Raise the Titanic! (Dirk Pitt 4)

There was an air of tension and despair in the Capricorn's operations room. The usually gregarious Giordino simply nodded at Pitt's arrival, totally bypassing any word of greeting. Ben Drummer was on the microphone, talking to the crew of the Deep Fathom, encouraging them with a show of forced cheer and optimism that was betrayed by the dread in his eyes. Rick Spencer, the salvage operations equipment engineer, was gazing in mute concentration at the TV monitors. The other men in the room went about their business quietly, their faces pensive.

Gunn began explaining the situation. "Two hours before she was to ascend and change crews, the Deep Fathom, manned by engineers Joe Kiel, Tom Chavez, and Sam Merker--"

"Merker was with you on the Lorelei Current Expedition," Pitt interrupted.

"So was Munk." Gunn nodded solemnly. "It would seem we're a cursed crew."

"Go on."

"They were in the midst of installing a pressure bleed valve on the starboard side of the Titanic's forecastle deck bulkheads when their stern brushed against a forward cargo crane. The corroded mounts broke loose and the derrick section fell across the sub's buoyancy tanks, rupturing them.

More than two tons of water poured through the opening and pinned her hull to the wreck."

"How long ago did it happen?" Pitt asked.

"About three and a half hours ago."

"Then why all the gloom? You people act as if there wasn't a prayer. The Deep Fathom carries enough oxygen in her reserve system to support a crew of three for over a week. Plenty of time for Sappho I and II to seal the air tanks and pump clear the water."

"It's not all that simple," Gunn said. "Six hours is all we've got."

"How do you figure a six-hour margin?"

"I left the worst part for last." Gunn stared bleakly at Pitt. "The impact from the falling crane cracked a welded scam on the Deep Fathom's hull. It's only a tiny pinhole, but the tremendous pressure at that depth is forcing the sea into the cabin at the rate of four gallons a minute. It's a miracle the seam hasn't burst, collapsing the hull and crushing those guys to jelly." He tilted his head toward the clock over the computer panel. "Six hours is all they've got before the water fills the cabin and they drown . . . and there's not a damned thing we can do about it."

"Why not plug the leak from the outside with Wetsteel?"

"Easier said than done. We can't get at it. The section of the hull's seam that contains the leak is jammed against the Titanic's forecastle bulkhead. The admiral sent down the other three submersibles in the hope that their combined power could move the Deep Fathom just enough to reach and repair the damage. It was no-go."

Pitt sat down in a chair, picked up a pencil, and began making notations on a pad. "The Sea Slug is equipped with cutting equipment. If she could attack the derrick-"

"Negative." Gunn shook his head in frustration. "During the tugging operation, the Sea Slug broke her manipulator arm. She's back on the Modoc's deck now and the Navy boys say it's impossible to repair the arm in time." Gunn slammed his fist down on the chart table. "Our last hope was the winch on the Bomberger. If it was possible to attach a cable to the derrick, we might have pulled it free of the sub."

"End of rescue," Pitt said. "The Sea Slug is the only submersible we've got that's equipped with a heavy-duty manipulator arm, and without it, there is no way of making a hookup with the cable."

Gunn rubbed his eyes wearily. "After thousands of manhours poured into the planning and construction of every back-up safety system conceivable, and the calculating of concise emergency procedures for every predictable contingency, the unforeseen rose up and smacked us below the belt with a beyond-the-bounds-of-probability, million-to-one accident the computers didn't count on."

"Computers are only as good as the data fed into them," Pitt said.

He moved over to the radio and took the microphone from Drummer's hand. "Deep Fathom, this is Pitt. Over."

"Nice to hear your cheery voice again," Merker came over the speaker as calmly as if he were on the telephone lying at home in bed. "Why don't you drop down and make up a fourth for bridge?"

"Not my game," Pitt answered matter-of-factly. "How much time left before the water reaches your batteries?"

"At the rate she's rising, approximately another fifteen to twenty minutes."

Pitt turned to Gunn and said what needed no saying. "When their batteries go, they'll be out of communication."

Gunn nodded. "The Sappho II is standing by to keep them company. That's about all we can do."

Pitt pressed the mike button again. "Merker, how about your life-support system?"

"What life-support system? That crapped out half an hour ago. We're existing on bad breath."

"I'll send you down a case of Certs."

"Better make it fast. Chavez has a malignant case of halitosis." Then a trace of doubt surfaced in Merker's tone. "If the worst happens and we don't see you guys again, at least we'll be surrounded by good company down here."