The ship oscillated back and forth in a deadly game of tug-of-war as the propellers came out of the water and the vessel lost way. The ship would tilt, the propellers would catch and the vessel would rise up and over again in a bucksaw motion that went on for several minutes. Then the entire length of the vessel was drawn over the lip and into the cauldron. The ship's bow was higher than the stern. It hung there as if stuck by glue.
“Go, baby, go ... !” Trout yelled.
Gamay gave him a quick glance, even smiling briefly at the unusual display of emotion, before she, too, joined in the cheering.
The smooth water behind the ship boiled as if someone had turned the burner on high. The engines were doing their work. The propellers biting into the slanting sides of the funnel, the ship inched its way painfully toward the rim again, settled back, shot upward at an angle, was buried by the foam, then gave a mighty surge that carried it over the lip.
This time, the ship disappeared for good. The Trouts cheered, but their celebration was tempered by their own sense of loneliness and impotence against an unstoppable force of nature.
“Any ideas about how we get out of here?” Gamay shouted.
“Maybe the whirlpool will end on its own.”
Gamay glanced down. In the few minutes they had watched the ship struggle, the boat had dropped at least another twenty feet.
“I don't think so.”
The water had lost its India ink cast, and the slick black sides had picked up a brownish tinge from the mud being scooped up from the bottom. Hundreds of dead or dying fish whirled in a great circle like confetti caught in a windstorm. The damp air was thick with the smell of brine, fish and bottom muck.
“Look at the debris,” Paul said. “It's rising from the bottom.”
Wreckage was being churned up from the floor of the sea in the same way a tornado picks up objects and lifts them in the air. There were splintered wooden cartons, plywood, hatch covers, scraps of ventilators, even a damaged lifeboat. Much of the material sank back into the vortex, where it was regurgitated and destroyed with the same effect as if it were at the bottom of Niagara Falls.
Gamay noticed that some pieces, mostly small, were heading up toward the rim. “What if we jump into the water?” she said. “Maybe we'd be light enough to rise to the top like that stuff.”
“No guarantee we'd ascend. More likely, we'd get sucked farther into the whirlpool, to be ground up like hamburger. Remember that the first rule of the sea is to stick with your boat—if possible.”
“Maybe that's not such a great idea. We've dropped lower.”
It was true. The boat had slipped farther into the whirlpool.
A cylindrical object was working its way up the side of the whirlpool. Then several more followed.
“What's that?” Trout said.
Gamay wiped away the moisture from her eyes and looked again, at a point twenty feet ahead and slightly below the Zodiac. Before becoming a marine biologist, she had been a nautical archaeologist, and immediately recognized the tapered ceramic forms with their greenish gray painted surfaces.
“They're amphorae,” she said. “And they're moving upward.”
Trout read his wife's mind. “We'll only have one chance to go for it.”
"Our weight may change the dynamics, and there will only be one chance to go for it.
“Do we have a choice?”
The three ancient wine vessels were maddeningly close. Trout pulled himself up to the steering console and pressed the starter button. The engine caught. The boat moved ahead at its crazy angle, and he had to compensate with its tendency to fishtail by creative handling of the wheel. He wanted to get above the amphorae to block their way.
The first amphora in the group started to drift across the bow. In another second, it would be out of reach. Trout gunned the motor, and the boat passed just above the moving object.
“Get ready,” Trout yelled. The leap would have to be perfectly timed. “It will be slippery, and it's going to roll. Make sure you grab on to the handles and wrap your arms and legs around it.”
Gamay nodded and climbed onto the bow. “What about you?” she said.
“I'll catch a ride on the next one.”
“It's going to be hard to keep the boat steady.” She knew that without someone to keep the boat under control, Trout's leap would be even more hazardous.
“I'll figure it out.”
“Like hell, you will. I'm not going.”
Damned stubborn woman. “This is your only chance. Someone's got to finish that damned wallpapering. Please.”
Gamay gave him a hard stare, then shook her head and crawled farther out onto the bow. She bunched her legs under her and was preparing to make the leap.
“Stop!” Trout shouted.
She turned and glared at him. “Make up your mind.”
Trout had seen what Gamay hadn't. The whirlpool's glassy sides above them were clear of debris. The wreckage that had been kicked up by the churning seemed to have reached an invisible barrier beyond which it failed to rise. The debris was moving back down into the funnel as quickly as it had risen.
“Look,” he yelled. “That sea trash is being pulled down again.”
It took Gamay only a few seconds to see that he was right. The amphorae were as high as they were going to go. Trout stretched his hand out and pulled her back into the boat. They held on to the safety lines, unable to do anything more than watch helplessly as their boat descended farther into the abyss.
NUMA 6 - Polar Shift
9
THE SPHERICAL FIGURE ON the computer screen reminded Austin of the membrane, cytoplasm and nucleus of a malignant cell.
He turned to Adler. “What exactly are we dealing with here, Professor?”
The scientist scratched his shaggy head. “Hell, Kurt, you got me. This disturbance is growing by the second, and it's moving in a circle at thirty knots. I've never seen anything like it, in size or speed.”
“Neither have I,” Austin said. “I've run into rough swirling currents that gave me sweaty palms. They were comparatively small and short-lived. This seems more like something out of Edgar Allan Poe or Jules Verne.”
“The vortex in Descent into the Maelstrom and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea are largely literary inventions. Poe and Verne were inspired by the Moskstraumen maelstrom off Norway's Lofoten Islands. The Greek historian Pytheas described it more than two thousand years ago as swallowing ships and throwing them up again. The Swedish bishop Olaus Magnus wrote in the 1500s that it was stronger than Charybdis from The Odyssey and that the maelstrom smashed ships against the bottom of the sea and sucked in screaming whales.”
“That's the stuff of fiction. What about reality?”
“Far less frightening. The Norwegian whirlpool has been scientifically measured, and it isn't even close to the violent cauldron described in literature. Three other significant whirlpools, Corryvreckan, Scotland, Saltstraumen, also off Norway, and Naruto, near Japan, are far less powerful.” He shook his head. “Odd to see any whirlpool action on the open sea.”
“Why is that?”
“Whirlpools usually appear in narrow straits where there is fast-moving water. The whirling confluence of tides and currents, combined with the shape of the sea bottom, can create substantial disturbances on the surface.”
The image on the screen showed the distance shrinking between the whirlpool and the Benjamin Franklin. “Could that thing be a danger to the ship?”
“Not if earlier scientific observations are any indication. The Old Sow whirlpool off the coast of New Brunswick is approximately the same strength as Moskstraumen, with speeds of about twenty-eight kilometers per hour. It's the largest ocean whirlpool in the Western Hemisphere. The turbulence near the phenomenon can be dangerous to small boats, but it poses no hazard for larger vessels.” He paused, staring in fascination at the screen. “Damn!”
"What's wrong?
He stared at the malignancy on the screen. “I w
asn't sure at first. But this thing is growing rapidly. In the time we've talked, it has almost doubled in size.”
Austin had seen enough.
“I'd like you to do me a great favor, Professor,” he said, keeping his voice cool and calm. “Get to the survey control center, fast. Tell Joe to pull the ROV immediately and come to the bridge as soon as possible. Tell him that it's urgent.”
Adler glanced at the screen once more, then hurried off. While the professor went on his errand, Austin climbed to the bridge.
Tony Cabral, the Throckmorton's skipper, was a genial man in his late fifties. His tanned face was dominated by a strong nose, he had an upturned black mustache and his mouth was usually stretched in a crooked grin that made him look like a benevolent pirate. But he wore an expression of dead seriousness that changed to one of surprise when he saw Austin.
“Hey, Kurt, I was just about to send someone looking for you.”
“We've got a problem,” Austin said.
“You know about the SOS we received?”
“First I've heard of it. What's going on?”
“We picked up a Mayday from the NOAA vessel a few minutes ago.”
Austin's worst fears were realized. “What's their status?”
Cabral frowned. “Most of the message was garbled. There was a lot of background noise. We recorded the call. Maybe you can make sense of it.”
He flicked a switch on the radio console. The bridge was filled with a cacophony that sounded like an oratorical contest at a madhouse. There was wild shouting, but the words were mostly incomprehensible except for a hoarse male voice that cut through the pandemonium.
“Mayday!” the voice said. “This is the NOAA ship Ben Franklin. Mayday. Come in, anybody.”
Another voice, more garbled, could be heard in the background, bawling: “Power! Damnit, more power ...”
Then came a quick phrase. It was only caught for an instant, but that was all that was needed to convey the unmitigated terror.
“Damnit! We're going in!”
Cabral's recorded voice came on. He was trying to respond to the SOS.
“This is the NUMA ship Throckmorton. What is your situation? Come in. What is your situation?”
His words were drowned out by a dull, churning roar as if a monsoon were howling through a cavern. Then the radio went dead. The silence that followed was worse than any noise.
Austin had tried to imagine himself on the Franklin's bridge. The scene was obviously one of chaos. The voice calling the Mayday was probably the captain's. Or, more likely, he was the one urging the engine room to give them more power.
The unearthly swirling roar was beyond anything in Austin's experience. He realized that the hair on the back of his neck was standing up like soldiers at attention. He glanced around the bridge. Judging from the apprehensive faces of captain and crew, it was clear that he was not alone in his thoughts.
“What's the Franklin's position?” Austin said.
Captain Cabral stepped over to a blue-glowing radar monitor.
“That's another crazy thing. We picked them up on radar eighteen miles away. They were moving in a southwest direction. Then they disappeared from the radar screen.”
Austin watched the radar sweep line go around a couple of times. There was no sign of the ship, only some patches of scatter where the radar beam touched the wavetops. “How long will it take to get there?”
“Less than an hour. We've got to haul in the ROV first.”
“Joe's doing it now. He should have the vehicle aboard by now.”
Cabral gave the order to get under way and head toward the Franklin at top speed. The Throckmorton pulled anchor, and its high bow was starting to cut through the ranks of waves when Zavala showed up with Professor Adler.
“The professor told me about the whirlpool,” Zavala said. “Any word from the Franklin?”
“They sent an SOS, but the radio transmission got cut short. And we lost them on radar.”
Cabral heard the brief exchange. “What's this about a whirlpool, Kurt?”
“The professor and I were checking satellite images and picked up a big, spinning water disturbance near the Franklin's position. Maybe a mile or two across.”
“Isn't NOAA doing a study of ocean eddies?”
“This is no slow-moving eddy. It's probably hundreds of feet deep, and spinning at more than thirty knots.”
“You're not serious.”
“Deadly serious, I'm afraid.”
Austin asked the professor to describe what they had seen. Adler was filling the captain in on the details when they were interrupted by the radio operator.
“We're picking them up on radar again,” the operator said.
“Captain,” the radio operator said a second later. “I'm getting a transmission from the Franklin.”
Cabral took the microphone. “This is Captain Cabral of the NUMA ship Throckmorton. We have received your Mayday. What is your current status?”
“This is the Franklin's captain. We're okay now, but the ship was almost sucked into a big hole in the sea. Damnedest thing I've ever seen.”
“Anyone injured?”
“Some bumps and bruises, but we're dealing with them.”
Austin borrowed the microphone. “This is Kurt Austin. I've got a couple of friends aboard your ship. Could you tell me how Paul and Gamay Trout are doing?”
There was a heavy silence, and at first it seemed that the radio transmission had again been cut short. Then the voice came on. “I'm sorry to tell you this. They were making a plankton survey in the Zodiac inflatable when the whirlpool pulled them in. We tried to go to their aid, and that's when we got in trouble.”
“Did you actually see them in the whirlpool?”
“We were pretty busy, and the visibility is practically nil.”
“How close are you to the whirlpool now?”
“We're about a mile away. We don't dare get any closer. The currents flowing around that thing are still pretty strong. What do you want us to do?”
“Stay as close as you're able. We're coming over to take a look.”
“Will do. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Austin said, turning to Cabral. “Pete, I'd like to borrow the ship's helicopter. How soon can you have it ready to fly?”
Cabral was aware of Kurt's reputation at NUMA. He knew that despite Austin's easy smile and casual manner, this self-assured man with the battering ram shoulders and pale hair could handle whatever weirdness was going on. Cabral was a seasoned mariner, but the developing situation was beyond his ken. He would keep the ship going and let Austin deal with the rest.
“It's all fueled and ready to go. I'll tell the crew to meet you there.” He picked up the intercom microphone.
Austin suggested that the NUMA ship stay at its present course and speed. Then he and Zavala raced down to the helicopter pad on the main deck, stopping first at the ship's supply room for a few items. The deck crew had the engine warming up in the McDonnell Douglas light utility helicopter. They climbed into the cockpit and buckled up. The rotors thrashed the air and the chopper lifted off the deck, then scudded low over the water.
Austin scanned the sea through a pair of binoculars. After the helicopter had been in the air for several minutes, he spotted the antennae and then the superstructure of the NOAA ship. It was near a circle of dark ocean that dwarfed the ship in size. The whirlpool seemed to have stopped growing, but he had to admire the gutsiness of those on the Franklin for staying close to the maelstrom.
Zavala moved the helicopter a couple of hundred feet higher, keeping the aircraft on a straight-line course headed directly for the vortex. As they drew nearer, he said:
“It looks like a volcano caldera.”
Austin nodded. There were some volcanic similarities, mainly having to do with the funnel shape of the hole, and the mist issuing from it. The steamy exhalation was the source of the haze that covered much of the ocean.
The slick, black sides of the
funnel glimpsed through gaps in the steam cloud were far smoother than those of any volcano Austin had ever seen. Nothing of the image transmitted from the satellite could convey the simple awfulness of the phenomenon. It looked like a big, festering puncture wound in the sea.
“How big do you figure this pothole to be?” Austin said.
“Too damned big!” Zavala measured with his eye. “But, to be precise, I'd say it's about two miles across.”
“That's my estimate too,” Austin said. “From the angle of the sides, it could go down all the way to the ocean bottom. Hard to tell, with the swirling mists. Can we get closer?”
Zavala obliged, until they were directly above the whirlpool. From this vantage point, the gyre looked like an immense, steam-filled cone. The chopper hovered a couple of hundred feet above the vortex, but they were still unable to see deep inside of it.
“What now?” Zavala said.
“We can go in, but we might not come out.”
“What's your point?” Zavala said.
“I'm giving you an option. From the looks of that mess below us, we may already be too late to do anything for our pals. You may be risking your life for nothing.”
A grin crossed Zavala's dark face. “Like I said, what's your point?”
Austin would have been surprised at any other answer. There was no way either one of them would have deserted their friends. He jerked his thumb downward. Zavala nodded and worked the controls. The helicopter started its descent into the black heart of the maelstrom.
NUMA 6 - Polar Shift
10
THE INFERNAL NOISE WAS the worst part of the descent into the abyss.
The Trouts could clamp their eyes shut to avoid having to look into the deep, whirling pit, but it was impossible to block out the deafening waves of sound that battered them with no interruption. Every molecule in their bodies seemed to be vibrating from the aural onslaught. The sound took away their last small comfort: the ability to talk. They communicated with gestures and hand squeezes.