Dragon - Cussler Clive (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗

“Sorry I couldn’t find an extra seat for you.”

“No matter. I consider it an honor to die in good company.”

Pitt stared at Plunkett, mild surprise in his eyes. “Who said anything about dying?”

“Come now, man. I know the sea. It doesn’t take a seismographic genius to know your project is about to collapse around our ears.”

“Doc,” Pitt said conversationally through a heavy tremor, “trust me.”

Plunkett gave Pitt a very skeptical look. “You know something I don’t?”

“Let’s just say, we’re catching the last freight out of Soggy Acres.”

Twelve minutes later, the shock waves came in an endless procession. Tons of rock cascaded down from the canyon walls, striking the rounded structures with shattering force.

Finally the battered walls of the undersea habitat imploded and billions of liters of icy black water boiled down and swept away man’s creation as completely as though it had never been built.

10

THE FIRST SUBMERSIBLE burst through a trough between the swells, leaping like a whale before belly-flopping into the bluegreen sea. The waters had calmed considerably, the sky was crystal clear, and the waves were rolling at less than one meter.

Giordino quickly reached up to the hatch cover, gripped the quadrant of the handwheel, and twisted. After two turns it began to spin more easily until it hit the stops and he could push the cover open. A thin stream of water spilled inside the sub, and the cramped passengers thankfully inhaled the pure, clean air. For some it was their first trip to the surface in months.

Giordino climbed through the hatch and into the small ovalshaped tower that protected the opening from the waves. He’d expected to find an empty ocean, but as he scanned the horizons his mouth gaped in horror and astonishment.

Less than fifty meters away a junk, the classic Foochow Chinese sailing ship, was bearing down on the floating submersible. Square projecting deck over the bow and high oval-like stern, it carried three masts with square matting sails stretched by bamboo strips and a modern type jib. The painted eyeballs on the bows seemed to rise up and peer down at Giordino.

For a brief instant, Giordino could not believe the incredulity of the encounter. Of all the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, he’d surfaced at precisely the right spot to be rammed by a ship. He leaned over the sub’s tower and shouted inside.

“Everybody out! Hurry!”

Two of the junk’s crew spotted the turquoise submersible as it rose on a swell, and they began yelling at their helmsman to steer hard to starboard. But the gap was almost closed. Pushed by a brisk breeze, the gleaming teak hull bore down on the people spilling out of the sub and leaping into the water.

Nearer it came, the spray flying from the bows, the massive rudder swinging hard against the current. The crew of the junk stood rooted at the railing, staring in amazement at the unexpected appearance of the submersible in their path, fearful of an impact that could shatter the junk’s bow and send it to the bottom.

The surprise, the reaction time of the spotters before they shouted a warning, the delay of the helmsman before he understood and twisted a modern wheel that replaced the traditional tiller, all worked toward an inevitable collision. Too late the ungainly vessel went into an agonizingly slow turn.

The shadow of the great projecting bow fell over Giordino as he grasped the outstretched hand from the last man inside. He was in the act of heaving him out when the junk’s bow raised on a swell and came down on the stern of the submersible. There was no loud tearing noise of a crash, there was hardly a noise at all, except a soft splash followed by gurgling as the sub rolled to port and the water poured in through the open hatch.

Then came shouting on the decks of the junk as the crew pulled on the sails, dropping them like venetian blinds. The ship’s engine coughed to life and was thrown into full astern as life rings were thrown over the side.

Giordino was pitched away from the junk as it slipped past only an arm’s length away, yanking the last passenger through the hatch, grating the skin from his knees, and falling backward, forced underwater by the body weight of the man he saved. He had the foresight to keep his mouth closed but took saltwater up his nose. He snorted clear and gazed around. Thankfully, he counted six heads bobbing on the swells, some floating easily, some swimming for the life rings.

But the submersible had quickly filled and lost its buoyancy. Giordino watched in rage and frustration as the deep-sea craft slid under a swell stern-first and headed for the bottom.

He looked up at the passing junk and read the name on her ornately painted stern. She was called Shanghai Shelly. He swore a storm at the incredible display of dirty luck. How was it possible, he cursed, to be rammed by the only ship within hundreds of kilometers? He felt guilty and devastated for failing his friend Pitt.

He only knew that he must commandeer the second sub, dive to the bottom, and rescue Pitt no matter how vain the attempt. They had been closer than brothers, he owed too much to the maverick adventurer to let him go without a fight. He could never forget the many times Pitt had come through for him, times when he thought all hope had vanished. But first things first.

He looked about. “If you’re injured, raise a hand,” he called out.

Only one hand went up—from a young geologist. “I think I have a sprained ankle.”

“If that’s all you’ve got,” grunted Giordino, “consider yourself blessed.”

The junk came about and slowed, coming to a stop ten meters to the windward of the sub’s survivors. An older man with snow-white hair in a windblown mass and a long curling white mustache bent over the railing. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Is anyone hurt? Shall we lower a boat?”

“Drop your gangway,” Giordino directed. “We’ll climb aboard.” Then he added, “Keep a sharp watch. We’ve another sub about to surface.”

“I hear you.”

Within five minutes of the exchange, all of the NUMA crew were standing on the deck of the junk, all except the geologist with the bad ankle who was being lifted by a net over the side. The man who had hailed them walked up and spread out his hands apologetically.

“God, I’m sorry you lost your vessel. We didn’t see you until it was too late.”

“Not your fault,” said Giordino, stepping forward. “We came up almost under your keel. Your lookouts were more alert than we had any right to expect.”

“Was anyone lost?”

“No, we’re all accounted for.”

“Thank God for that. This has been one crazy day. We picked another man out of the water not twenty kilometers to the west. He’s in a bad way. Says his name is Jimmy Knox. He one of your men?”

“No,” Giordino said. “The rest of my people are following in another submersible.”

“I’ve ordered my crew to keep their eyes peeled.”

“You’re most courteous,” Giordino said mechanically, his mind taking one step at a time.

The stranger who seemed to be in command glanced around the open sea, a puzzled look on his face. “Where are you all coming from?”

“Explanations later. Can I borrow your radio?”

“Of course. By the way, my name is Owen Murphy.”

“Al Giordino.”

“Right through there, Mr. Giordino,” said Murphy, wisely putting his curiosity on hold. He motioned toward a doorway in the large cabin on the quarterdeck. “While you’re occupied, I’ll see your men get into some dry clothes.”

“Much obliged,” Giordino threw over his shoulder as he hurried aft.

More than once, after the narrow escape from the submersible, the picture of Pitt and Plunkett standing helpless as millions of tons of water thundered down on them flashed through Giordino’s mind. He was coldly aware that he was probably already too late, the chances of their being alive were somewhere between zero and nonexistent. But the thought of abandoning them, giving them up for dead, was never remotely considered. If anything, he was more determined than ever to return to the seabed, regardless of the nightmare he might find.