“They’ll come,” Pitt said to himself with unwavering determination. “They’ll come.”
17
TEN MINUTES PASSED, twenty, as the dread of loneliness fell over them. The sense of being lost on the sea bottom, the unending darkness, the bizarre sea life that hovered around them—it was all like a ghastly nightmare.
Pitt had parked Big John in the center of the seamount and then programmed the computer to monitor the leak in the engine compartment. He peered warily at the display screen as the numbers showed the water level creeping to within a few centimeters of the generator.
Though the climb to a shallower depth sharply relieved the outside water pressure, the entry flaw had enlarged, and Pitt’s further efforts could not stem the growing flood. He evacuated air to offset the increased atmospheric compression caused by the rising flood.
Plunkett half turned and studied Pitt, whose strong craggy face was quite still, as firmly set as the eyelids that never seemed to flicker. The eyes seemed to reflect anger, not at any one person or object, but anger simply directed at a situation he could not control. He sat frighteningly remote from Plunkett, almost as if the British oceanographer was a thousand kilometers away. Pitt’s mind was armored against all sensation or fear of death. His thoughts sifted through myriad escape plans, calculating every detail from every angle until one by one they were all discarded in the shredder inside his brain.
Only one possibility stood a remote chance of success, but it all depended on Giordino. If his friend didn’t appear within the next hour, it would be too late.
Plunkett reached over and thumped Pitt’s shoulder with one big fist. “A magnificent try, Mr. Pitt. You took us from the deep abyss to almost within sight of the surface.”
“Not good enough,” Pitt murmured. “We came up a dollar long and a penny short.”
“Mind telling me how you planned to do it without the convenience of a pressure lock to escape the vehicle and a personnel transfer capsule to carry us to the surface?”
“My original idea was to swim home.”
Plunkett raised an eyebrow. “I hope you didn’t expect us to hold our breath.”
“No.”
“Good,” Plunkett said, satisfied. “Speaking for myself, I’d have expired before ascending thirty meters.” He hesitated and stared at Pitt curiously. “Swim, you can’t be serious?”
“A ridiculous hope bred of desperation,” Pitt replied philosophically. “I know better than to believe our bodies could survive the onslaught of extreme pressure and decompression.”
“You say that was your original idea. Do you have another—like trying to float this monster off the bottom?”
“You’re getting warm.”
“Lifting a fifteen-ton vehicle can only be accomplished in a vivid imagination.”
“Actually, it hinges on Al Giordino,” Pitt answered with forbearance. “If he’s read my mind, he’ll meet us in a submersible equipped with—”
“But he let you down,” said Plunkett, sweeping an arm over the empty seascape.
“There has to be a damn good reason for it.”
“You know and I know, Mr. Pitt, no one will come. Not within hours, days, or ever. You gambled on a miracle and lost. If they do come to search, it’ll be over the wreckage of your mining community, not here.”
Pitt did not reply but gazed into the water. The lights of the DSMV had drawn a school of hatchetfish. Silver with deep bodies and flattened on the sides, slender tails wavered in the water as rows of light organs flashed along their lower stomachs. The eyes were disproportionately large and protruded from tubes that rose upward. He watched as they swirled gracefully in lazy spirals around the great nose of Big John.
Slowly he bent forward as if listening, then sank back again. “Thought I heard something.”
“A mystery we can still hear over that blaring music,” Plunkett grunted. “My eardrums have ceased to function.”
“Remind me to send you a condolence card at a later date,” said Pitt. “Or would you rather we give up, flood the cabin, and end it?”
He froze into immobility, eyes focused on the hatchetfish. A great shadow crept over them, and as one they darted into the blackness and vanished.
“Something wrong?” asked Plunkett.
“We have company,” Pitt said with an I-told-you-so grin. He twisted in his seat, tilted his head, and looked through the upper viewing window.
One of the NUMA Soggy Acres submersibles hung suspended in the void slightly above and to the rear of the DSMV. Giordino wore a smile that was wide as a jack-o’-lantern’s. Next to him, Admiral Sandecker threw a jaunty wave through the large round port.
It was the moment Pitt had wished for, indeed silently prayed’, for, and Plunkett’s great bear hug showed how gladly he shared the moment.
“Dirk,” he said solemnly, “I humbly apologize for my negative company. This goes beyond instinct. You are one crafty bastard.”
“I do what I can,” Pitt admitted with humorous modesty.
There were few times in his life Pitt had seen anything half as wonderful as Giordino’s smiling face from inside the submersible. Where did the admiral come from? he wondered. How could he have arrived on the scene so quickly?
Giordino wasted little time. He motioned to a small door that shielded an exterior electrical receptacle. Pitt nodded and pressed a button. The door slipped open into a hidden slot, and in less than a minute one of the articulated robotic arms on the submersible connected a cable.
“Am I coming through?” Giordino’s voice burst clearly over the speakers.
“You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice, pal,” answered Pitt.
“Sorry we’re late. The other submersible swamped and sank on the surface. This one shorted its batteries and we lost time in repairs.”
“All is forgiven. Good to see you, Admiral. I didn’t expect your honored presence down here.”
“Cut the apple-polishing,” Sandecker boomed. “What’s your status?”
“We have a leak that will close down our power source within forty or fifty minutes. Beyond that we’re in good shape.”
“Then we’d better get busy.”
With no more wasted conversation, Giordino maneuvered the submersible until its bow was on the same level and facing the lower broadside of the DSMV. Then he engaged the manipulator arms mounted on the front below the control sphere. They were much smaller than the arm system on Big John and more intricate.
The sub’s modular arms were designed to accommodate several types of hand mechanisms and operate them hydraulically. The left hand was attached to the arm by a rotating wrist, which in turn was connected to three fingers with sensors in their tips that could identify any material from wood and steel to plastic, cotton, and silk. Under the operator’s delicate touch, enhanced by a computer sensory system, the fingers could dexterously thread a small needle and tat lace or, if the occasion demanded, crush rock.
Smoothly the robotic arm unraveled a hose running from a small tank to a large rod with a hole running through its center core.
The right arm’s wrist was fitted with a series of four circular metal-cutting discs. Each disc was serrated with a different edge and could be interchanged depending on the hardness of the material it was slicing.
Pitt peered at the left-hand assembly curiously. “I knew the discs were stored on board the submersible, but where did you find the oxygen cutting equipment?”
“I borrowed it from a passing submarine,” Giordino answered without elaboration.
“Logical.” There was a tired acceptance in Pitt’s voice, unsure whether his friend was stroking him.
“Beginning separation,” said Giordino.
“While you’re cutting us free I’ll pump up our air volume by a couple of atmospheres to compensate for the extra weight from the leakage flow.”
“Sound idea,” agreed Sandecker. “You’ll need all the buoyancy you can build. But mind your pressure safety lim
its or you’ll run into decompression problems.”
“Decompression schedules will be monitored by our computer,” Pitt assured him. “Neither Dr. Plunkett nor I look forward to a case of the bends.”
As Pitt began pumping compressed air into the control and engine compartments, Giordino jockeyed the submersible so that both arm and hand manipulators could operate independently. The hand with the three articulated fingers positioned the fat welding rod against a bolt that ran through a mounting brace. The rod held a positive charge while the DSMV was negative. A bright arc suddenly flared when contact was made between the rod and bolt. As the metal glowed and melted, oxygen spurted through the hole in the rod, dispersing the buildup.
“Arc gouging,” Pitt explained to Plunkett. “They’re going to sever all mounts, drive shafts, and electrical connections until the control housing breaks free of the main frame and track mechanism.”
Plunkett nodded in understanding as Giordino extended the other arm until a spray of sparks signaled the cutting discs were attacking their target. “So that’s the ticket. We float to the surface as pretty as an emptied bottle of Veuve Cliquot-Ponsardin Gold Label champagne.”
“Or a drained bottle of Coors beer.”
“First pub we hit, Mr. Pitt, the drinks are on me.”
“Thank you, Dr. Plunkett. I accept, providing we have enough buoyancy to take us up.”
“Blow the guts out of her,” Plunkett demanded recklessly. “I’d rather risk the bends than certain drowning.”
Pitt did not agree. The excruciating agony divers had suffered over the centuries from the bends went far beyond man-inflicted torture. Death was a relief, and survival often left a deformed body racked with pain that never faded. He kept a steady eye on the digital reading as the red numbers crept up to three atmospheres, the pressure at roughly twenty meters. At that depth their bodies could safely endure the increased pressure squeeze, he estimated, in the short time remaining before nitrogen gas began forming in their blood.
Twenty-five minutes later, he was about to rethink his estimate when a growing creaking noise reverberated inside the compartment. Then came a deep grinding that was magnified by the density of the water.
“Only one mount and a frame brace to go,” Giordino informed them. “Be prepared to tear loose.”
“I read you,” replied Pitt. “Standing by to close down all power and electrical systems.”
Sandecker found it insufferable that he could plainly see the faces of the men across the thin gap separating the two vehicles and know there was every likelihood they might die. “How’s your current air supply?” he asked anxiously.
Pitt checked the monitor. “Enough to get us home if we don’t stop for pizza.”
There came a screech that set teeth on edge as the control compartment shuddered and tilted upward, nose first. Something gave then, and suddenly the structure acted as if it wanted to break free. Pitt quickly shut off the main generator power and switched over to the emergency batteries to keep the computer and speaker phone operating. But all movement abruptly stopped, and they hung frozen above the tractor’s huge frame.
“Hold on,” came Giordino’s reassuring voice. “I missed some hydraulic lines.” Then he added, “I’ll try to stay close if I can, but should we spread too far apart, the phone cable will snap and we’ll lose voice contact.”
“Make it quick. Water is gushing in through some of the severed lines and connections.”
“Acknowledged.”
“See to it you open your exit door and get the hell out fast when you hit the waves,” Sandecker ordered.
“Like geese with diarrhea,” Pitt assured him.
Pitt and Plunkett relaxed for a few seconds, listening to the sound of the cutting discs chewing through the tubing. Then came a heavy lurch followed by a ripping noise, and they began slowly rising from the top of the seamount, leaving the tractor chassis with Big John’s torn cables and melted debris dangling behind them like mechanical entrails.
“On our way!” Plunkett roared.
Pitt’s mouth tightened. “Too slow. The incoming water has lowered our positive buoyancy.”
“You’re in for a long haul,” said Giordino. “I judge your rate of ascent at only ten meters a minute.”
“We’re lugging the engine, reactor, and a ton of water with us. Our volume barely overcomes the excess weight.”
“You should rise a little faster as you near the surface.”
“No good. The water intake will offset the decrease in pressure.”
“No worry over losing the communication cable,” Giordino said happily. “I can easily match your ascent rate.”
“Small consolation,” Pitt muttered under his breath.
“Twenty meters up,” said Plunkett.
“Twenty meters,” Pitt echoed.
Both pairs of eyes locked on the depth reading that flashed on the display screen. Neither man spoke as the minutes crawled past. The twilight world was left behind and the indigo-blue of deep water paled slightly from the approaching filtered light from above. The color green made its first appearance, and then yellow. A small school of tuna greeted them before flashing away. At 150 meters Pitt could begin to make out the dial on his wristwatch.
“You’re slowing,” Giordino warned them. “Your rate of ascent has dropped to seven meters a minute.”
Pitt punched in the water leakage numbers. He didn’t like what he read. “Our flood level is redlined.”
“Can you increase your air volume?” asked Sandecker, concern obvious in his voice.
“Not without a fatal dose of the bends.”
“You’ll make it,” Giordino said hopefully. “You’re past the eighty-meter mark.”
“When our ascent drops to four meters, grab on with your hand assembly and tow us.”
“Will do.”
Giordino moved ahead and angled his vessel until the stern was pointing toward the surface and he was looking down on Pitt and Plunkett. Then he set his autopilot to maintain a reverse speed to maintain the same ascent speed as Big John’s housing. But before he could extend the robotic arm, he saw that the DSMV was falling back and the gap was increasing. He quickly compensated and closed the distance.
“Two meters a minute,” Pitt said with icy calm. “You’d better link up.”
“In the process,” Giordino anticipated him.
By the time the sub’s articulated hand system had managed a viselike grip on a protruding edge of wreckage, the compartment had come to a complete halt.
“We’ve achieved neutral buoyancy,” Pitt reported.
Giordino jettisoned the sub’s remaining iron ballast weights and programmed full reverse speed. The thrusters bit into the water and the sub, with the DSMV housing in tow, began moving again with tormented slowness toward the beckoning surface.
Eighty meters, seventy, the fight to reach daylight seemed as if it would never end. Then at twenty-seven meters, or about ninety feet, their progress stopped for the final time. The rising water in the engine room was coming in through new openings from newly ruptured pipes and cracks with the force of a fire hose.
“I’m losing you,” Giordino said, shaken.
“Get out, evacuate!” cried Sandecker.
Pitt and Plunkett didn’t need to be told. They had no wish for Big John to become their tomb. The manned housing began to descend, pulling the submersible with it. Their only salvation was the inside air pressure, it was nearly equalized with the outside water. But what fate gave them, fate snatched back. The flood couldn’t have picked a worse time to short out the emergency battery system, cutting off the hydraulic power for the exit hatch.
Plunkett frantically undogged the hatch and fought to push it out, but the slightly higher water pressure was unyielding. Then Pitt was beside him, and they put their combined strength into it.
In the submersible, Giordino and Sandecker watched the struggle with mounting fear. Negative buoyancy was rapidly increasing and the compartment wa
s beginning to drop into the depths at an alarming rate.
The hatch gave as though it was pushed through a sea of glue. As the water surged around the frame and into the compartment, Pitt shouted, “Hyperventilate, and don’t forget to exhale on the way up.”
Plunkett gave a brief nod, took a quick series of deep breaths to eliminate the carbon dioxide in his lungs, and held the last one. Then he ducked his head into the water gushing through the hatch and was gone.
Pitt followed, overventilating his lungs to hold his breath longer. He flexed his knees on the threshold of the hatch and launched himself upward as Giordino released the robotic hand’s grip, and the final remains of the DSMV fell away into the void.
Pitt couldn’t have known, but he made his exit at forty-two meters, or 138 feet, from the surface. The sparkling surface seemed to be ten kilometers away. He’d have given a year’s pay for a pair of swim fins. He also wished he was about fifteen years younger. More than once, when he was in his late teens and twenties, he’d free-dived to eighty feet while snorkeling the waters off Newport Beach in California. His body was still in good physical shape, but time and hard living had taken their toll.
He swam upward, using strong, even strokes with hands and feet, exhaling in tiny spurts so the expanding gases in his lungs would not rupture the capillaries and force bubbles directly into his bloodstream, causing an air embolism.
The glare from the sun was dancing on the surface, sending shafts of light into the shallows. He discovered he was in the shadows of two vessels. Without a face mask, his blurred vision through the water could only discern vague outlines of their bottoms. One seemed like a large boat, while the other looked absolutely mammoth. He shifted his course so he’d surface between them and save a crack on the head. Below him, Giordino and Sandecker followed in the submersible, like a crew cheering on a channel swimmer.
He stroked alongside Plunkett, who was clearly in trouble. The older man looked as though all strength had drained from his muscles. It was obvious to Pitt that Plunkett was on the verge of blacking out. He grabbed him by the collar and pulled the Britisher behind him.
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