Far above the turbulent waters Augustine Volcano seemed calm and serene in the late afternoon sun. It was one of the most beautifully sculptured mountains in the Pacific, rivaling the classic contour of Mount Fuji in Japan.
The powerful launch surfed for an instant on a white capped swell before diving over the crest. Pitt braced his feet, gripped a railing with both hands while his eyes studied the shore.
The wreck was heeled over at a twenty-degree angle and her stern section blanketed in brown rust. The rudder was canted in the full starboard position and two barnacle-encrusted blades of the propeller protruded from the black sand. The letters of her name and borne port were too obscured to read.
Pitt, Giordino, Dover, the two EPA scientists and one of the Catawba's junior officers all were garbed in white encapsulating suits to protect them from the plumes of deadly spray. They communicated by tiny transmitters inside their protective headgear.
Attached to their waist belts were intricate filter systems designed to refine clean, breathable air.
The sea around them was carpeted with dead fish of every species.
A pair of whales rolled lifelessly back and forth with the tine, united in rotting decay with porpoises, sea lions and spotted seals.
Birds by the thousands floated amid the morbid debris. Nothing that had lived in the area had escaped.
Dover expertly threaded the launch between the threatening offshore barrier of projecting rock, the remnant of an ancient coastline. He slowed, waiting for a momentary lull in the surf, bining his time while carefully eyeing the depth. Then as a wave slammed onto the shore and its backwash spilled against the next one coming in, he aimed the bow at the small spit of sand formed around the base of the wreck and pushed the throttle forward. Like a horse bracing for the next hurdle at the Grand National, the launch rose up on the wave crest and rode it through the swirling foam until the keel dropped and scraped onto the spit.
"A neat bit of handiwork," Pitt complimented him.
"All in the timing," Dover said, a grin visible behind his helmet's facemask. "Of course, it helps if you land at low tine."
They tilted back their heads and stared up at the wreck towering above them. The faded name on the stern could be deciphered now. It read Pilottown.
"Almost a pity," Dover said reverently, "to write finish to an enigma."
"The sooner the better," Pitt said, his tone grim as he considered the mass death inside.
Within five minutes the equipment was unloaded, the launch securely moored to the Pilottown's rudder, and the men laboriously climbing the steep slope on the port side of the stern. Pitt took the lead, followed by Giordino and the rest as Dover brought up the rear.
The incline was not made up of Solid rock but rather a combination of cinder ash and mud with the consistency of loose gravel.
Their boots struggled to find a foothold, but mostly they slid back two steps for every three they gained. The dust from the ash rose and clung to their suits, coating them a dark gray. Soon the sweat was seeping through their pores and the increasingly heavy rasp of their breathing became more audible over the earphones inside their helmets.
Pitt called a halt at a narrow ledge, not four feet wine and just long enough to hold all six men. Wearily Giordino sank to a sitting position and readjusted the straps that held the acetylene tank to his back. When he could finally pant a coherent sentence, he said, "How in hell did this old rust bucket jam her in here?"
"She probably drifted into what was a shelving inlet before 1987," replied Pitt. "According to Mendoza, that was the year the volcano last erupted. The explosion gases must have melted the ice around the mantle, forming millions of gallons of water. The mudflow, along with the cloud of ash, poured down the mountain until it met the sea and buried the ship."
"Funny the
stern wasn't spotted before now."
"Not so remarkable," Pitt answered. "So little is showing it was next to impossible to detect from the air, and beyond a mile from shore it blends into the rugged shoreline and becomes nearly invisible.
Erosion caused by recent storms is the only reason she's uncovered now."
Dover stood up, pressing his weight against the steep embankment to maintain his balance. He unraveled a thin knotted nylon rope from his waist and unfolded a small grappling hook tied to the end.
He looked down at Pitt. "If you'll support my legs, I think I can heave the hook over the ship's railing."
Pitt grasped his left leg as Giordino edged over and held the right. The burly Coast Guardsman leaned back over the lip of the ledge, swung the hook in a widening arc and let it fly.
it sailed over the stern rails and caught.
The rest of the ascent took only a few minutes. Pulling themselves upward, hand over hand, they soon climbed onto the deck.
Heavy layers of rust mingled with ash flaked away beneath their feet. What little they could see of the Pilottown looked a dirty, ugly mess.
"No sign of Mendoza," said Dover.