"Any word from Captain Prevlov?" he asked without taking his eyes from the glasses.
"Nothing, sir," answered his first officer.
"I fear the worst has happened," Parotkin said. "I see no sign that Prevlov is in command of the derelict."
"There, sir," the first officer said pointing, "atop the remains of the aft mast. It looks like a Russian pennant."
Parotkin studied the tiny frayed cloth through the glasses as it snapped in the wind. "Unfortunately, the star on the pennant is white rather than the red of our Soviet ensign." He sighed. "I must assume that the boarding mission has failed."
"Perhaps Comrade Prevlov has had no time to report his situation."
"There is no time left. American search planes will be, here within the hour." Parotkin pounded his fist in frustration on the bridge counter. "Damn Prevlov!" he muttered angrily. "'Let us fervently hope our final option will not be required'; his exact words. He is the fortunate one. He may even be dead, and it is I who must take the responsibility for destroying the Titanic and all who remain on board her."
The first officer's face paled, his body stiffened. "There is alternative, sir?"
Parotkin shook his head. "The orders were clear. We must obliterate the ship rather than let her fall into the hands of Americans."
Parotkin took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "Have the crew ready the nuclear missile carrier and steer a course ten miles north of the Titanic for our firing position."
The first officer stared at Parotkin for a long moment, his face void of expression. Then he slowly wheeled and made for the radio telephone and ordered the helmsman to steer fifteen degrees to the north.
Thirty minutes later, all was in readiness. The Mikhail Kurkov dug her bow into the swells at the position laid for the missile launch as Parotkin stood behind the radar operator. "Any hard sightings?" he asked.
"Eight jet aircraft, a hundred and twenty miles west, closing rapidly."
"Surface vessels?"
"Two small ships bearing two-four-five, twenty-one miles southwest."
"That would be the tugs returning," the first officer said.
Parotkin nodded. "It's the aircraft that concern me. They will be over us in ten minutes. Is the nuclear warhead armed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then begin the countdown."
The first officer gave the order over the phone and then they moved outside and watched from the starboard bridge wing as the forward cargo hatch swung smoothly aside and a twenty-six-foot Stoski surface-to-surface missile slowly rose from its concealed tube into the gusty dawn air.
"One minute to firing," came a missile technician's voice over the bridge speaker.
Parotkin aimed his glasses at the Titanic in the distance. He could just make out her outline against the gray clouds that crawled along the horizon. A barely perceptible shiver gripped his body. His eyes reflected a distant sad look. He knew he would be forever cursed among sailors as the captain who sent the helpless and resurrected ocean liner back to her grave beneath the sea. He was standing braced and waiting for the roar of the missile's rocket engine and then the great explosion that would pulverize the Titanic into thousands of molten particles when he heard the sound of running footsteps from the wheelhouse, and the radio operator burst onto the bridge wing.
"Captain!" he blurted. "An urgent signal from an American submarine!"
"Thirty seconds to firing," the voice droned over the intercom.
There was unmistakable panic in the radio operator's eyes as he thrust the message into Parotkin's hands. It read:
USS DRAGONFISH TO USSR MIKHAIL KURKOV DERELICT VESSEL RMS TITANIC UNDER PROTECTION OF UNITED STATES NAVY ANY OVERT ACT OF AGGRESSION ON YOUR PART WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE REPEAT IMMEDIATE RETALIATORY ATTACK
----SIGNED CAPTAIN USS SUBMARINE DRAGONFISH
"Ten seconds and counting," came the disembodied voice of the missile technician over the speaker. "Seven . . . six..' .
Parotkin looked up with the clear, unworried expression of a man who has just received a million rubles through the mail.
". . . five . . . four . . . three . . ."
"Stop the countdown," he ordered in precise tones, so there could be no misunderstanding, no misinterpretation.
"Stop countdown," the first officer repeated into the bridge phone, his face beaded with sweat. "And secure the missile."
"Good," Parotkin said curtly. A smile spread across his face. "Not exactly what I was told to do, but I think Soviet Naval authorities will see it my way. After all, the Mikhail Kurkov is the finest ship of her kind in the world. We wouldn't want to throw her away because of a senseless and foolish order from a man who is undoubtedly dead, now would we?"
"I am in complete accord." The first officer smiled-back. "Our superiors will also be interested to learn that in spite of all our sophisticated detection gear, we failed to discover the presence of an alien submarine practically on our doorstep. American undersea penetration methods must truly be highly advanced."
"I feel sure the Americans will be just as interested in learning that our oceanographic research vessels carry concealed missiles."
"Your orders, sir?"
Parotkin watched the Stoski missile as it sank back into its tube. "Set a course for home." He turned and peered across the sea in the direction of the Titanic. What had happened to Prevlov and his men? Were they alive or dead? Would he ever know the true facts?
Overhead the clouds began turning from gray to white and the wind dropped to a brisk breeze. A solitary sea gull emerged from the brightening sky and began circling the Soviet ship. Then, as if heeding a more urgent call to the south, it dipped its wings and flew off toward the Titanic.
70
"We're done in," Spencer said in a voice so low that Pitt wasn't sure he heard him.
"Say again."
"We're done in," he repeated through slack lips. His face was smeared with oil and a rustlike slime. "It's a hopeless case. We've plugged most of the holes Drummer opened with his cutting torch, but the sea has battered the hull all to hell and the old girl is taking water faster than a sieve."
"We've got to keep her on the surface until the tugs return," Pitt said. "If they can add their pumps to ours we can stay ahead of the leaks until the damage can be patched"
"It's a damned miracle that she didn't go down hours ago.
How much time can you give me?" Pitt demanded.
Spencer stared wearily down at the water sloshing around his ankles. "The pump engines are running on fumes now. When their fuel tanks are sucked dry, the pumps will die. A cold, hard, sad fact." He looked up into Pitt's face. "An hour, maybe an hour and a half. I can't promise any more than that when the pumps go."
"And if you had enough fuel to keep the diesels going?"
"I could probably keep her on the surface without assistance until noon," Spencer answered.
"How much fuel will it take?"
"Two hundred gallons would do nicely,
They both looked up as Giordino plunged down a companionway and splashed into the water covering the deck of the No. 4 boiler room.
"Talk about frustration," he moaned. "There are eight aircraft up there, circling the ship. Six Navy fighters and two radar recon planes. I've tried everything except standing on my head and exposing myself and all they do is wave every time they make a pass."
Pitt shook his head in mock sadness. "Remind me never to play charades on your team."
"I'm open for suggestions," Giordino said. "Suppose you tell me how to notify some guy who's flying by at four hundred miles an hour that we need help, and lots of it?"
Pitt scratched his chin. "There's got to be a practical solution."
"Sure," Giordino said sarcastically. "Just call the Automobile Club for a service call."
Pitt and Spencer stared with widened eyes at each other. The same thought had suddenly occurred to them in the same instant.
"Brilliance," Spencer said, "sheer b
rilliance."
"If we can't get to a service station," Pitt said grinning, "then the service station must come to us."
Giordino looked lost. "Fatigue has queered your minds," he said. "Where are you going to find a pay phone? What will you use for a radio? The Russians smashed ours, the one in the helicopter is soaked through, and Prevlov's transmitter caught two bullets during the brawl." He shook his head "And you can forget those flyboys upstairs. Without a brush and bucket of paint, there's no way to get a message across to their eager little minds."
"That's your problem," Spencer said loftily. "You always go around looking up when you should be looking down."
Pitt leaned over and picked up a sledgehammer that was lying among a pile of tools. "This should do the trick," he said casually, swinging the sledge against one of the Titanic's hull plates, sending a cacophony of echoes throughout the boiler room.
Spencer dropped wearily onto a raised boiler grating. "They ain't going to believe this."
"Oh I don't know," Pitt managed between swings. "Jungle telegraph. It always used to work in the Congo."
"Giordino was probably right. Fatigue has queered our minds."
Pitt ignored Spencer and kept hammering away. After a few minutes, he paused a moment to get a new grip on the sledge handle. "Let us hope and pray that one of the natives has his ear to the ground," he said between pants. And then he went on hammering.
Of the two sonar operators who were on watch aboard the submarine Dragonfish, the one tuned into the passive listening system was leaning forward toward his panel, his head cocked to one side, his mind intent on analyzing the strange beat that emitted through the earphones. Then he gave a slight shake of his head and held up the earphones for the officer who was standing at his shoulder.
"At first I thought it was a hammerhead shark," the sonarman said. "They make a funny pounding noise. But this has a definite metallic ring to it."
The officer pressed the headset against one ear. Then his eyes took on a puzzled look. "It sounds like an SOS."
"That's how I read it, sir. Someone is knocking out a distress call against their hull."
"Where is it coming from?"
The sonarman turned a miniature steering wheel that activated the sensors in the bow of the sub and eyed the panel in front of him. "The contact is three-zero-seven degrees, two thousand yards north of west. It has to be the Titanic, sir. With the departure of the Mikhail Kurkov, she's the only surface craft left in the area."
The officer handed back the earphones, turned from the sonar compartment, and made his way up a wide curving stairway into the conning tower, the nerve center of the Dragonfish. He approached a medium-height, round-faced man with a graying mustache, who wore the oak leaves of a commander on his collar.
"It's the Titanic all right, sir. She's hammering out an SOS."
"There's no mistake?"
"No, sir. The contact is firm." The officer paused and then asked, "Are we going to respond?"
The commander looked thoughtful for a few moments. "Our orders were to deliver the SEAL and fend off the Mikhail Kurkov. We were also to remain obscure in case the Russians decide to make an end run with one of their own submarines. We'd be in poor position to protect the derelict if we were to surface and move off station."
"During our last sighting, she looked to be in pretty rough shape. Maybe she's going down."
"If that was the case, her crew would be screaming for help over every frequency on their radio-" The commander hesitated, his eyes narrowing. He stepped over to the radio room and leaned in.
"What time was the last communication sent from the Titanic?"
One of the radio operators scanned a sheet in a log book. "A few minutes shy of eighteen hundred hours yesterday, Commander. They requested an up-to-the-minute report of the hurricane's speed and direction."
The commander nodded and turned back to the officer. "They haven't transmitted for over twelve hours. Could be their radio is out."
"It's quite possible."
"We'd better have a look," the commander said. "Up periscope."
The periscope tubing hummed slowly into the raised position. The commander gripped the handles and stared through the eyepiece.
"Looks quiet enough," he said. "She's got a heavy list to starboard and she's down by the bow, but not bad enough to be considered dangerous yet. No distress flags flying. No one in sight on her decks-wait a moment, I take that back. There's a man atop the bridgehouse roof." The commander increased the magnification. "Good lord!" he muttered. "It's a woman."
The officer stared at him with a disbelieving expression. "You did say a woman, sir?"
"See for yourself."
The officer saw for himself. There was indeed a young blond woman above the Titanic's bridgehouse. She seemed to be waving a brassiere.
Ten minutes later, the Dragonfish had surfaced and was lying under the shadow of the Titanic.
Thirty minutes later, reserve fuel from the sub's auxiliary diesel engine was coursing through a pipe that arched across the still thrashing swells and passed neatly into a hastily cut hole in the Titanic's hull.
71
"It's from the Dragonfish, " Admiral Kemper said, reading the latest in a long line of communications. "Her captain has sent a work party aboard the Titanic to assist Pitt and his salvage crew. He states that the derelict should remain afloat, even with numerous leaks, during the tow providing, of course, she's not struck by another hurricane."
"Thank God for small favors," Marshall Collins exhaled between yawns.
"He also reports," Kemper went on, "that Mrs. Seagram is on board the Titanic and is in rare stage form, whatever that means."
Mel Donner moved out of the bathroom, a towel still draped over his arm. "Would you repeat that, Admiral?"
"The captain of the Dragonfish says that Mrs. Dana Seagram is alive and well."
Donner rushed over and shook Seagram, who was sleeping fitfully on the couch. "Gene! Wake up! They've found Dana! She's all right!"
Seagram's eyes blinked open and for long seconds he looked up at Donner, astonishment slowly spreading across his face. "Dana . . . Dana is alive?"
"Yes, she must have been on the Titanic during the storm."
"But how did she get there?"
"We don't know all the details yet. We'll just have to wait it out. But the important thing is that Dana is safe and the Titanic is still afloat."
Seagram hung his head in his hands and sat there huddled and shrunken. He began sobbing quietly.
Admiral Kemper was thankful for the distraction when a very tired Commander Keith entered and handed him another signal. "This one's from Admiral Sandecker," Kemper said. "I think you'll be interested in what he has to say, Mr. Nicholson."
Warren Nicholson and Marshall Collins both eased away from Seagram and gathered around Kemper's desk.
"Sandecker says, 'Visiting relatives have been entertained and furnished with guest bedroom. Got something in my eye during the party last night but enjoyed belting out good old song favorites like "Silver Threads among the Gold." Say hello to Cousin Warren and tell him I have a present to give him. Having wonderful time. Wish you were all here. Signed Sandecker'."
"It seems the admiral has a strange way with words," said the President. "Just what in hell is it he's trying to get across?"
Kemper stared at him sheepishly. "The Russians apparently boarded during the eye of the hurricane."
"Apparently, " the President said icily.
"'Silver Threads among the Gold'," Nicholson said excitedly. "Silver and Gold. They've caught the two espionage agents."
"And your present, Cousin Warren," Collins said, grinning with every tooth, "must be none other than Captain Andre Prevlov."
"It's imperative that I get on board the derelict as soon as possible," Nicholson said to Kemper. "How soon can you arrange transportation for me, Admiral?"
Kemper's hand was already reaching for the phone. "Inside thirty minutes I can have
you on a Navy jet that will land you on the Beecher's Island. From there you can take a helicopter to the Titanic. "
The President stepped over to a large window and gazed out at the rising sun as it crept above the eastern horizon and fingered its rays across the lazy waters of the Potomac. He yawned a long comfortable yawn.
72
Dana leaned over the forward railing of the Titanic's bridge and closed her eyes. The ocean breeze whipped her honey hair and tingled the skin on her upturned face. She felt soothed and free and completely relaxed. It was as though she were flying.
She knew now that she could never go back and slip into the painted puppet that had been the Dana Seagram of two days ago. She had made up her mind she would divorce Gene. Nothing between them mattered any more, at least to her. The girl he had loved was dead, never to return. She reveled in the knowledge. It was her rebirth. To begin again, start fresh with no holds barred.
"A dollar for your thoughts."
She opened her eyes and was greeted by the grinning and freshly shaven face of Dirk Pitt.
"A dollar? I thought it used to be a penny."
"Inflation strikes everything, sooner or later."
They stood for a while without saying anything and watched the Wallace and the Morse as they strained at the great leash that led to the Titanic's bow. Chief Bascom and his men were checking the tow cable and dabbing grease to the fair-lead to ease the chafing. The chief looked up and waved to them.
"I wish this voyage would never end," Dana murmured as they both waved back. "It's so strange and yet so wonderful." She turned suddenly and laid her hand on his. "Promise me we'll never see New York. Promise me that we'll sail on forever, like the Flying Dutchman."
"We'll sail on forever."
She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. "Dirk, Dirk!" she whispered urgently. "Nothing makes any sense any more. I want you. I want you now, and I don't really know why."
"It's because of where you are," Pitt said quietly.
He took her by the hand and led her down the grand staircase and into one of the two parlour suite bedrooms on B Deck. "There you are, madame. The finest suite of rooms on the entire ship. Cost for a one-way voyage came to better than four thousand dollars. Those were, of course, 1912 prices. However, in honor of the light in your eyes, I'll provide you with a handsome discount." He swept her up and carried her to the bed. It had been cleaned of the slime and rot and was covered with several blankets.
Raise the Titanic dp-4 Page 31
