"Turn on the speaker," Pitt ordered.
A voice rattled into the operations room, muffled behind a wave of static.
"Something is jamming the transmission," said Curly. "The relay unit on the air-line buoy should be picking them up loud and clear."
"Give your volume everything it's got. Maybe we can make some sense out of Woodson's reply."
"Sappho II, could you repeat please. We cannot read you. Over."
As soon as Curly turned up the speaker, the explosion of ear-splitting crackle made everyone jump.
"------corn. We ------- ----ou ----lear. ----ver."
Pitt grabbed the microphone. "Omar, this is Pitt. Your cabin TV camera is out. Can you repair? We will await your reply. Over."
Every eye in the operations room locked on the speaker as though it were alive. Five interminable minutes dragged by while they patiently waited for Woodson's report. Then Woodson's fragmented voice hammered through the loudspeaker again.
"Hen----- Munk ------- ------est per-----on ------ sur---------."
Giordino twisted his face, puzzled. "Something about Henry Munk. The rest is too garbled to comprehend."
"They're back on monitor." Not every eye had been aimed at the speaker. The young man at the TV monitors had never taken his off Sappho II's screen. "The crew looks like they're grouped around someone lying on the deck."
Like spectators at a tennis match, every head turned in unison to the TV monitor. Figures were moving to and fro in front of the camera, while in the background three men could be seen bent over a body stretched grotesquely on the submersible's narrow cabin deck.
"Omar, listen to me," Pitt snapped into the microphone. "We do not understand your transmissions. You are back on TV monitor. I repeat, you are back on TV monitor. Write your message and hold it up to the camera. Over."
They watched one of the figures detach itself from the rest and lean over a table for a few moments writing and then approach the TV camera. It was Woodson. He held up a scrap of paper whose
rough printing read, "Henry Munk dead. Request permission to surface."
"Good God!" Giordino's expression was one of pure astonishment. "Henry Munk dead? It can't be true."
"Omar Woodson isn't noted for playing games," Pitt said grimly. He began to transmit again. "Negative, Omar. You cannot surface. There is a thirty-five-knot gale up here. The sea is turbulent. I repeat, you cannot surface."
Woodson nodded that he understood. Then he wrote something else, looking over his shoulder furtively every so often. The note said "I suspect Munk murdered!"
Even Farquar's usually inscrutable face had gone pale. "You'll have to let them surface now," he whispered.
"I will do what I have to do." Pitt shook his head decisively. "My feelings will have to look elsewhere. There are five men still alive and breathing inside Sappho II. I won't risk bringing them up only to lose them all under a thirty-foot wave. No, gentlemen, we will just have to sit it out until sunrise to see what there is to see inside the Sappho II."
41
Pitt had the Capricorn home in on the signal-relay buoy as soon as the wind dropped to twenty knots. Once again they connected the air line running from the ship's compressor to the Titanic and then waited for the Sappho IIs emergence from the deep. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten when final preparations were made to receive the submersible. Divers made ready to drop in position around the Sappho II and secure safety lines to prevent her from capsizing in the heavy seas; the winches and cables were set to haul her from the water and into the open stern of the Capricorn; down in the galley the cook began making an urn of coffee and a hearty breakfast to greet the crew of the submersible when they arrived. When all was in readiness, the scientists and engineers stood quietly shivering in the early morning cold, wondering about Henry Munk's death.
It was 0610 when the submersible popped into the marching swells one hundred yards off the port stern of the Capricorn. A line was run out by boat, and within twenty minutes the Sappho II was winched onto the stern ramp of her tender. As soon as she was blocked and secured into place, the hatch was opened and Woodson pulled himself out, followed by the four surviving members of his crew.
Woodson climbed to the top deck, where Pitt was waiting for him. His eyes were red with sleeplessness and his face stubble-bearded and gray, but he managed a thin smile as Pitt shoved a steaming mug of coffee into his hand. "I don't know which I'm happier to see, you or the coffee," he said.
"Your message mentioned murder," Pitt said, ignoring any word of greeting.
Woodson sipped at the coffee for a moment and looked back at the men who were gently lifting Munk's body through the submersible's hatch. "Not here," he said quietly.
Pitt motioned toward his quarters. Once the door was closed, he wasted no time. "Okay, let's have it."
Woodson dropped heavily onto Pitt's bunk and rubbed his eyes. "Not much to tell. We were hovering about sixty feet above the sea floor sealing off the starboard ports on C Deck when I got your message about the TV camera. I went aft to check it out and found Munk lying on the deck with his left temple caved in."
"Any sign of what caused the blow?"