Raise the Titanic - Cussler Clive (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации полные .txt) 📗

    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."

    Merker's abrupt reference to the Titanic's dead left every man in the operations room a shade paler; every man that is, except Pitt. He touched the transmit button. "Just see to it you leave a clean ship. We may want to use it again. Pitt out."

    It was interesting to see the reaction to Pitt's seemingly callous remark. Giordino, Gunn, Spencer, and the others just stared at him. Only Drummer displayed an expression of anger.

    Pitt touched Curly, the radio operator, on the shoulder. "Patch me into the admiral on the Bomberger, but use a different frequency."

    Curly looked up. "You don't want those guys on the Deep Fathom to hear?"

    "What they don't know won't hurt them," said Pitt coldly. "Now hurry it up."

    Moments later Sandecker's voice boomed over the speaker. "Capricorn, this is Admiral Sandecker. Over."

    "Pitt here, Admiral."

    Sandecker wasted no time on niceties. "You're aware of what we're up against?"

    "'Gunn has briefed me," Pitt replied.

    "Then you know we have exhausted every avenue. No matter how you slice it, time is the enemy. If we could stall the inevitable for another ten hours, we'd have a fighting chance of saving them." '

    "There's one other way," Pitt said. "The odds are high but mathematically, it's possible."

    "I'm open to suggestions."

    Pitt hesitated. "To begin with, we forget the Deep Fathom for the moment and turn our energies in another direction."

    Drummer came close to him. "What are you saying, Pitt? What goes on here? 'Forget the Deep Fathom'," he shouted through twitching lips. "Are you mad?"

    Pitt smiled a disarming smile. "The last desperate roll of the dice, Drummer. You people failed, and failed miserably. You may be God's gift to the world of marine salvage, but as a rescue force, you come off like a bunch of amateurs. Bad luck compounded your mistakes, and now you sit around whining that all is lost. Well all is not lost, gentlemen. We're going to change the rules of the game and put the Deep Fathom on the surface before the six-hour deadline, which, if my watch serves me, is now down to five hours and forty-three minutes."

    Giordino looked at Pitt. "Do you really think it can be done?"

    "I really think it can be done."

47

    The structural engineers and the marine scientists huddled around in small circles, mumbling to themselves as they frantically shoved their slide rules back and forth. Every so often, one of them would break away and walk over to the computers and check the readout sheets. Admiral Sandecker, who had just arrived from the Bomberger, sat behind a desk gripping a mug of coffee and shaking his head.