The ship's great red-and-white smokestack had fallen off, leaving an immense square shaft down to the engine room. Other openings marked uncovered staircase wells. The superstructure had slipped off and lay in a jumble of disintegrating debris on the sea bottom. With its distinctive stack and superstructure gone the Andrea Doria looked more like a barge than a ship. Only when they glided by the remnants of the wheelhouse and saw the massive booms, winch heads, and bollards intact on the foredeck did they began to get the sense that this was a huge passenger liner. It was hard to believe a vessel this big could ever sink, but that's what they said about the Titanic, Austin reminded himself.
They had been as reverent as mourners at a funeral, but now Austin broke the silence. “That's what thirty million dollars looks like after a few decades at the bottom of the sea.”
“Hell of a lot of money to pay for an oversized fish, catcher,” Zavala said.
“That's just for the hull. I didn't count the millions in furnishings and artwork and four hundred tons of freight. The pride of the Italian navy.”
“I can't figure it,” Zavala said. “I know all about the thick fog, but both these ships had radar and lookouts. How in all of those millions of square miles of ocean did they happen to occupy the same space at the same time?”
“Plain lucky. I guess.”
“They couldn't have done better if they planned out a collision course in advance.”
“Fifty two people dead. A twenty-nine-thousand-ton ocean liner on the bottom. The Stockholm heavily damaged. Millions in cargo lost That's some planning.”
"I think you're telling me it's one of those unsolved mysteries of the sea.'
“Do you have a better answer?”
“Not one that makes any sense,” he replied with a sigh that was audible over the mike. “Where to now?”
“Let's go up to Gimbel's Hole for a looksee,” Austin said.
The minisub banked around as gracefully as a manta ray and headed back toward the bow, then cruised evenly about halfway down the length of the port side until it came to a jagged four-sided opening.
Gimbel's Hole.
The eight-by-twenty-foot hole was the legacy of Peter Gimbel. Less than twentyeight hours after the Doria went under, Gunbel and another photographer named Joseph Fox dove on the liner and spent thirteen minutes exploring the wreck. It was the start of Gimbel's fascination with the ship. In 1981 he led an expedition that used a diving bell and saturation diving techniques. The divers cut away the entrance doors into the First Class Foyer Lounge to get at a safe reported to hold a million dollars in valuables. Amid great hoopla the safe was opened on TV, but it yielded only a few hundred dollars.
“Looks like a barn door,” Zavala quipped.
“This barn door took two weeks to open with magnesium rods,” Austin said. “We don't have that long.”
“Might be easier to raise the whole thing. If NUMA could raise the Titanic, the Doria should be a cinch.”
“You're not the first one to suggest that. There have been a pile of schemes to bring her up. Compressed air. Helium-filled balloons. A coffer dam. Plastic bubbles. Even Ping-Pong balls.”
“The Ping-Pong guy must have had some cojones.” Zavala whistled.
Austin groaned at the Spanish double entendre. Aside from that astute observation, from what you've seen, what do you think?"
“I think we've got our work cut out for us:”
“I agree. Let's go topside and see what the others say”
Zavala gave him a thumbs up, tweaked the motor, and lifted the nose of the sub. As they quickly ascended with the power from four thrusters, Austin glanced at the gray ghost receding in the gloom. Somewhere in that huge hull was the key to the bizarre series of murders. He put his grim thoughts aside as Zavala broke into a Spanish chorus of “Octopus's Garden.” Austin thanked his lucky stars that the trip was short.
The Deep Flight broke the surface in an explosion of froth and foam. Through the water-streaked observation bubbles a gray-hulled boat with a white superstructure was visible about a hundred fifty feet away. The minisub was as agile as a minnow underwater. On the surface its flat planes were susceptible to the wave motion, and it rocked in the slight chop being kicked up by a freshening breeze. Austin didn't normally get seasick, but he was starting to feel green around the gills and was happy when the boat got under way and rapidly covered the distance between them.
The boat's design was typical of many salvage and survey ships whose main function is to serve as a platform for lowering, towing, and hauling various instruments and vehicles. It had a snub tugboat's bow and a high forecastle, but most of the sixty five-foot length was open deck. At either side of the deck was an elbow crane. An A-frame spanned most of the twenty-two-foot beam at the stern where a ramp slanted down to the sea. Two men in wetsuits pushed an inflatable down the ramp into the water, jumped into it, and skimmed over the wave tops to the minisub. While one man manned the tiller the other secured the sturdy hook to a grommet at the front of the submersible.
The line led to a deck winch that pulled the minisub closer, the boat maneuvering until the Deep Flight was on its starboard. A crane swung over and lowered tackle that was attached by the men in the inflatable to cleats on the sub. The cable went taut. The sub and its passengers were lifted dripping from the sea, swung over the deck, and lowered onto a steel cradle. The operation was handled with Swisswatch precision and dispatch. Austin would have expected nothing less than perfection from one of his father's boats.
After the revealing session at the Peabody, Austin had called Rudi Gunn to fill him in and request a salvage vessel. NUMA had dozens of ships involved in its farflung operations. That was the problem, Gunn explained. The agency's boats were flung all around the globe. Most carried scientists who had stood in line for a spot on board. The nearest ship was the Nereus, still in Mexico. Austin said he didn't need a fullblown salvage ship, but Gunn said the quickest he could get something to Austin was a week. Austin told him to make a reservation and hung up. After a moment's thought he dialed again.
The voice like a bear coughing in the woods came on the line. Austin told his father what he needed.
“Hah!” the older man guffawed. “Chrissakes, I thought NUMA had more ships than the U.S. Navy. Can't the admiral spare you one dinky boat from his fleet?”
Austin let his father enjoy his gloat “Not in the time I need it. I could really use your help, Pop.”
“Hmm. Help comes with a price tag, lad,” the old man said slyly.
“NUMA will reimburse you for any expenses, Pop.”
“I could give a rat's ass about money,” he growled. My accountant will find a way to put it down as a charitable donation if he doesn't get sent to Alcatraz before then. If I get you something that floats, does that mean you'll wrap up whatever nonsense Sandecker's got you involved in and get out here to see me before I'm so damned senile I don't recognize you?"
“Can't promise anything. There's a good chance of it.”
“Humph. Finding a boat for you isn't like hailing a cab, you know. I'll see what I can do.” He hung up.
Austin laughed softly. His father knew exactly where every vessel he owned was and what it was doing, down to the smallest rowboat. Dad wanted to let him wriggle on the hook. Austin wasn't surprised when the phone rang a few minutes later.
The gruff voice said, “You're in luck. Got you an old scow. We've got a salvage vessel doing some work for the navy off Sandy Hook, New Jersey. Not one of your big research vessels, but she'll do fine. She'll put into Nantucket Harbor tomorrow and wait for you.”
“Thanks, Pop, I really appreciate it.”
“I had to twist the captain's arm, and I'll lose money on this job,” he said, his tone softening, “but I guess it's worth it to get my son out here in my declining years.”
What an actor! Austin thought. His father could whup his weight in wildcats. True to his word the senior Austin had the boat in Nantucket the next day. The Monkfish was h
ardly a scow. It was, in fact, a medium-sized, state-of-theart salvage vessel less than two years old. An added bonus was Captain John McGinty, a hard-boned, ruddy-faced Irishman from South Boston. The captain had dived on the Andrea Doria years before and was delighted to work on her again.
Austin was removing the cassette from the mini-sub's video camera when McGinty strode over. “Well, don't keep me in suspense,” he said with excitement in his voice. “How's the old gal look?”
“She's showing her age, but you can see for yourself.” Austin handed over the cassette. The captain glanced at the mini-sub and chuckled. “That's some hot rod,” he said, and led the way to his quarters. He set Austin and Zavala up with soft chairs and hard drinks, then popped the video into his VCR. McGinty sat in uncharacteristic silence, taking in every detail as the sweptback hull and its patina of anemones rolled across the TV screen. When the video ended he punched the rewind button.
“You boys did good work. She looks pretty much the way she did when I last dove on her in 'eightyseven. Except there are more trawler nets. And like you said,” he sighed, “she's getting a, little worn around the edges. It's what you can't see that's the problem. I've heard the ship's interior bulkheads are rotting away. Won't be long before the whole thing collapses in on itself.”
“Could you give us an idea what we'll be dealing with down there?”
“I'll do my best. Want a refill?” Not waiting for an answer he poured the equivalent of a double shot of Jack Daniel's into each glass and dropped in a couple of token ice cubes. He took a sip, staring at the blank TV screen. “One thing you can't forget. The Doria may look pretty, even with all that scum mucking up her hull, but she's a man-killer. They don't call her the Mount Everest of divers for nothing. She hasn't killed as many as Everest, around ten last time I got counting, but the guys who dive on the Doria are looking for that same adrenaline rush from the danger that mountain climbers get.”
“Every wreck has its own character,” Austin said. “What are the major hazards on this ship?”
“Well, she's got all sorts of tricks up her sleeve. First of all there's the depth. With a two-hour decompression. You need a drysuit because of the cold. Sharks come to feed on the fish. Mostly blues. Not supposed to be dangerous, but when you're hanging on the anchor line decompressing you just hope some near-sighted shark doesn't mistake you for a fat pollock.”
“When I first started diving my father told me to remember that in the water you are no longer the top of the food chain,” Austin said.
McGinty grunted in agreement. “None of that stuff would be major except for the other problems. There's always a wicked current. It can be bad all the way down and even runs through the boat. Sometimes it seems like it will pull you right off the anchor line.”
“I felt it pushing against the mini-sub,” Zavala said.
McGinty nodded. “You saw what the visibility was like.”
“We could see pretty well today. We found the wreck without our lights,” Austin said.
“You were lucky. Sun was shining, sea wasn't stirred up much. On a cloudy or foggy day you can be practically on the wreck without seeing it. That's nothing compared to inside. Black as Hades, silt all over the place. Just touch it and you're surrounded by a cloud so thick your light won't penetrate it. Real easy to get confused and lost. But the biggest problem is entanglement. You can get into real trouble with all the wires and cables hanging down from the ceilings. That's if you get past those nets and ropes all over the hull and the monofilament from the party boats that fish the wreck. It's invisible. You don't know it's there until it's grabbed on to your tank. With scuba you've got twenty minutes max to get yourself out of trouble.”
“That's not much time to explore a huge ship.”
“That's one of the reasons it's so damned dangerous. Fellows want that piece of pottery or dish with the Italia crest on it. Figure they've spent all that time training and money to get out there. They forget. They get tired real fast, especially if they're fighting the current and breathing trimix. Make mistakes. Get lost. Forget the plans they memorized. Equipment's got to be working perfectly. One guy died because he had the wrong mix in his tanks. On my last dive I had five tanks, weight belt, lights, knives. I was carrying two hundred twenty-eight pounds. It takes a lifetime of experience to dive the ship. Even so, it's easy to become disoriented. You've got the ship lying on its side, so the deck and floors are overhead, the bulkheads between the decks are vertical.”
“The Andrea Doria sounds like just our kind of place, doesn't it, Joe?”
“Only if the bar still serves tequila.”
McGinty furrowed his brow. Ordinarily this kind of cockiness before a Doria dive was a one-way ticket to a body bag. He wasn't sure about these two. The big man with the hair that didn't match the unlined face and the soft-spoken dark man with the bedroom eyes exuded an unusual confidence. The captain's worried expression disappeared, and he grinned like an old hound dog. No, it wouldn't surprise him to see them belly up to the Doria's firstclass bar and order a drink from a ghostly bartender.
Austin said, “What's the weather going to be like, Captain?”
“Weather tends to be cantankerous as hell out here on the shoals. Calm one day, howling gale the next. Fog is notorious. The guys who were aboard the Doria and the Stockholm could tell you how thick it gets. Wind's blowing southeast now, but it will come around more westerly, and my guess is you'll have flat seas. Don't know how many days that will last out here.”
“That's okay, we're in something of a hurry to get the job done,” Austin said. “We don't have days.”
McGinty grinned. Yup, damned cocky. “We'll see. Still, I've got to admit you boys have got brass. What's this you're looking for, an armored. truck in the hold? That's going to require some doing. Especially where you don't know the wreck.” He shook his head. “Wish I could help you, but my diving days are over. You could use a guide.”
Austin saw a blue hull come into view through a porthole. The name Myra was painted on the bow
“Excuse me, Captain,” he said. “I think our guide has just arrived.”
Georgetown,Washington, DC
Serpent
40
“GAMAY, DO YOU HAVE A MINUTE?” Trout called out from his study. He was bent over the monitor of his computer, staring intently at the oversized screen he used for developing graphics for his various undersea projects.
“Yrrph,” Gamay answered with a muffled grunt from the next room. She lay on her back, suspended horizontally above the floor like a yogi in a trance, balanced on a narrow plank scaffolding supported by two ladders. She and Paul were constantly remodeling the interior of their Georgetown brick townhouse. Ruch Gunn ordered her to take a few days off to rest before reporting to NUMA headquarters. But the second she got back home she picked up on a project she had left undone, painting life-like flower garlands on the ceiling of their sunroom.
She walked into the study wiping her hands on a rag. She was wearing old jeans and a chambray work shirt. Her dark red hair was stuffed under a white cap with the words TruTest Paint on it. Her face was smudged with green and red splatters except for a racoonish area around her eyes where she'd worn protective goggles.
“You look like a Jackson Pollock painting,” Trout said.
She wiped a gob of crimson from her mouth. “How Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is beyond me. I've only been at it an hour, and I've got a badcase of painter's elbow”
Trout peered upward over non-existent glasses and broke into an easy grin.
“What's with the wolfish smile?” Gamay said warily.
He put his hand around her slim waist and pulled her closer. He'd touched her at every opportunity since they had returned home, as if he feared she would disappear into the jungle again. The days she was missing were a nightmare for him, but his Yankee upbringing would never allow him to come out and say so.
“Just thinking about how sexy you look with paint spl
attered on your face.”
Gamay gently tousled his fine hair and brushed it down over his forehead. “You perverts really know how to sweettalk a gal.” Her eye caught the images on the screen. “Is that why you called me?”
“So much for sudden impetuous romantic gestures.” He indicated the screen. “Yes. Tell me what you see.”
She leaned on Paul's shoulder and squinted at the monitor. “No brainer. I see beautifully detailed sketches of eight fantastic-looking heads.” Her voice lapsed into the scientific mode, like the monotone of a pathologist conducting an autopsy. At .first glance the profiles appear identical, but upon further examination I detect subtle differences, mostly around the jaw and mouth but on the cranium as well. How am I doing, Sherlock?"
“You not only see but you also observe, my dear Watson.”
“Elementary, my dear fellow. Who drew these sketches? They are works of art in themselves.”
“The esteemed Dr. Chi. A man of varied talents.”
“I saw enough of the good professor not to be surprised at anything he does. How do you happen to have them?”
“Chi showed them to me when I was at Harvard. He asked me to run them by you. He remembered your background in archaeology before you switched to biology. But mostly he wanted a fresh eye.” Trout leaned his long body back and laced his fingers behind his head. “I'm an ocean geologist. I can take this stuff and make all the pretty pictures I want to, but it doesn't make any sense to me.”
Gamay pulled a chair up beside her husband.
“Look at it this way, Paul. It's no different from somebody handing you a rock from the bottom of the ocean. What's the first thing you'd ask?”
“Easy. Where they got it.”
“Bravo.” She pecked him on the cheek. “The same thing applies in archaeology. Mayan studies wasn't my area of expertise before I switched to marine biology, but here's my first question to you. Where did these glyphs come from?”