"You could never understand."
"What's there to understand? Nothing under the sun is worth killing yourself over. Oh sure, your wife will shed a few tears at first; but then she'll give your clothes to the Salvation Army, and six months from now she'll be in bed with another man while you'll be nothing but a picture in a scrapbook. Look around you. It's a beautiful spring day. Hell, think what you'll be missing. Didn't you watch the President on TV?"
"The President?"
"He came on at four o'clock and talked about all the great things that were happening. Manned flights to Mars are only three years away; there's been a breakthrough on the control of cancer; and he showed pictures of some old sunken ship the government salvaged from almost three miles below the ocean."
Seagram stared at Jones with unbelieving eyes. "What was that you said? A ship salvaged? What ship?"
"I don't remember."
"The Titanic?" Seagram asked in a whisper. "Was it the Titanic?"
"Yeah, that was the name. It rammed an iceberg and sank a long time ago. Come to think of it, I remember seeing a movie about the Titanic on television. Barbara Stanwyck and Clifton Webb were in--" Jones broke off at the look of incredulity, then shock, then twisted confusion that showed in Seagram's face.
Seagram handed his gun to the uncomprehending Jones and leaned back against the bench. Thirty days. Thirty days would be all he'd need once he had the byzanium to test the Sicilian Project's system and then see it through to operational status. It had been a narrow thing. If a wandering cop hadn't intruded when he did, thirty seconds would have been all Seagram had left to see anything ever again, forever.
50
"I assume you have weighed the staggering consequences of your accusations?"
Marganin looked at the soft-spoken little man with the cold blue eyes. Admiral Boris Sloyuk seemed more the baker around the corner than the shrewd head of the Soviet Union's second-largest intelligence-gathering network.
"I fully realize, Comrade Admiral, that I am jeopardizing my naval career and risking a prison sentence, but I place duty to the State above my personal ambitions."
"Very noble of you, Lieutenant," Sloyuk said without expression. "The charges you have brought are extremely damaging, to say the least; however you have not produced concrete evidence that indicates Captain Prevlov is a traitor to our country, and without it, I cannot condemn a man on his subordinate's word alone."
Marganin nodded. But he had planned his confrontation with the admiral carefully. Bypassing Prevlov and the normal chain of command to approach Sloyuk had been a risky business indeed, but the trap had been exactingly set and timing was critical. Calmly, he reached into his pocket and produced an envelope which he passed across the desk to Sloyuk.
"Here are transaction records of account number AZF seven-six-oh-nine at the Banque de Lausanne in Switzerland. You will note, sir, that it receives large deposits on a regular basis from one V. Volper, a clumsy anagram derived from the name Prevlov."
Sloyuk studied the bank records and then shot Marganin a very skeptical look. "You must forgive my suspicious nature, Lieutenant Marganin, but this has all the earmarks of trumped-up material."
Marganin passed across another envelope. "This one contains a secret communication from the American ambassador here in Moscow to the Defense Department in Washington. In it he states that Captain Andre Prevlov has been a vital source of Soviet naval secrets. The ambassador has also included the plans for our fleet deployment in the event of a first nuclear strike against the United States." Marganin felt satisfaction surge through him as the admiral's normally impassive face wrinkled in uncertainty. "I think the picture is clear, there is nothing trumped up here. A low-ranking officer in my position could not possibly obtain such highly classified fleet orders. Captain Prevlov, on the other hand, enjoys the confidence of the Soviet Naval Strategy Committee."
The barriers were down and the road was open; Sloyuk had no option but to acquiesce. He shook his head in perplexity. "The son of a great party leader who betrays his country for money . . . I find it impossible to accept."
"If one takes into consideration Captain Prevlov's extravagant lifestyle, it is not difficult to see the excessive demands made his financial resources."
"I am well, aware of Captain Prevlov's tastes."
"Are you also aware that he is having an affair with a woman who passes herself off as the wife of the American ambassador's chief aide?"
An annoyed look crossed Sloyuk's face. "You know about her?" he asked guardedly. "Prevlov led me to believe that he was using her to obtain secrets from her husband at the embassy."
"Not so," Marganin said. "In fact, she is a divorcée and an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency." Marganin paused and then drove the point home. "The only secrets that pass through her hands are those provided by Captain Prevlov. It is he who is her source."
Sloyuk was silent for a few moments. Then he locked Marganin with a penetrating gaze. "How did you come by all this?"
"I would rather not divulge my informant's identity, Comrade Admiral. I mean no disrespect, but I have nurtured and developed his trust for nearly two years, and I gave him a solemn oath that his name and position with the American government would remain known only to me."
Sloyuk nodded. He accepted it. "You realize, of course, that this puts us in a very grave situation."
"The byzanium?"
"Exactly," Sloyuk said tersely. "If Prevlov told the Americans of our plan, it could prove disastrous. Once the byzanium is in their hands and the Sicilian Project is operational, the balance of power would be theirs for the next decade."
"Perhaps Captain Prevlov has not leaked our plan yet," Marganin said. "Perhaps he was waiting until the Titanic was raised."
"She has risen," Sloyuk said. "Not more than three hours ago, Captain Parotkin of the Mikhail Kurkov reported that the Titanic is on the surface and ready to be taken in tow."
Marganin looked up surprised. "But our agents, Silver and Gold, assured us the raising would not be attempted for another seventy-two hours."
Sloyuk shrugged. "The Americans are always in a hurry."
"Then we must cancel Captain Prevlov's plan to seize the byzanium in favor of one with credence."
Prevlov's plan--Marganin had to suppress a grin when he said it. The shrewd captain's colossal ego would be his downfall. From here on in, Marganin thought confidently, the drama would have to be played out very, very carefully.
"It is too late to change our strategy now," Sloyuk said slowly. "The men and ships are in place. We will go ahead as scheduled."
"But what about Captain Prevlov? Surely you will order his arrest?"
Sloyuk looked at Marganin coldly. "No, Lieutenant, he will remain at his duties."
"He cannot be trusted," Marganin said desperately. "You have seen the evidence-"
"I have seen nothing that cannot be manufactured," Sloyuk snapped brusquely. "Your little package comes too neatly wrapped, too meticulously tied with ribbon to be bought at first glance. What I do see is a young upstart who is stabbing his superior in the back in order to reach the next rung on the ladder of promotion. Purges went out before you were born, Lieutenant. You played a dangerous game and you lost."
"I assure you--"
"Enough!" Sloyuk's tone was hard as granite. "I am secure in the knowledge that the byzanium will be safely on board a Soviet ship no later than three days from now; an event that will prove Captain Prevlov's loyalty and your guilt."
51
The Titanic lay motionless and dead against the unending onslaught of the waves as they swirled. around her huge mass, then closed ranks again and swept onward toward some as yet unknown and distant shore. She lay there and drifted with the current, her sodden wooden decks steaming under the fading evening sun. She was a dead ship that had returned among the living. A dead ship, but not an empty ship. The compass tower on the raised deck over her first-class lounge had been quickly cleared away to accommodate t
he helicopter, and soon a steady stream of men and equipment was being ferried on board to begin the arduous task of correcting the list and preparing her for the long tow to New York Harbor.
For a few short minutes after the half-dead crew of the Deep Fathom were airlifted to the Capricorn, Giordino had had the Titanic all to himself. The fact that he was the first to set foot on her decks in seventy-six years never entered his head, and though it was still broad daylight, he shied away from any exploring. Each time he gazed down the 882-foot length of the ship, he felt as if he was staring at an empty crypt. Nervously, he lit a cigarette, sat on a wet capstan, and waited for the invasion that wasn't long in coming.
Pitt experienced no pangs of uneasiness when he came on board, but, rather, a feeling of reverence. He walked to the bridge and stood alone, absorbed in the legend of the Titanic. God only knew, he'd wondered a hundred times what it was like that Sunday night nearly eight decades ago when Captain Edward J. Smith stood on the very same spot and realized that his great command was slowly and irreversibly sinking beneath his feet. What were his thoughts, knowing the lifeboats could hold only 1180 people, while on the maiden voyage the ship was carrying 2200 passengers and crew? Then he wondered what the venerable old captain would have thought had he known the decks of his ship would one day be walked again by men as yet unborn in his time.
After what seemed hours, but was in reality only a minute or two, Pitt broke out of his reverie and moved aft along the Boat Deck, past the sealed door of the wireless cabin, where First Operator John G. Phillips had sent history's first SOS; past the empty davits of lifeboat No. 6, in which Mrs. J. J. Brown of Denver later achieved enduring fame as the "Unsinkable Molly Brown"; past the entrance to the grand stairway, where Graham Farley and the ship's band had played to the end; past the spot where millionaire Benjamin Guggenheim and his secretary had stood calmly waiting for death, dressed in the finery of their evening clothes so that they could go down like gentlemen.
It took him almost a quarter of an hour to reach the elevator house at the far end of the Boat Deck. Pitt climbed over the hand railing and dropped to the Promenade Deck below. Here, he found the aft mast protruding from the rotted planking like a forelorn stump, ending abruptly at a height of eight feet where it had been cut short by Sea Slug's underwater torch.
Pitt reached inside his jacket and pulled out the package given him by Commodore Bigalow and tenderly unwrapped it. He had forgotten to carry a line or cord, but he made do with the twine from the wrapping. When he was through, he stepped back from the stub of the once tall mast and stared up at his makeshift handiwork.
It was old and it was faded, but the red pennant of the White Star Line that Bigalow had snatched from oblivion so long ago proudly flew once more over the unsinkable Titanic.
52
The morning sun was just probing its rays above the eastern horizon when Sandecker jumped from the helicopter's cockpit door and ducked under the whirling blades, clutching his cap. Portable lights still blazed over the derelict's superstructure and crates of machinery were scattered about the decks in various stages of assembly. Pitt and his crew had slaved through the night, struggling like madmen to organize the salvage efforts.
Rudi Gunn greeted him under a rust-cankered ventilator.
"Welcome aboard the Titanic, Admiral," Gunn said, grinning. It seemed as if everybody in the salvage fleet was grinning this morning.
"What's the situation?"
"Stable for the moment. As soon as we get the pumps operating, we should be able to correct her list."
"Where's Pitt?"
"In the gymnasium."
Sandecker stopped in midstride and stared at Gunn. "The gymnasium, did you say?"
Gunn nodded and pointed at an opening in a bulkhead whose ragged edges suggested the work of an acetylene torch. "Through here."
The room measured about fifteen feet wide by forty feet deep, and was inhabited by a dozen men who were all involved in their individual assignments and who were seemingly oblivious to the weird assortment of antiquated and rust-worn mechanisms mounted on what had once been a colorful linoleum-block floor. There were ornate rowing machines; funny-looking stationary bicycles that were attached to a large circular distance clock on the wall; several mechanical horses with rotting leather saddles; and what Sandecker could have sworn looked like a mechanical camel which, as he discovered later, was exactly that.
Already the salvage crew had equipped the room with a radio transmitter and receiver, three portable gas-driven electrical generators, a small forest of spotlights on stands, a compact little Rube Goldberg-like galley, a clutter of desks and tables made out of collapsible aluminum tubing and packing crates, and several folding cots.
Pitt was huddled with Drummer and Spencer as Sandecker moved toward them. They were studying a large cutaway drawing of the ship.
Pitt looked up and waved a salute. "Welcome to the Big T, Admiral," he said warmly. "How are Merker, Kiel, and Chavez?"
"Safely bedded down in the Capricorn's sick bay," Sandecker answered. "Ninety-per-cent recuperated and begging Dr. Bailey to return them to duty. A request, I might add, that fell on deaf ears. Bailey insisted that they remain under observation for twenty-four hours, and there is simply no budging a man of his size and determination." Sandecker paused to sniff the air and then wrinkled his nose. "God, what's that smell?"
"Rot," Drummer replied. "It fills every nook and cranny. There's no escaping it. And it's only a matter of time before the dead marine life that came up with the wreck begins to stink."
Sandecker gestured about the room. "A cozy place you've got here," he said, "but why set up operations in the gym rather than the bridge?"
"A break from tradition for practical reasons," Pitt replied. "The bridge serves no useful function on a dead ship. The gym, on the other hand, sits amidships and offers us equal access to either bow or stern. It also adjoins our improvised helicopter pad over the first-class lounge roof. The closer to our supplies we are, the more efficiently we can operate."
"I had to ask," Sandecker said heavily. "I should have known you didn't pick this museum of mechanical monstrosities just to launch a physical-fitness program."
Something in a pile of wreckage that lay in a soggy heap against the forward wall of the gymnasium caught the admiral's eyes and he walked over to it. He stood and stared grimly for several moments at the skeletal remains of what had once been a passenger or crew member of the Titanic.
"I wonder who this poor devil was?"
"We'll probably never know," Pitt said. "Any dental records from 1912 have no doubt been destroyed long ago."
Sandecker leaned down and examined the pelvic section of the bones. "Good lord, it was a woman."
"Either one of the first-class passengers who elected to remain behind or one of the women from the steerage quarters who arrived on the Boat Deck after all the lifeboats had been launched."
"Have you found any other bodies?"
"We've been too busy to do any extensive exploring," Pitt said. "But one of Spencer's men reported another skeleton wedged against the fireplace in the lounge."
Sandecker nodded toward an open doorway. "What's through there?"
"That opens onto the grand staircase."
"Let's take a look."
They walked onto the landing above the A Deck lobby and looked down. Several rotting chairs and sofas were scattered haphazardly on the steps where they had fallen when the ship sank by the bow. The graceful flowing lines of the bannisters were still sound and undamaged, and the hands of the bronze clock could be seen frozen at 2:21. They made their way down the silt-coated stairs and entered one of the passageways leading to the staterooms. Without the benefit of outside light, the scene was an eerie one. Room after room was filled with rotted and fallen paneling interspersed with overturned and jumbled furniture. It was too dark to discern any detail, and after penetrating about thirty feet, they found their way blocked by a wall of debris, so they turned and head
ed back to the gymnasium.
Just as they came through the doorway, the man hunched over the radio turned from his set. It was Al Giordino.
"I wondered where you two went. The Uranus Oil people want to know about their submersible."
"Tell them they can retrieve the Deep Fathom off the Titanic's foredeck just as soon as we make dry dock in New York," Pitt said.
Giordino nodded and turned back to the radio.
"Leave it to the commercial business interests to bitch about their precious property on such a momentous occasion," Sandecker said with a gleam in his eye. "And, speaking of momentous occasions, would any of you gentlemen care to celebrate with a touch of spirits?"