Already the noise had started. Welders were attacking the clogged passageways. Riveters were hammering against the scarred hull, beefing up the temporary repairs made at sea to the jagged wounds below the waterline. Overhead, two sky-reaching cranes dipped their jaws down into the darkened cargo holds only to have them reappear minutes later with mangled bits and pieces of debris clutched in their iron teeth.
Pitt took what he knew would be his last look about the gymnasium and Upper Deck. Like bidding a New Year's Eve good-by to a passing piece of his life, he stood there and soaked up the memories. The sweat of the salvage, the blood and sacrifice of his crew, the fragility of their hope that had in the end carried them through. It would all be left behind. Finally, he cast aside his reverie and walked down the main staircase and eventually found his way to the forward cargo hold on G Deck.
They were all present and accounted for and looking strangely unfamiliar under the silver hard hats. Gene Seagram, gaunt and trembling, paced back and forth. Mel Donner, wiping trickles of sweat from his neck and chin, and nervously keeping a concerned eye on Seagram. Herb Lusky, a Meta Section mineralogist, standing by with his analysis equipment. Admirals Sandecker and Kemper, huddled in one corner of the darkened hold and conversing in low tones.
Pitt carefully stepped around the twisted bulkhead supports and over the rippled deck of warped steel until he was standing behind a shipyard worker who was intently aiming his cutting torch at a massive hinge on the vault door. The cult, Pitt thought darkly, it was only a matter of minutes now before the secret hidden inside its gut was laid bare, suddenly, he became aware of an icy chill, everything around him seemed to turn cold, and he began to dread the opening of the vault.
As if sharing his uneasiness, the other men in the dank hold became quiet and gathered beside Pitt in restless apprehension.
At last, the worker turned off the fiery blue jet of his torch and raised his face shield.
"How's it look?" Pitt asked.
"They sure built them good in the old days," the worker replied. "I've torched out the lock mechanism and knocked off the hinges, but she's still frozen solid."
"What now?"
"We run a cable from the Doppleman crane above, attach it to the vault door and hope for the best."
It took the better part of an hour for a crew of men to wrestle a two-inch-thick cable into the hold and fasten it onto the vault. Then, when all was ready, a signal was relayed to the crane operator via a portable radio transmitter, and the cable began slowly to straighten out its curves and tighten. No one had to be told to move back out of the way. They all knew that if the wire took it in its head to snap, it would whiplash through the hold with more than enough force to split a man in two.
In the distance they could hear the engine of the crane straining. For long seconds nothing happened; the cable stretched and quivered, its strands groaning under the tremendous load. Pitt threw caution aside and edged closer. Still nothing happened. The vault's stubborn resolve seemed as firm as the steel of its walls.
The cable slackened as the crane operator eased off the strain to work up his engine's rpm's. Then he revved up and engaged the clutch once more, and the cable suddenly went taut with an audible twang. To the silent men who looked anxiously on, it seemed inconceivable that the old rusted vault could stand up to such a powerful assault, and yet the inconceivable was apparently happening. But then a tiny hairline crack made its appearance along the upper edge of the vault door. It was followed by two vertical cracks along the sides and, finally, a fourth, running across the bottom. Abruptly, with an agonizing screech of protest, the door reluctantly relinquished its grip and tore off the great steel cube.
No water came out of the yawning blackness. The vault had remained airtight during its long sojourn in the deep abyss.
Nobody made a move. They stood rooted, frozen, mesmerized by that uninviting black square hole. A musty stench rolled out from within.
Lusky was the first to find his voice. "My God, what is it? What in hell is that smell?"
"Get me a light," Pitt ordered one of the workmen.
Someone produced a fluorescent hand light. Pitt switched it on and danced its bluish-white beam on the interior of the vault.
They could see ten wooden boxes, tightly secured by stout leather straps. They could also see something else, something that turned every face ghostly pale. It was the mummified remains of a man.
78
He was lying in one corner of the vault, eyes closed and sunken in, skin as blackened as old tar paper on a warehouse roof. The muscle tissue was shrunken over the bony skeleton and a bacterial growth covered him from head to toe. He looked like a moldy piece of bread. Only the white hair of his head and beard were perfectly preserved. A pool of viscous fluid extended around the remains and moistened the atmosphere, as if a bucket of water had been thrown on the walls of the vault.
"Whoever it is is still wet," Kemper murmured, his faces mask of horror. "How can that be after so long?"
"Water accounts for over half the weight of the body," Pitt answered quietly. "There simply wasn't enough air trapped inside the vault to evaporate all of the fluids."
Donner turned away, repulsed by the macabre scene. "Who was he?" he managed, fighting the urge to vomit.
Pitt looked at the mummy impassively. "I think we will find that his name was Joshua Hays Brewster."
"Brewster?" Seagram whispered, his frightened eyes wild with fear.
"Why not?" Pitt said. "Who else knew the contents of the vault?"
Admiral Kemper shook his head in stunned wonderment. "Can you imagine," he said reverently, "what it must have been like dying in that black hole while the ship was sinking into the depths of the sea?"
"I don't care to dwell on it," Donner said. "I'll probably have nightmares every night for the next month as it is."
"It's positively ghastly," Sandecker said with difficulty, He studied the saddened, knowing expression on Pitt's face. `You knew about this?"
Pitt nodded. "I was forewarned by Commodore Bigalow."
Sandecker fixed him with a speculative look, but he let it drop at that and turned to one of the shipyard workers. "Call the coroner's office and tell them to come and get that thing out of there. Then clear the area and keep it cleared until I give you an order to the contrary."
The shipyard people needed no further urging. They disappeared from the cargo hold as if by magic.
Seagram grabbed Lusky's arm with an intensity that made he mineralogist start. "Okay, Herb, it's your show now."
Hesitantly, Lusky entered the cavity, stepped over the mummy and pried open one of the ore boxes. Then he set up his equipment and began analyzing the contents. After what seemed forever to the men pacing the deck outside the vault. he looked up, his eyes reflecting a dazed disbelief.
"This stuff is worthless."
Seagram moved in closer. "Say again."
"It's worthless. There isn't even a minute trace of byzanium."
"Try another box," Seagram gasped feverishly.
Lusky nodded and went to work. But it was the same story on the next ore box, and the next, until the contents of all ten were strewn everywhere.
Lusky looked as though he was suffering a seizure. "Junk . . . pure junk.. ." he stammered. "Nothing but common gravel, the kind you'd find under any roadbed."
The hushed note of bewilderment in Lusky's voice faded away and the quiet in the Titanic's cargo hold became heavy and deep. Pitt stared downward, stared dumbly. Every eye was held by the rubble and the broken boxes while numbed minds fought to grasp the appalling reality, the horrible, undeniable truth that everything-the salvage, the exhausting labor, the astronomical drain of money, the deaths of Munk and Woodson had all been for nothing. The byzanium was not on the Titanic, nor had it ever been. They were the victims of a monstrously cruel joke that had been played out seventy-six years before.
It was Seagram who finally broke the silence. In the final ignition of madness he grin
ned to himself in the gray light, the grin mushrooming into' a bansheelike laughter that echoed in the steel hold. He thrust himself through the door of the vault, snatched up a rock, and struck Lusky on the side of the head sending a spray of red over the yellow wood ore boxes.
He was still laughing, locked in the throes of black hysteria, when he fell upon the putrescent remains of Joshua Hays Brewster and began bashing the mummified head against the vault wall until it loosened from the neck and came off in his hands.
As he held the ugly, abhorrent thing before him, Seagram's conflicted mind suddenly saw the blackened, parchmentlike lips spread into a hideous grin. His breakdown was complete. The parallel depression of Joshua Hays Brewster had reached out through the mists of time and bequeathed Seagram a ghostly inheritance that hurled the physicist into the yawning jaws of a madness from which he was never to escape.
79
Six days later, Donner entered the hotel dining room where Admiral Sandecker was eating breakfast and eased into a vacant chair across the table. "Have you heard the latest?"
Sandecker paused between bites of his omelet. "If it's more bad news, I'd just as soon you keep it to yourself."
"They nailed me coming out of my apartment this morning." He threw a folded paper on the table in front of him. "A subpoena to appear in front of a congressional investigating committee."
Sandecker forked another slice of the omelet without looking at the paper. "Congratulations."
"Same goes for you, Admiral. Dollars-to doughnuts a federal marshal is lurking in your office anteroom this very minute, waiting to slap one on you."
"Who's behind it?"
"Some punk-eased freshman senator from Wyoming who's trying to make a name for himself before he's forty." Donner dabbed a crumpled handkerchief on his damp forehead. "The stupid ass even insists on having Gene testify."
"That I'd have to see." Sandecker pushed the plate away and leaned back in his chair. "How is Seagram getting along?"
"Manic depressive psychosis is the fancy term for it."
"How about Lusky?"
"Twenty stitches and a nasty concussion. He should be out of the hospital in another week."
Sandecker shook his head. "I hope I never have to live through anything like that ever again." He took a swallow of coffee. "How do we play it?"
"The President called me personally from the White House last night. He said to play it straight. The last thing he wants is to become entangled in a snarl of conflicting lies."
"What about the Sicilian Project?"
"It died a quick death when we opened the Titanic's vault," Donner said. "We have no alternative but to spill the entire can of worms from the beginning to the sorry end."
"Why does the dirty laundry have to be washed in the open? What good will it do?"
"The woes of a democracy," Donner said resignedly. "Everything has to be open and above board, even if it means giving away secrets to an unfriendly foreign government."
Sandecker placed his hands on his face and sighed. "Well, I guess I'll be looking for a new job."
"Not necessarily. The President has promised to issue a statement to the effect that the whole failure of the project was his responsibility and his alone."
Sandecker shook his head. "No good. I have several enemies in Congress. They're just drooling in anticipation of turning the screws on my resignation from NUMA."
"It may not come to that."
"For the past fifteen years, ever since I attained the rank of admiral, I've had to double-deal with politicians. Take my word for it, it's a dirty business. Before this thing is over with, everyone remotely connected with the Sicilian Project and the raising of the Titanic will be lucky if they can find a job cleaning stables."
"I'm truly sorry it had to end like this, Admiral."
"Believe me, so am I" Sandecker finished off his coffee and patted a napkin against his mouth. "Tell me, Donner, what's the batting order? Who has the illustrious senator from Wyoming named as the lead-off witness?"
"My understanding is that he intends taking the Titanic's salvage operation first, and then working backward to involve Meta Section and finally the President." Donner picked up the subpoena and shoved it back in his coat pocket. "The first witness they're most likely to call is Dirk Pitt."
Sandecker looked at him. "Pitt, did you say?"
"That's right."
"Interesting," Sandecker said softly. "Most interesting."
"You've lost me somewhere."
Sandecker neatly folded the napkin and laid it on the table. "What you don't know, Donner, what you couldn't know, is that immediately after the men in the little white coats carried Seagram off the Titanic, Pitt vanished into thin air."
Donner's eyes narrowed. "Surely you know where he is. His friends? Giordino?"
"Don't you think we all tried to find him?" Sandecker snarled. "He's gone. Disappeared. It's as though the earth swallowed him up."
"But he must have left some clue."
"He did say something, but it didn't make any sense."
"What was that?"
"He said he was going to look for Southby."
"Who in hell is Southby?"
"Damned if I know," Sandecker said. "Damned if I know."
80
Pitt steered the rented Rover sedan cautiously down the narrow, rain-slickened country road. The tall beech trees lining the shoulders seemed to close in and attack the moving car as they pelted its steel roof with the heavy runoff from their leaves.
Pitt was tired, dead tired. He had set out on his odyssey not sure of what it was he might find, if anything. He'd begun as Joshua Hays Brewster and his crew of miners had begun, on the docks of Aberdeen, Scotland, and then he'd followed their death-strewn path across Britain almost to the old Ocean Duck at Southampton from which the Titanic had set out on her maiden voyage.
He turned his gaze from the pounding wipers on the windshield and glanced down at the blue notebook lying on the passenger seat. It was filled with dates, places, miscellaneous jottings, and torn newspaper articles he had accumulated along the way. The musty files of the past had told him little.
"TWO AMERICANS FOUND DEAD"
The April 7, 1912, editions of the Glasgow papers noted fifteen pages back from the headline. The detail-barren stories were as deeply buried as the bodies of Coloradans John Caldwell and Thomas Price were in a local cemetery.
Their tombstones, discovered by Pitt in a small churchyard, offered virtually nothing other than their names and dates of death. It was the same story with Charles Widney, Walter Schmidt, and Warner O'Deming. Of Alvin Coulter he could find no trace.
And finally there was Vernon Hall. Pitt hadn't found his resting place either. Where had he fallen? Had his blood been spilled amid the neat and orderly landscape of the Hampshire Downs or perhaps somewhere on the back streets of Southampton itself?
Out of the corner of one eye he caught a marker that gave the distance to the great harbor port as twenty kilometers.
Pitt drove on mechanically. The road curved and then paralleled the lovely, rippling Itchen stream, famous throughout southern England for its fighting trout, but he didn't notice it. Up ahead, across the emerald-green farmlands of the coastal plain, a small town came into view, and he decided he would stop there for breakfast.
An alarm went off in the back of Pitt's mind. He jammed on the brakes, but much too hard-the rear wheels broke loose and the Rover skidded around in a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, coming to rest still aimed southward but sunk to the hubcaps in the yielding muck of a roadside ditch.
Almost before the car had fully stopped, Pitt threw open the door and leaped out. His shoes sank out of sight and became stuck, but he pulled free of them and ran back down the road in his stocking feet.
He halted at a small sign beside the road. Part of the lettering was obscured by a small tree that had grown up around it. Slowly, as if he were afraid his hopes would be shattered by yet another disappointmen
t, he pushed aside the branches and suddenly it all became quite clear. The key to the riddle of Joshua Hays Brewster and the byzanium was there in front of him. He stood there soaking up the falling rain and in that instant he knew that everything had been worthwhile.
81
Marganin sat on a bench by the fountain in Sverdlov Square across from the Bolshoi Theater and read a newspaper. He felt a slight quiver and knew without looking that someone had taken the vacant place beside him.
The fat man in the rumpled suit leaned against the backrest and casually gnawed on an apple. "Congratulations on your promotion, Commander," he mumbled between bites.