Dragon - Cussler Clive (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
Judging distance above water is extremely difficult by day and almost impossible at night, but Pitt caught the moonlit sparkle of spray tossed from the wave crests by the light breeze. Impact was less than fifteen seconds away, he judged. He reclined his seat and settled into the extra padding some thoughtful soul had provided. He gave a final wave at the circling aircraft, stupidly he realized. They were too far away to make him out in the darkness. The pilot was maintaining a safe distance to keep Pitt’s canopies free of turbulence from the plane.
The sudden jarring impact was followed by a great splash as the DSMV struck in the trough between two swells. The vehicle carved a sizable crater in the sea, throwing up a circular wall of water in a blazing display of phosphorescence. Then it sank out of view and the sea closed over Big Ben as if healing a giant pockmark.
The blow was not as bad as Pitt had expected. He and Big Ben had survived the parachute drop without a bruise or a fracture. He returned his seat to the upright position and immediately began a check of all his power systems, considerably happy to see green lights sweep across the instrument console while the computer monitor reported no malfunctions. Next he switched on the exterior lights and swiveled them upward. Two of the parachutes had remained flared, but the third was twisted and tangled in its own shroud lines.
Pitt quickly turned his attention to the computer screen as he punched the appropriate keys to monitor his descent. The numbers traveled across the screen and flashed a warning. The DSMV was dropping into the black void at sixty-one meters per minute. The maximum descent speed had been calculated at forty-two. Big Ben was falling nineteen meters a minute too fast.
“Too busy to talk?” Sandecker’s voice came slurred through Pitt’s earphones.
“I have a small problem,” Pitt replied.
“The parachutes?” Sandecker asked, fearful of the answer.
“One of the chutes tangled and I’ve lost drag.”
“What’s your descent speed?”
“Sixty-one.”
“Not good.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The event was considered. Your landing site was selected because the terrain is flat and layered with soft sediment. Despite your excessive rate of descent, impact will be less than what you encountered on the water surface.”
“I’m not worried about impact,” Pitt said, warily eyeballing the TV monitor whose camera was aimed below the rapidly sinking DSMV. “But I am worried about a thirty-ton machine burying itself in ten meters of ooze. Without a scoop Big Ben can’t dig its way out of the muck like Big John.”
“We’ll get you out,” Sandecker promised.
“And what of the operation?”
Sandecker’s voice dropped off so low that Pitt could hardly hear him. “We close the play—”
“Hold on!” Pitt snapped abruptly. “The bottom has come into viewing range.”
The ugly brown of the seabed rose up out of the blackness. He watched apprehensively as the desolate terrain burst toward the camera. The DSMV struck and sank into the silt like a fist into a sponge cake. A huge cloud billowed into the cold black water and curtained off all visibility.
On board the aircraft, as if triggered by a mutual fear, the eyes of Giordino and Sandecker lifted and met across the top of the communications equipment. Their faces were taut and grim as they waited for Pitt’s next voice contact.
All anger had vanished from Giordino after he was released from his latrine prison. Now there was only intense concern as he waited for news of his friend’s fate in the depths of the sea.
Far below, Pitt could not immediately tell if the DSMV had buried itself under the seabed. His only sensation was of being pressed into his chair by a firm weight. All vision was gone. The cameras and exterior lights only recorded brownish ooze. He had no way of knowing whether the control cabin was covered by a thin coating of silt or entombed by five meters of quicksandlike muck.
Fortunately the parachute canopies were caught in a three-knot current and drifted off to the side of the DSMV. Pitt pulled a switch releasing the hooks attached to the chutes’ thick lines.
He engaged the nuclear power systems and shifted Big Ben into “forward.” He could feel the vibration as the great tractor belts dug their cleats into the silt and began to turn. For close to a full minute nothing happened. The belts seemed to spin on their gear wheels with no indication of forward traction.
Then Big Ben lurched to starboard. Pitt adjusted the controls and turned the DSMV back to port. He could feel it edge ahead slightly. He repeated the process, careening the great vehicle back and forth until centimeter-by-centimeter it began to gain headway, picking up momentum and increasing its forward movement.
Suddenly it broke the suction and lunged up and ahead, traveling over fifty meters before breaking out of the silt cloud into clear visibility.
Long seconds passed and a vague feeling of triumph began to seep into Pitt’s body. He sat there quietly relaxed, allowing the DSMV to travel across the seafloor under its own control. He switched on the automatic drive and set a computerized navigational course to the west, then waited a few moments to be certain the DSMV was operating smoothly. Thankfully, Big Ben soon reached its maximum speed and was rolling over the barren underwater plain as effortlessly as if it was plowing under a cornfield in Iowa.
Only then did Pitt contact Sandecker and Giordino and report that he was on his way toward Dennings’ Demons.
68
IT WAS MIDMORNING in Washington when Jordan took the message from Sandecker, ten time zones to the west. The President had returned to his bedroom in the upstairs White House for a shower and a change of clothes. He was standing in front of a mirror knotting his tie when the call came from the Situation Room.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. President,” said Jordan respectfully, “but I thought you’d like to know the drop was successful. Pitt and the Deep Sea Mining Vehicle are in motion.”
“Nice to start the day with some good news for a change. How soon before they reach the bomber?”
“An hour, less if the seafloor is flat and doesn’t hold any geological surprises.”
“And detonation?”
“Two hours to remove the bomb and another three to reach the explosion site, set the detonators, and give the DSMV enough time to get safely out of the area.”
“There were no problems?” asked the President.
“Admiral Sandecker reported the fall through water was a bit hairy for a while, but the DSMV survived the impact in good shape. The only other hitch, if you want to call it that, is Pitt somehow arranged to leave Giordino behind and is conducting the operation on his own.”
The President was secretly pleased. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s the kind of man who would sacrifice himself before endangering a friend. Any late developments on the bomb cars?”
“The task force engaged in the search have turned up twenty-seven.”
“Yoshishu and Tsuboi must know we’re breathing down their necks. If they had the code to explode the bombs, we’d have heard from them.”
“We’ll know shortly if we’ve won the race or not,” Jordan said soberly.
The President’s special assistant, Dale Nichols, rushed up to the President as he stepped out of the elevator. The President immediately recognized a look of urgency on Nichols’ face.
“You look like you’re standing barefoot on an anthill, Dale. What’s going down?”
“You’d better step into the communications lounge, Mr. President. Ichiro Tsuboi has somehow entered our safe system and opened up communications on the video entry.”
