. Giordino has just given me three fingers and a thumbs-up sign. Merker, Kiel, and Chavez are still alive."
A strange quiet followed. Then Pitt walked over to the emergency equipment panel and pressed the siren button. The ear-splitting sound whooped across the water.
Then the Modoc's whistle blared in reply, and Pitt saw the normally reserved Sandecker laugh and throw his cap in the air. The Monterey Park joined in, and the Alhambra and finally the Bomberger, until the sea around the Titanic was one huge cacophony of sirens and whistles. Not to be outdone, the Juneau moved up and punctuated the mad din with a thunderous salute from her eight-inch gun mount.
It was a moment that none of those present would ever live again. For the first time in all the years he could remember, Pitt felt the trickle of warm tears on his cheeks.
49
The late-afternoon sun was just touching the tops of the trees as Gene Seagram sat slouched on a bench in East Potomac Park and contemplated the Colt revolver in his lap. Serial number 204,783, he thought, you're about to serve the purpose you were manufactured for. Almost lovingly, he ran his fingers over the barrel, the cylinder, and the grips. Suicide it seemed the ideal solution to end his flight into black depression. He marveled that he hadn't thought of it before. No more uncontrollable crying in the middle of the night. No more sensations of worthlessness or the gnawing inside his guts that his life had been a transparent sham.
His mind envisioned the past few months as reflected in the cracked and distorted mirror of acute despair. The two things he had cherished most were his wife and the Sicilian Project. Now Dana was gone, his marriage a shambles. And the President of the United States had taken what seemed to Seagram to be a needless risk in leaking his precious project to the sworn enemy of democracy.
Sandecker had revealed to him the presence of the two Soviet agents on the Titanic's salvage fleet. And the fact that the CIA had warned the admiral not to interfere with their espionage activities only served to drive, what seemed to Seagram, another nail into the coffin of the Sicilian Project. Already one of NUMA's engineers had been murdered, and just this morning, the daily report from Sandecker's staff to Meta Section told of the trapped submersible and the apparent hopelessness of rescuing its crew. It had to be sabotage. There could be no doubt of it. The mismatched pieces of the puzzle were forced into unfitting slots by Seagram's confused brain. The Sicilian Project was dead, and he now made up his mind to die with it. He was in the act of releasing the gun's safety catch when a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke in a friendly tone.
"It's much too nice a day to rip off your life, don't you think?"
Officer Peter Jones had been walking his beat along the path beside Ohio Drive when he noticed the man on the park bench. At first glance, Jones thought Seagram was simply a wine-sodden derelict soaking up the sun. He considered running him in, but dismissed it as a waste of time; a booked bum would be back on the streets inside twenty-four hours. Jones figured it was hardly worth the effort of filling out the endless reports. But then something about the man didn't fit the stereotyped lost soul. Jones moved casually, inconspicuously around a large leafing elm tree and doubled back slightly to the side of the bench. On closer inspection his suspicions were confirmed. True, the reddened unseeing eyes and the vacant look of the alcoholic were there, as was the listless uncaring droop of the shoulders, but so were small bits and pieces that didn't belong. The shoes were shined, the suit expensive and pressed, the face neatly shaven, and the fingernails trimmed. And then there was the gun.
Seagram slowly looked up into the face of a black police officer. Instead of meeting a determined look of wariness, he found himself gazing into an expression of genuine compassion.
"Aren't you jumping to conclusions?" Seagram said.
"Man, if I ever saw a classic case of suicidal depression, you're it." Jones made a sitting gesture. "May I share your bench?"
"It's city property," Seagram said indifferently.
Jones carefully sat down an arm's length from Seagram and languidly stretched out his legs and leaned against the backrest, keeping his hands in plain sight and away from his holstered service revolver.
"Now me, l'd pick November," he said softly. "April is when the flowers pop and the trees go green, but November, that's when the weather turns nasty, the winds chill you to the bone, and the skies are always cloudy and dreary. Yeah, that's the month I'd pick all right to do away with myself."
Seagram clutched the Colt tighter, eyeing Jones in apprehension, waiting for him to make his move.
"I take it you consider yourself something of an expert on suicide?"
"Not really," Jones said. "In fact, you're the first one I ever got to watch in the act. Most of the time I come on the scene long after the main event. Now take drownings; they're the worst. Bodies all bloated up and black, eyeballs mush in their sockets after the fish have nibbled at them. Then there's the jumpers. I saw a fella one time who had leaped off a thirty-story building. Lit on his feet. His shin bones came out his shoulders . . ."
"I don't need this," Seagram snarled. "I don't need a nigger cop feeding me horror stories."
Anger flickered in Jones's eyes for an instant, and then quickly passed.
"Sticks and stones. . ." he said. He took out a handkerchief and leisurely wiped the sweatband of his cap. "Tell me, Mister ah . . ."
"Seagram. You might as well know. It won't make any difference later."
"Tell me, Mr. Seagram, how do you intend on doing it. A bullet in the temple, the forehead, or in the mouth?"
"What does it matter, the results are the same."
"Not necessarily," Jones said conversationally. "I don't recommend the temple or forehead, at least not with a small-caliber gun. Let's see, what have you got there? Yeah, looks like a thirty-eight. It might do a messy job okay, but I doubt if it would kill you proper. I knew one guy who fired a forty-five into his temple. Scrambled his brains and shoved out his left eye, but he didn't die. Lived for years like a turnip. Can't you picture him lying there, his bowels running all over the sheets, and him begging to be put out of his misery. Yeah, if I was you, I'd stick the barrel in my mouth and blow off the back of the head. That's the safest bet."
"If you don't shut up," Seagram snapped, pointing the Colt at Jones, "I'll kill you too."
"
Kill me?" Jones said. "You haven't got the balls. You're not a killer, Seagram. It's written all over you."
"Every man is capable of committing murder."
"I agree, murder is no big deal. Anybody can do it. But only a psychopath ignores the consequences."
"Now you're beginning to sound like a philosopher."
"Us dumb nigger cops oftentimes like to fool white people with our smarts routine."
"I apologize for my poor choice of words."
Jones shrugged. "You think you got problems, Mr. Seagram? I'd love to have your problems. Look at yourself; you're white, obviously a man of means, you probably have a family and a nice position in life. How'd you like to trade places with me, change the color of your skin, be a black cop with six kids and a ninety-year-old frame house with a thirty-year mortgage on it? Tell me about it, Seagram. Tell me about how tough your world really is."