Raise the Titanic! (38 page)

The final hours
of the long tow brought a clear and sunny sky with a wandering wind that gently nudged the long ocean swells shoreward and brushed their green curving backs.

Ever since dawn, four Coast Guard ships had been busy riding herd on the huge fleet of pleasure craft that darted in and out vying for a closer look at the sea-worn decks and superstructure of the hulk.

High over the crowded waters, hordes of light aircraft and helicopters swarmed like hornets, their pilots jockeying to give photographers and cameramen the perfect angle from which to shoot the
Titanic
.

From five thousand feet higher, the still-listing ship looked like a macabre carcass that was under attack from all sides by armadas of gnats and white ants.

The
Thomas J. Morse
reeled in her tow wire from the bow of the
Samuel R. Wallace
and fell back to the derelict's stern, where she attached a hawser and then eased astern to assist in steering the unwieldy bulk through the Verrazano Narrows and up the East River to the old Brooklyn Navy Yard. Several harbor tugs also appeared and stood by to lend a hand, if called upon, when Commander Butera gave orders to shorten the main tow cable to two hundred yards.

The pilot boat arrived within inches of the bulwarks of the
Wallace
and the pilot leaped aboard. Then it passed on by and thumped against the rusty plates of the
Titanic
, separated only by worn truck tires that hung along the smaller boat's freeboard. Within half a minute, the New York Harbor Chief Pilot had clutched a rope ladder and was scrambling up to the cargo deck.

Pitt and Sandecker greeted him and then led the way up to the port bridge wing, where the chief pilot placed both hands on the railing as though he were part of it and solemnly nodded for the tow to carry on. Pitt waved and Butera punched his whistle in reply. Then the tug commander ordered “slow ahead” and aimed the bow of the
Wallace
into the main channel under the Verrazano Bridge that arches from Long Island to Staten Island.

As the strange convoy probed its nose into Upper New York Bay, Butera began pacing from one side of the tug's bridge to the other, studying the hulk, the wind and the current, and the tow cable with the dedication of a brain surgeon who is about to perform a delicate operation.

Since the night before, thousands of people had lined the waterfront. Manhattan had come to a standstill, streets emptied, and office buildings suddenly became silent, as workers crowded the windows in hushed awe as the tow crawled up the harbor.

On the shore of Staten Island, Peter Hull, a reporter from the
New York Times
, began his story:

A CBS commentator expressed a more journalistic view: “The
Titanic
completed her maiden voyage today, seventy-six years after departing the dock at Southampton, England….” By noon the
Titanic
was edging past the Statue of Liberty and a vast sea of spectators on the Battery. No one on shore spoke above a whisper, and the city became strangely silent; only an occasional toot from a taxi horn gave any hint of normal activity. It was as though the whole of New York City had been picked up and placed in a vast cathedral.

Many of the watchers wept openly. Among them were three of the passengers who had survived that tragic night so long ago. The air seemed heavy and hard to breathe. Most people, describing their feelings later, were surprised to recall nothing but an odd sense of numbness, as though they had been temporarily paralyzed and struck dumb. Most that is, except a rugged fireman by the name of Arthur Mooney.

Mooney was the captain of one of the New York Harbor fireboats. A big, mischief-eyed Irishman born of the city, and a seagoing fire-eater for nineteen years. He slammed a massive fist against the binnacle and shook off the spell. Then he shouted to his crew.

“Up off your asses, boys. You're not department-store dummies.” His voice carried into every corner of the boat. Mooney hardly ever required the services of a bullhorn. “This here's a ship arrivin' on her maiden voyage, ain't she? Then let's show her a good old-fashioned traditional New York welcome.”

“But skipper,” a crew member protested, “it's not like she was the
QE II
or the
Normandie
comin' up the channel for the first time. That thing is nothin' but a wasted hulk, a ship of the dead.”

“Wasted hulk, your ass,” Mooney shouted. “That ship you see there is the most famous liner of all time. So she's a little dilapidated, and she's arrivin' a tad late. So who gives a damn? Turn on the hoses and hit the siren.”

It was a reenactment of the
Titanic
's raising all over again, but on a much grander scale. As the water spouted in great sheets over Mooney's fireboat, and his boat whistle reverberated off the city's skyscrapers, another fireboat followed his example, and another. Then whistles on docked freighters began to scream. Then the horns of cars lined up along the shores of New Jersey, Manhattan, and Brooklyn joined the outpouring of noise followed by the cheers and yells from a million throats.

What had begun with the insignificant shrill of a single whistle now built and built until it was a thunderous bedlam of sound that shook the ground and rattled every window in the city. It was a moment that echoed across every ocean of the world.

The
Titanic
had made port.

Thousands of greeters
jammed the dock where the
Titanic
was tied up. The swarming antlike mass was made up of newspeople, national dignitaries, cordons of harried policemen, and a multitude of uninvited who climbed the shipyard fence. Any attempt at security was futile.

A battery of reporters and cameramen stormed up the makeshift gangplank and surrounded Admiral Sandecker, who stood like a victorious Caesar, on the steps of the main staircase rising from the reception room on D Deck.

This was Sandecker's big moment and a team of wild horses couldn't have dragged him off the
Titanic
this day. He never missed an opportunity to snatch good publicity in the name of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, and this was one occasion where he was going to milk every line of newsprint, every second of national television, for all they were worth. He enthralled the reporters with highly colored exploits of the salvage crew and stared at the mobile camera units, and smiled and smiled and smiled. The admiral was in his own paradise.

Pitt could have cared less about the fanfare; his idea of paradise at the moment was a shower and a clean, soft bed. He pushed his way down the gangplank to the dock and melted into the crowd. He thought he'd almost gotten clear when a TV commentator rushed forward and thrust a microphone under his nose.

“Hey, fella, are you a member of the
Titanic'
s salvage crew?”

“No, I work for the shipyard,” Pitt said, waving like a yokel at the camera.

The commentator's face fell. “Cut it, Joe,” he yelled to his cameraman. “We grabbed a bummer.” Then he turned and shoved his way toward the ship, shouting for the crowd to keep their feet off his mike cord.

Six blocks, and a whole half-hour later, Pitt finally found a cab driver who was more interested in hauling a fare than in ogling the derelict.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Pitt hesitated, looking down at his grimy, sweat-stained shirt and pants under the torn and just as grimy windbreaker. He didn't need a mirror to see the bloodshot eyes and five o'clock shadow. He could easily imagine himself as the perfect reflection of a Bowery wino. But then he figured, what the hell, he'd just stepped off what was once the most prestigious ocean liner in the world.

“What's the most luxurious and expensive hotel in town?”

“The Pierre, on Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first, ain't cheap.”

“The Pierre it is then.”

The driver looked over his shoulder, studied Pitt, and wrinkled his nose. Then he shrugged and pulled into the traffic. He took less than a half hour to reach the curb in front of the Pierre, overlooking Central Park.

Pitt paid off the cabby and walked through the revolving doors and up to the desk.

The clerk gave him a look of disgust that was a classic. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said haughtily before Pitt could open his mouth. “We're all filled up.”

Pitt knew it would only be a matter of minutes before a mob of reporters discovered his whereabouts if he gave his real name. He wasn't ready to face the ordeal of celebrity status yet. All he wanted was uninterrupted sleep.

“I am not what I appear,” Pitt said, trying to sound indignant. “I happen to be Professor R. Malcolm Smythe, author and archaeologist. I have just stepped off the plane after a four-month dig up the Amazon, and I haven't had time to change. My man will be here shortly with my luggage from the airport.”

The desk clerk was instantly transformed into peaches and cream. “Oh, I am sorry, Professor Smythe, I didn't recognize you. However, we're still filled up. The city is crowded with people who came to see the arrival of the
Titanic
. I'm sure you understand.”

It was a masterful performance. He didn't buy Pitt or one word of his fanciful tale.

“I'll vouch for the professor,” said a voice behind Pitt. “Give him your best suite and charge it to this address.”

A card was thrown on the counter. The desk clerk picked it up and read it and lit up like a roman candle. Then with a flourish he laid a registration card before Pitt and produced a room key as if by sleight of hand.

Pitt slowly turned and met a face that was every bit as worn and haggard as his. The lips were turned up in a crooked smile of understanding, but the eyes were dulled with the lost and vacant stare of a zombie. It was Gene Seagram.

 

“How did you track me down so fast?” Pitt asked. He was lying in a bathtub nursing a vodka on the rocks. Seagram sat across the bathroom on the john.

“No great exercise in intuition,” he said. “I saw you leave the shipyard and followed you.”

“I thought you'd be dancing on the
Titanic
about now.”

“The ship means nothing to me. My only concern is the byzanium in its vault, and I've been told it will be another forty-eight hours before the derelict can be moved into dry dock and the wreckage in the cargo hold removed.”

“Then why don't you relax for a couple of days and have some fun. In a few weeks your problems will be over. The Sicilian Project will be off the drawing boards and a working reality.”

Seagram's eyes closed for a moment. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said quietly. “I wanted to talk to you about Dana.”

Oh God, Pitt thought, here it comes. How do you keep a straight face, knowing you made love to the man's wife? Up to now, it had been all he could do to maintain a casual tone in his conversation. “How is she getting along after her ordeal?”

“All right, I suppose.” Seagram shrugged.

“You suppose? She was airlifted off the ship by the Navy two days ago. Haven't you seen her since she came ashore?”

“She refuses to see me…said it was all over between us.”

Pitt contemplated the vodka in the glass. “So it's hearts-and-flowers time. So who needs her? If I were you, Seagram, I'd find myself the most expensive hooker in town, charge her off on your government expense account, and forget Dana.”

“You don't understand. I love her.”

“God, you sound like a letter to Ann Landers.” Pitt reached for the bottle on the tiled floor and freshened his drink. “Look, Seagram, you're a pretty decent guy underneath your pompous, bullshit façade. And who knows, you may go down in history as the great merciful scientist who saved mankind from a nuclear holocaust. You've still got enough looks to attract a woman, and I'm willing to bet that when you clean off your desk in Washington and bid a fond farewell to government service you'll be a rich man. So don't expect tears and violins from me over a lost love. You've got it made.”

“What good is it without the woman I love?”

“I see I'm not getting through to you.” Pitt was one third into the bottle and a warm glow had begun to course through his body. “Why throw yourself down the sewer over a broad who suddenly thinks she's found the fountain of youth. If she's gone, she's gone. Men come crawling back, not women. They persevere. There isn't a man alive a woman can't persevere into the grave. Forget Dana, Seagram. There are millions of other fish in the stream. If you need the phony security of a pair of tits making your bed and fixing your supper, go hire a maid; they're cheaper and a hell of a lot less trouble in the long run.”

“So now you think you're Sigmund Freud,” Seagram said, rising from the john. “Women are nothing to you. A beautiful relationship with you is a love affair with a bottle. You're out of touch with the world.”

“Am I?” Pitt stood up in the tub and yanked open the door to the medicine cabinet so that Seagram was staring at his reflection in the mirror. “Take a good look. There's the face of a man who's out of touch with the world. Behind those eyes there's a man who's driven by a thousand demons of his own making. You're sick, Seagram. Mentally sick over problems you've magnified out of all proportion. Dana's desertion is only a crutch to enhance your black depression. You don't love her as much as you think you do. She's only a symbol, a prop you lean on. Look at the glaze over the eyes; look at the slack skin around the mouth. Get yourself to a psychiatrist, and damned soon. Think about Gene Seagram for once. Forget about saving the world. It's time you saved yourself.”

Seagram's face was violently flushed. He clenched his fists and trembled. Then the mirror before his eyes began to mist, not on the outside but from within, and another face slowly emerged. A strange face with the same haunted eyes.

Pitt stood mute and watched as Seagram's expression turned from anger to sheer terror.

“God, no…it's him!”

“Him?”

“Him!” he cried, “Joshua Hays Brewster!” Then Seagram struck the mirror with both fists, shattering the glass, and fled the room.