"It's the new Michelin model. Guaranteed to wow the ladies."
Becker and the captain wondered if they had stumbled into the company of madmen. They exchanged puzzled glances, then hurried to keep up with the NUMA men. While Zavala sketched out their strategy for Captain Larsen and Becker, Austin supervised the four strapping crewmen as they moved the crate until it was under a boom. They unwound cable from the crane, then Austin ran it into the big box and gave the signal to start the hoist.
The bright-yellow figure that rose from the crate was nearly seven feet tall and looked like a robot in a fifties sci-fi film. The cast alu- minum arms and legs did indeed bulge like those of the Michelin Man, and the helmet resembled an oversized fishbowl. The arms ended in pincers like those of an insect. Four small fans protected by circular housings projected from the elbows and the back of the arms.
Austin rapped his knuckles against the unit pack attached to the figure's back. "This is the latest in Hardsuit technology. This model can operate at depths of two thousand feet for up to six hours, so I'll have plenty of leeway. Mind if I borrow a short ladder? I'll need an experienced boat crew in the water, too."
The captain dispatched his first mate to carry out the requests. Austin stripped off his windbreaker, pulled a heavy wool sweater over his turtleneck jersey, and yanked a black navy watch cap down over his ears. The suit broke at the waist into two sections. Austin climbed the ladder and eased his body into the bottom pod. Then the top section was attached, the lifting line attached, and the boom slowly lifted him off the deck.
Using the suit's radio, which was the same frequency as the ship's handsets, he called a halt when he was a few feet above the deck. He moved his arms and legs, aided by sixteen hydraulically compen- sated rotary joints. Then he tried out the manually operated manip- ulators at the end of each hand pod. Finally, he tried the foot-pad controls and listened to the whirr of the vertical and horizontal thrusters.
"All systems go," Austin said.
The atmospheric diving suit, or ADS, had been developed to pro- tect divers from intense ocean pressures while allowing them to carry out tasks of relative delicacy. Despite its humanoid shape, the Hard- suit was considered a vehicle and the diver referred to as its pilot.
With Zavala supervising the operation, the boom pivoted over the water. Austin swung back and forth like a yo-yo at the end of its swing. Seeing
that the launch crew had its boat in the water, he said, "Lower away."
The cable paid out and Austin dropped into the heaving swells. Green froth surged over his helmet. The boat crew detached the cable fastening, and Austin sank like a stone for several fathoms, until he adjusted the suit to neutral buoyancy. Then he played with the thrusters, moving up, down, back and forward, then into a hover. He took a last look at the pale surface glimmering above him, switched on the lights on the chest section, mashed the vertical con- trol pad and began his descent.
5
UNAWARE OF THE events unfolding more than two hun- dred feet above his head, Captain Petersen lay in his bunk and stared into the darkness, wondering whether he would freeze to death or suffocate first from lack of oxygen. It was purely an intel- lectual exercise. He was beyond caring how the end came. He only hoped that it arrived soon.
The cold had drained most of his energy. Every labored breath of carbon dioxide that he and his crew exhaled made the air less able to sustain life. The captain was drifting off into the comatose state that comes when the will to live ebbs like the lowering tide. Even thoughts of his wife and children could not pull him back.
He longed to reach the numb stage that might cushion his aches and pains. His body still harbored enough life to sustain his misery. His tortured lungs launched into a coughing fit that triggered a throbbing in his left arm, broken when he'd been thrown against a bulkhead. It was a simple fracture, but it hurt like hell. The groans of his crewmen reminded Petersen that he was not alone in his dis- comfort.
As he had a dozen times already, the captain ran through the col- lision in his mind, and wondered if he could have avoided it. All had been going well. A dangerous confrontation had been avoided, and the Sea Sentinel was being escorted out to sea. Then without warn- ing, that crazy circus-painted ship had veered toward the cruiser's ex- posed side.
His frantic order to bear off had come too late. The tortured sound of tearing steel had told him that the wound was fatal. His naval training had quickly come into play. He'd given the order to aban- don ship and had been supervising the launch of the lifeboats when a sailor ran up and said that men were injured below decks. Petersen hadn't hesitated. He'd left the lifeboat launch in the hands of his first mate and hurried to aid his men.
The night watch had been asleep when the LeifErilsson was hit. The Sea Sentinel's bow had penetrated the hull behind the sleeping quarters, sparing the crew from instant death but injuring some men. Petersen dashed into the mess hall, then half-tumbled down the companionway and saw that the uninjured were tending to their comrades.
"Abandon ship!" he ordered. "Form human stretchers."
The ship was sinking at a stern-down angle from the weight of the sea that poured in through the gaping hole. Water flowed into the mess hall, then down through the open hatch into the bunkroom, cut- ting off escape. Petersen climbed partway up the ladder, slammed the hatch shut and spun the wheel that locked it tight. Then the ship lurched as he was descending, and he slammed against the bulk- head, losing consciousness.
It was a fortunate accident because he didn't hear the horrible moans and creaks the ship made on its fatal plunge to the bottom. And his limp body wasn't further injured when, moments later, the cruiser slammed into the soft mud. Even so, when the captain awoke in the darkened cabin, it was to an even more terrible sound, the cries of his men. Soon after he regained consciousness, a beam of light had stabbed the darkness and revealed bloodied and pale faces among the jumbled bunks and sea chests. The ship's chef, a short, round man named Lars, called the captain's name.
"Over here," Petersen croaked.
The flickering light came his way. Lars crawled up beside Pe- tersen holding an electric torch.
"Are you all right, Lars?" the captain asked.
"Some bumps and bruises. My fat protected me. How about you, sir?"
Petersen managed a wet laugh. "I'm not so lucky. Broken left arm.
'What happened. Captain? I was sleeping." 'A ship slammed into us."
"Damn," Lars said. "I was having a sweet dream of good things to eat before I got tossed from my bunk. Didn't expect to see you down here, sir."
"One of the crew said you were in trouble. I came to help." He struggled to get up. "I'm not much help sitting here. Can you give me a hand ?"
They fashioned an improvised sling from the captain's belt and went around the cabin. With the help of a few men who hadn't been severely injured, they tried to make those less fortunate comfortable. The damp, biting cold was the worst immediate danger. They might be able to buy time, Petersen thought. The bunkroom had a supply of immersion suits used for cold-water protection if the ship went down.