Raise the Titanic! (28 page)

The
Titanic
lay
motionless and dead against the unending onslaught of the waves as they swirled around her huge mass, then closed ranks again and swept onward toward some as yet unknown and distant shore. She lay there and drifted with the current, her sodden wooden decks steaming under the fading evening sun. She was a dead ship that had returned among the living. A dead ship, but not an empty ship. The compass tower on the raised deck over her first-class lounge had been quickly cleared away to accommodate the helicopter, and soon a steady stream of men and equipment was being ferried on board to begin the arduous task of correcting the list and preparing her for the long tow to New York Harbor.

For a few short minutes after the half-dead crew of the
Deep Fathom
were airlifted to the
Capricorn
, Giordino had had the
Titanic
all to himself. The fact that he was the first man to set foot on her decks in seventy-six years never entered his head, and though it was still broad daylight, he shied away from any exploring. Each time he gazed down the 882-foot length of the ship, he felt as if he were staring down into a damp and slimy crypt. Nervously, he lit a cigarette, sat on a wet capstan, and waited for the invasion that wasn't long in coming.

Pitt experienced no pangs of uneasiness when he came on board, but, rather, a feeling of reverence. He walked to the bridge and stood alone, absorbed in the legend of the
Titanic
. God only knew, he'd wondered a hundred times what it was like that Sunday night nearly eight decades ago when Captain Edward J. Smith stood on the very same spot and realized that his great command was slowly and irreversibly sinking beneath his feet. What were his thoughts, knowing the lifeboats could hold only 1,180 people, while on the maiden voyage the ship was carrying 2,200 passengers and crew? Then he wondered what the venerable old captain would have thought had he known the decks of his ship would one day be walked again by men as yet unborn in his time.

After what seemed hours, but was in reality only a minute or two, Pitt broke out of his reverie and moved aft along the Boat Deck, past the sealed door of the wireless cabin, where First Operator John G. Phillips had sent history's first SOS; past the empty davits of lifeboat No. 6, in which Mrs. J. J. Brown of Denver later achieved enduring fame as the “Unsinkable Molly Brown”; past the entrance to the grand stairway, where Graham Farley and the ship's band had played to the end; past the spot where millionaire Benjamin Guggenheim and his secretary had stood calmly waiting for death, dressed in the finery of their evening clothes so that they could go down like gentlemen.

It took him almost a quarter of an hour to reach the elevator house at the far end of the Boat Deck. Pitt climbed over the handrailing and dropped to the Promenade Deck below. Here, he found the aft mast protruding from the rotted planking like a forelorn stump, ending abruptly at a height of eight feet where it had been cut short by
Sea Slug
's underwater torch.

Pitt reached inside his jacket and pulled out the package given him by Commodore Bigalow and tenderly unwrapped it. He had forgotten to carry a line or cord, but he made do with the twine from the wrapping. When he was through, he stepped back from the stub of the once tall mast and stared up at his makeshift handiwork.

It was old and it was faded, but the red pennant of the White Star Line that Bigalow had snatched from oblivion so long ago proudly flew once more over the unsinkable
Titanic
.

The morning sun
was just probing its rays above the eastern horizon when Sandecker jumped from the helicopter's cockpit door and ducked under the whirling blades, clutching his cap. Portable lights still blazed over the derelict's superstructure and crates of machinery were scattered about the decks in various stages of assembly. Pitt and his crew had slaved through the night, struggling like madmen to organize the salvage efforts.

Rudi Gunn greeted him under a rust-cankered ventilator.

“Welcome aboard the
Titanic
, Admiral,” Gunn said, grinning. It seemed as if everybody in the salvage fleet was grinning this morning.

“What's the situation?”

“Stable for the moment. As soon as we get the pumps operating, we should be able to correct her list.”

“Where's Pitt?”

“In the gymnasium.”

Sandecker stopped in midstride and stared at Gunn. “The gymnasium, did you say?”

Gunn nodded and pointed at an opening in a bulkhead whose ragged edges suggested the work of an acetylene torch. “Through here.”

The room measured about fifteen feet wide by forty feet deep and was inhabited by a dozen men who were all involved in their individual assignments and who were seemingly oblivious to the weird assortment of antiquated and rust-worn mechanisms mounted on what had once been a colorful linoleum-block floor. There were ornate rowing machines, funny-looking stationary bicycles that were attached to a large circular distance clock on the wall, several mechanical horses with rotting leather saddles, and what Sandecker could have sworn looked like a mechanical camel which, as he discovered later, was exactly that.

Already the salvage crew had equipped the room with a radio transmitter and receiver, three portable gas-driven electrical generators, a small forest of spotlights on stands, a compact little Rube Goldberg–like galley, a clutter of desks and tables made out of collapsible aluminum tubing and packing crates, and several folding cots.

Pitt was huddled with Drummer and Spencer as Sandecker moved toward them. They were studying a large cutaway drawing of the ship.

Pitt looked up and waved a salute. “Welcome to the Big T, Admiral,” he said warmly. “How are Merker, Kiel, and Chavez?”

“Safely bedded down in the
Capricorn
's sick bay,” Sandecker answered. “Ninety percent recuperated and begging Dr. Bailey to return them to duty. A request, I might add, that fell on deaf ears. Bailey insisted that they remain under observation for twenty-four hours, and there is simply no budging a man of his size and determination.” Sandecker paused to sniff the air and then wrinkled his nose. “God, what's that smell?”

“Rot,” Drummer replied. “It fills every nook and cranny. There's no escaping it. And it's only a matter of time before the dead marine life that came up with the wreck begins to stink.”

Sandecker gestured about the room. “A cozy place you've got here,” he said, “but why set up operations in the gym rather than the bridge?”

“A break from tradition for practical reasons,” Pitt replied. “The bridge serves no useful function on a dead ship. The gym, on the other hand, sits amidships and offers us equal access to either bow or stern. It also adjoins our improvised helicopter pad over the first-class lounge roof. The closer to our supplies we are, the more efficiently we can operate.”

“I had to ask,” Sandecker said heavily. “I should have known you didn't pick this museum of mechanical monstrosities just to launch a physical-fitness program.”

Something in a pile of wreckage that lay in a soggy heap against the forward wall of the gymnasium caught the admiral's eyes and he walked over to it. He stood and stared grimly for several moments at the skeletal remains of what had once been a passenger or crew member of the
Titanic
.

“I wonder who this poor devil was?”

“We'll probably never know,” Pitt said. “Any dental records from 1912 have no doubt been destroyed long ago.”

Sandecker leaned down and examined the pelvic section of the bones. “Good lord, it was a woman.”

“Either one of the first-class passengers who elected to remain behind or one of the women from the steerage quarters who arrived on the Boat Deck after all the lifeboats had been launched.”

“Have you found any other bodies?”

“We've been too busy to do any extensive exploring,” Pitt said. “But one of Spencer's men reported another skeleton wedged against the fireplace in the lounge.”

Sandecker nodded toward an open doorway. “What's through there?”

“That opens onto the grand staircase.”

“Let's take a look.”

They walked onto the landing above the A Deck lobby and looked down. Several rotting chairs and sofas were scattered haphazardly on the steps where they had fallen when the ship sank by the bow. The graceful flowing lines of the bannisters were still sound and undamaged, and the hands of the bronze clock could be seen frozen at 2:21. They made their way down the silt-coated stairs and entered one of the passageways leading to the staterooms. Without the benefit of outside light, the scene was an eerie one. Room after room was filled with rotted and fallen paneling interspersed with overturned and jumbled furniture. It was too dark to discern any detail, and after penetrating about thirty feet, they found their way blocked by a wall of debris, so they turned and headed back to the gymnasium.

Just as they came through the doorway, the man hunched over the radio turned from his set. It was Al Giordino.

“I wondered where you two went. The Uranus Oil people want to know about their submersible.”

“Tell them they can retrieve the
Deep Fathom
off the
Titanic
's foredeck just as soon as we make dry dock in New York,” Pitt said.

Giordino nodded and turned back to the radio.

“Leave it to the commercial business interests to bitch about their precious property on such a momentous occasion,” Sandecker said with a gleam in his eye. “And, speaking of momentous occasions, would any of you gentlemen care to celebrate with a touch of spirits?”

“Did you say spirits?” Giordino looked up expectantly.

Sandecker reached under his coat and produced two bottles. “Do not let it be said that James Sandecker ever fails to look out for the best interests of his crew.”

“Beware of admirals bearing gifts,” Giordino murmured.

Sandecker shot him a weary glance. “What a pity walking the plank became passé.”

“And keelhauling,” Drummer added.

“I promise never to dig our leader ever again. Providing, of course, he keeps me in booze,” Giordino said.

“A small price to pay.” Sandecker sighed. “Choose your poison, gentlemen. You see before you a fifth of Cutty Sark scotch for the city slickers, and a fifth of Jack Daniel's for the farm boys. Round up some glasses and be my guests.”

It took Giordino all of ten seconds to find the required number of foam cups in their Mickey Mouse all-electric galley. When the liquor had been poured, Sandecker raised his cup.

“Gentlemen, here's to the
Titanic
. May she never again rest in peace.”

“To the
Titanic
.”

“Hear, hear.”

Sandecker then relaxed on a folding chair, sipped at his scotch, and idly wondered which of the men in that soggy room were on the payroll of the Soviet government.

Soviet General Secretary
Georgi Antonov sucked on his pipe with short, violent puffs and regarded Prevlov with a pensive gaze.

“I must say, Captain, I take a dim view of the whole undertaking.”

“We have carefully considered every avenue, and this is the only one left open to us,” Prevlov said.

“It's fraught with danger. I fear the Americans will not take the theft of their precious byzanium lying down.”

“Once it is in our hands, Comrade Secretary, it will make no difference how loudly the Americans scream. The door will have been slammed in their faces.”

Antonov folded and unfolded his hands. A large portrait of Lenin floated on the wall behind him. “There must be no international repercussions. It must look to the world as though we were entirely within our rights.”

“This time the American president will have no recourse. International law is on our side.”

“It will mean the end of what used to be called détente,” Antonov said heavily.

“It will also mean the beginning of the end of the United States as a superpower.”

“A cheerful conjecture, Captain; I appreciate that.” His pipe had gone out and he relit it, filling the room with a sweet aromatic odor. “However, should you fail, the Americans will be in the same position to say the same of us.”

“We will not fail.”

“Words,” Antonov said. “A good lawyer plans the prosecutor's case as well as his own. What measures have you taken in the event of an unavoidable mishap?”

“The byzanium will be destroyed,” Prevlov said. “If we cannot possess it, then neither can the Americans.”

“Does that include the
Titanic
as well?”

“It must. By destroying the
Titanic
, we destroy the byzanium. It will be accomplished in such a way that another recovery operation will be totally out of the question.”

Prevlov fell silent, but Antonov was satisfied. He had already given his approval for the mission. He studied Prevlov carefully. The captain looked like a man who was not used to failure. His every movement, every gesture, seemed thoughtfully planned in advance; even his words carried an air of confident fore-thought. Yes, Antonov was satisfied.

“When do you leave for the North Atlantic?” he asked.

“With your permission, Comrade Secretary, at once. A long-range reconnaissance bomber is on standby at Gorki Airfield. It is imperative that I be standing on the bridge of the
Mikhail Kurkov
within twelve hours. Good fortune has sent us a hurricane, and I will make full use of its force as a diversion for what will seem our perfectly legal seizure of the
Titanic
.”

“Then I will not keep you.” Antonov stood and embraced Prevlov in a great bear hug. “The hopes of the Soviet Union go with you, Captain Prevlov. I beg you, do not disappoint us.”