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 limits 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 t
hrusters 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 was 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.
Pitt expelled the last of the air from his lungs. He thought the surface could never be breached. Blood was throbbing in his ears. Then suddenly, just as he was gathering all his physical resources for the final effort, Plunkett went limp. The Britisher had made a brave try before falling unconscious, but he was not a strong swimmer.
Darkness was circling Pitt's vision, and fireworks began to burst behind his eyes. Lack of oxygen was starving his brain, but the desire to reach the surface was overwhelming. The seawater was stinging his eyes and invading his nostrils. He was within seconds of drowning and he damn well wasn't going to give in to it.
He put his rapidly fading strength into one last thrust for the clouds. Pulling Plunkett's dead weight, he kicked furiously and stroked with his free hand like a madman. He could see the mirrorlike reflection of the swells. They looked tantalizingly near, and yet they seemed to keep moving away from him.
He heard a heavy thumping sound as if something was pounding the water. Then suddenly, four figures in black materialized in the water on both sides of him. Two snatched Plunkett and carried him away.
One of the others pushed the mouthpiece of a breathing regulator into Pitt's mouth.
He sucked in one great gasping breath of air, one after another until the diver gently removed the mouthpiece for a few breaths of his own. It was plain old air, the usual mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, and a dozen other gases, but to Pitt it tasted like the sparkling dry air of the Colorado Rockies and a forest of pine after a rain.
Pitt's head broke water and he stared and stared at the sun as if he'd never seen it before. The sky never looked bluer or the clouds whiter. The sea was calm, the swells no more than half a meter at their crests.
His rescuers tried to support him, but he shrugged them off. He rolled over and floated on his back and looked up at the huge sail tower of a nuclear submarine that towered above him. Then he spotted the junk. Where on earth did that come from? he wondered. The sub explained the Navy divers, but a Chinese junk?
There was a crowd of people lining the railings of the junk, most he recognized as his mining crew, cheering and waving like crazy people. He spotted Stacy Fox and waved back.
His concern swiftly returned to Plunkett, but he need not have worried. The big Britisher was already lying on the hull deck of the submarine, surrounded by U.S. Navy crewmen. They quickly brought him around, and he began gagging and retching over the side.
The NUMA submersible broke the surface almost an arm's length away. Giordino popped from the hatch through the sail tower, looking for all the world like a man who had just won the jackpot of a lottery. He was so close he could talk to Pitt in a conversational tone.
"See the havoc you've caused?" He laughed. "This is going to cost us."
Happy and glad as he was to be among the living, Pitt's face was suddenly filled with wrath. Too much had been destroyed, and as yet unknown to him, too many had died. When he replied, it was in a tense, unnatural voice.
"Not me, not you. But whoever is responsible has run up against the wrong bill collector."
<2>THE KAITEN MENANCE
October 6, 1993
Tokyo, Japan
<<18>>
The final farewell that kamikaze pilots shouted to each other before scrambling to their aircraft was
"See you at Yasukuni."
Though they never expected to meet again in the flesh, they did intend to be reunited in spirit at Yasukuni, the revered memorial in honor of those who died fighting for the Emperor's cause since the revolutionary war of 1868. The compound of the shrine sits on a rise known as Kudan Hill in the middle of Tokyo. Also known as Shokonsha, or "Spirit Invoking Shrine," the central ceremonial area was erected under the strict rules of Shinto architecture and is quite bare of furnishings.
A cultural religion based on ancient tradition, Shinto has evolved through the years into numerous rites of passage and sects cored around kami, or "the way of divine power through various gods." By World War II it had evolved into a state cult and ethic philosophy far removed from a strict religion. During the American occupation all government support of Shinto shrines was discontinued, but they were later designated as national treasures and honored cultural sites.
The inner sanctuary of all Shinto shrines is off limits to everyone except for the chief priest. Inside the sanctuary, a sacred object representing the divine spirit's symbol is enshrined. At Yasukuni the sacred symbol is a mirror.
No foreigners are allowed to pass through the huge bronze gateway leading to the war heroes' shrine.
Curiou
sly overlooked is the fact that the spirits of two foreign captains of ships sunk while supplying Japanese forces during the Russo-Japanese war of 1904 are deified among the nearly 2,500,000
Nipponese war heroes. A number of villains are also enshrined at Yasukuni. Their spirits include early political assassins, underworld military figures, and the war criminals led by General Hideki Tojo who were responsible for atrocities that matched and often went beyond the savagery of Auschwitz and Dachau.
Since the Second World War, Yasukuni had become more than simply a military memorial. It was the rallying symbol of the right-wing conservatives and militants who still dreamt of an empire dominated by the superiority of Japanese culture. The annual visit by Prime Minister Ueda Junshiro and his party leaders to worship on the anniversary of Japan's defeat in 1945 was reported in depth by the nation's press and TV networks. A storm of impassioned protest usually followed from political opposition, leftists and pacifists, non-Shinto religious factions, and nearby countries who had suffered under Japanese wartime occupation.
To avoid open criticism and the spotlight of adverse opinion, the ultranationalists behind the resurrected drive for empire and the glorification of the Japanese race were forced to clandestinely worship at Yasukuni during the night. They came and went like phantoms, the incredibly wealthy, high government dignitaries, and the sinister manipulators who skirted the shadows, their talons firmly clutching a power structure that was untouchable even by the leaders of government.
And the most secretive and powerful of all was Hideki Suma.
A light drizzle fell as Suma passed through the gate and walked the gravel path toward the Shokonsha shrine. It was well after midnight, but he could see his way by the lights of Tokyo that reflected from the low clouds. He paused under a large tree and looked around the grounds inside the high walls. The only sign of life was a colony of pigeons nestled under the disks that crowned the curved roof.
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