BLESSED WITH smooth seas and fair winds, the research vessel Atlantis rapidly covered the distance from the Azores Islands and dropped anchor north of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge over a submerged sea mountain called the Atlantic Massif. The seamount rises sharply from the ocean floor about fifteen hundred miles east of Bermuda and just south of the Azores. In the distant past, the massif protruded from the ocean, but now its flat top is some twenty-five hundred feet below the waves.
Alvin was scheduled to dive the next morning. After dinner, Paul and Gamay got together with the other scientists on board to discuss the dive. They decided to gather rock, mineral and plant samples in the area around the Lost City and to record as many visual observations as possible.
The Alvin Group, a seven-member team of pilots and engineers, was up at dawn and by six o'clock they were starting to
go through a fourteen-page checklist. By seven, they were swarming over the submersible, checking its batteries, electronics and other systems and
instruments. They loaded still and video cameras on board along with lunches and extra warm clothing for the pilot and scientists.
Then they placed stacks of iron bars on the outside of the hull to make the submersible heavy enough to sink to the bottom. The Alvin trip to the ocean floor was more a free-fall descent than an actual dive. When it was time to come up, the submersible would drop the ballast weights and float to the surface. For safety purposes, the manipulator arms could be dropped if they became entangled, and if the submersible got into trouble it could jettison the fiberglass outer hull, allowing the personnel sphere to rise to the surface on its own. If the submersible got itself into dire straits, the crew had seventy-two hours of life support.
Paul Trout was a veteran fisherman who understood the quirky nature of the ocean. He had checked the weather reports, but he relied mostly on his own instincts and experience. He surveyed the weather and sea conditions from the deck of the Atlantis. The deep-blue sky was unmarred by clouds except for a few wispy mares' tails, and he had seen rougher seas in a bathtub. Conditions were perfect for a dive. As soon as it was light, the dive team had dropped two transponders to the ocean floor in the general area of the Alvin's dive. The transponders sent out a ping sound that allowed the submersible to keep track of its position in a dark world where there were no street signs and the ordinary techniques of surface navigation were practically useless.
Gamay stood nearby, engrossed in a phone conversation with Dr. Osborne. They were discussing the latest satellite photos of Gorgonweed infestation.
"The weed is spreading more rapidly that we calculated," Osborne said. "Great masses of it are headed toward the east coast of the United States. And spots have begun to show up in the Pacific."
"We're about to launch the Alvin," Gamay said. "We're in a quiet period, so the water should be relatively clear."
"You'll need all the visibility you can get," Osborne said. "Keep a sharp eye out for areas of growth. The infestation source may not be readily apparent."
"The cameras will be rolling every minute and we may pick up something when we look at the pictures," Gamay said. "I'll send photos back as soon as we have something."
After Gamay hung up, she relayed Osborne's words to Paul. It was time to go. A crowd of people gathered on the fantail to watch. One of them was a trim man with salt-and-pepper hair who came over and wished them well. Charlie Beck was the leader of a team that had been training the ship's crew in security procedures.
"You've got a lot of guts going down in that thing," he said. "The SEAL delivery vehicles always made me claustrophobic."
"It will be a little tight," Gamay said, "but it's only for a few hours."
When it wasn't diving, the submersible was housed on the aft deck in a special building known as the Alvin hangar. Now the hangar doors opened and the Alvin emerged, moving toward the stern on a set of rails, finally coming to a halt under the A-frame. The Trouts and the pilot climbed a set of stairs and walked across a narrow bridge to the sub's red-painted top, or "sail," as it was called. They took their shoes off and squeezed through the twenty-inch hatch.
Two escort divers climbed onto the submersible and attached a winch line from the A-frame. While this was happening, a small inflatable boat was launched over the side. Controlled by an engineer on the "Dog House," a small room atop the hangar, the A-frame winched the eighteen-ton vehicle off the deck and lowered it into the ocean with the escort divers still hanging on. The divers removed the lines securing the tool basket at the bow end of the submersible, made one last check and said their good-byes down the hatch, then they swam to the inflatable to be taken back to the ship.
They took their seats in the submersible's tight cabin, a titanium pressure sphere eighty-two inches in diameter. Practically every inch
of the sphere's interior was covered with panels that contained switches for power activation, ballast control, monitors for oxygen and carbon dioxide, and other instruments. The pilot sat on a low raised stool where she could control the vehicle with the joystick in front of her.
The Trouts squeezed into the tight space on either side of the pilot, sitting on cushions that provided a modicum of comfort. Despite the tight quarters, Trout was excited. Only his New England reserve kept him from shouting with joy. For a deep-ocean geologist, the cramped quarters of the Alvin were better than a deluxe stateroom on the QE2.
Since its construction for the U.S. Navy in 1964, the Alvin's exploits had made it the world's most famous submersible. The stubby twenty-five-foot-long little vehicle with the singing chipmunk's name could dive as deep as fourteen thousand feet. The vehicle had made international headlines after it found a lost hydrogen bomb off the coast of Spain. On another expedition, it transported the first visitors to the grave of the Titanic.
Seats on the Alvin were difficult to come by. Trout considered himself extremely lucky. If not for the urgent nature of the expedition, he might have waited years to go on a dive, even with his impressive NUMA credentials and inside connections.
The pilot was a young marine biologist from South Carolina whose name was Sandy Jackson. With her calm, cool demeanor and laconic drawl, Sandy seemed like a younger version of the legendary aviatrix Jacqueline Cochran. She was a slim woman in her thirties, and under her jeans and wool sweater was the wiry physique of a marathon runner. Hair the hue of raw carrots was tucked under the tan Alvin baseball cap, which she wore with its navy blue visor backward.
While Gamay had settled for a functional one-piece jumpsuit, Trout saw no reason to change his sartorial habits for a deep-sea dive.
He was impeccably dressed, as usual. His stone washed jeans were tailored, his button-down shirt came from Brooks Brothers and he wore one of the large colorful bow ties that he collected. This one had a seahorse pattern. His bomber jacket was made of the finest Italian leather. Even his silk long underwear was custom-made. His light brown hair was carefully parted down the middle and swept back at the temples, making him look like a character from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
"This is an easy trip," Sandy said as the tanks filled with water and the submersible began its twenty-five-hundred-foot dive. "Alvin dives around a hundred feet a minute, which means we'll be on the bottom in less than a half hour. If we were diving to the fifteen-thousand-foot max, we'd drop for an hour and a half. We usually play classical music on the way down and soft rock on the ascent," Sandy said, "but it's up to you."
"Mozart would set the proper mood," Gamay said.
A moment later, the cabin was filled with the lilting strains of a piano concerto.
"We're about midway," Sandy said after fifteen minutes.
Trout greeted the announcement with a broad grin. "Can't wait to see this underwater metropolis."