“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, nearly jumping out of Gunn's office.
Gunn mulled over the situation. NUMA research ships had the latest in satellite communications equipment. They wouldn't just disappear without warning. And the Sea Rover had one of the most experienced and competent crews in the NUMA fleet. Dirk must be right, he feared. There must be a powerful operation that was pursuing the biological bombs on board the I-411.
With a foreboding sense of dread, Gunn picked up his telephone and buzzed his secretary.
“Dark, get me the vice president.”
Captain Robert Morgan was not a man to go down easy. Shaking off his shattered femur and broken cheekbone as if they were a sprain and a scratch, he quickly took order of his shaken crew after being unceremoniously tossed into the confined storage hold. Seconds after his arrival, the heavy steel hatch cover was slammed down above them, the crash of the massive lid thrusting the compartment into complete darkness. Frightened whispers echoed off the steel walls while the dank air hung thick with the odor of diesel fuel.
“Don't panic,” Morgan bellowed in response to the murmurs. “Ryan, are you in here?”
“Over here,” Ryan's voice rang back from a corner.
“There should be a spare lightweight ROV secured in the rear. Find some batteries and see if you can't get the lights rigged,” he ordered.
A dim light suddenly glowed in the back of the hold, the narrow beam of a portable flashlight clasped in the paw of the Sea Rover\ chief engineer.
“We'll get it done, Cap'n,” growled the Irish-tinged voice of the engineer, a red-haired salt named Mcintosh.
Ryan and Mcintosh located the spare ROV in a storage cradle, and further rummaging under the faint light produced a stockpile of battery packs. Ryan proceeded to cut one end of the ROV's power cable and spliced several internal lines to the battery pack terminals. Once he configured a complete circuit, the ROV's bright xenon lights burst on in a blinding shower of blue-white luminescence. Several crew members standing near the ROV's lights squinted their eyes shut tight at the sudden surge of light in the blackened hold. Under the bath of light, Morgan was able to examine his shipboard crew and the onboard team of scientists, which he noted were huddled in small groups throughout the hold. A mix of confusion and fear was reflected in the faces of most of the men and women.
“Nice work, Ryan. Mcintosh, move those lights across the hold, please. Now, then, is anybody hurt?” the captain said, ignoring his own severe injuries.
A quick tally revealed a score of cuts, bumps, and bruises. But aside from the wounded machinist and a broken leg suffered by a geologist when he fell into the hold, there were no other serious injuries.
“We're going to get out of this,” Morgan lectured confidently. “These goons just want the items we've been salvaging off the Japanese submarine. Chances are, they'll let us out of here just as soon as they've smuggled the materials off to their ship,” he said, internally doubting his own words. “But, just in case, we'll figure out a way to pop the lid on our own. We've certainly got plenty of manpower to do it with. Mcintosh, swing that light around again, let's see what we've got to work with around here.”
Mcintosh and Ryan picked up the portable ROV and walked it toward the center of the hold, then slowly turned it in a 360-degree circle the bright beams spraying an arc of light over the people and objects in its path. As a storeroom for the Starfish, the hold resembled a large electronic parts bin. Coils of cabling hung from the bulkheads, while spare electronic components were stored in multiple cabinets mounted on the aft wall. Racks of test equipment lined one side of the hold, while at the forward end of the bay a sixteen-foot Zodiac inflatable boat sat on a wooden cradle. Off to one corner, a half-dozen fifty-five-gallon drums of gasoline were wedged alongside two spare outboard motors. Ryan held the light shining on the drums for several minutes, illuminating a series of iron rungs that ran up the bulkhead and under an overhang in back of the drums.
“Captain, there's a venting hatch located up those rungs that opens up onto the aft moon pool deck,” Ryan said. “It locks from the deck side, but there's a chance it may have been left open.”
“One of you men there,” Morgan barked at a trio of scientists huddled near the drums. “Climb up that ladder and see if the hatch is unlocked.”
A barefoot oceanographer clad in blue pajamas jumped at the captain's request and scampered up the metal rungs, disappearing into a narrow vent shaft that was carved through the overhang. A few moments later, he climbed back into view, his feet now sensitive to the crude ladder steps.
“It's locked solid, Captain,” he said with disappointment.
Mcintosh suddenly piped up from the center of the hold.
“Cap'n, I think we can construct a couple of spars from the wooden supports underneath that Zodiac,” he said, pointing an arm toward the rubber boat. “With six or eight men on each, we ought to be able to prod up a corner of the main hatch.”
“Poke it off with a couple of big chopsticks, eh? That, indeed, might work. Go to it, Mcintosh. You men over there, help get that Zodiac off its stand,” he growled at a party assembled near the boat.
Limping over, he grabbed hold of the boat's bow and helped muscle it off the wooden stands and onto the deck. Several men assisted Mcintosh in dissecting the support cradle and laying out its separate pieces while the ship's carpenter assessed how to reassemble the material into several spars.
While they worked, they could hear the muffled voices of the commandos on deck and the whirring and clanking of the Baekje's crane as it loaded and hoisted away the I-411's ordnance. At one point, the faint echo of machine-gun fire was heard emanating from a distant part of the ship. A short time later, Morgan detected the sound of the Starfish being hoisted out of the moon pool and dropped to the deck, followed by the shrieking cry of a woman's voice he knew to be Summer's. The activity above them grew quieter after some banging on the bulkhead above their heads. Eventually, the humming of the cranes and the sporadic voices fell silent. As it became evident that the commandos had left the ship, Morgan quietly wondered about the fate of Dirk and Summer. His thoughts were suddenly jarred by the rumble of the Baekje's engines vibrating through the hold as the cable ship pulled away from Sea Rover.
“How are we coming along, Mcintosh?” he asked loudly to mask the sound of abandonment, although he could clearly see the progress in front of him.
“We've two spars together and are close to completing a third,” the chief engineer grunted. At his feet were three uneven-looking wooden poles, roughly ten feet in length. Each was constructed of three separate pieces of timber, crudely indented at either end with a hammer and screwdriver and fitted together in a notched tongue-and-groove fashion. Metal sheeting cannibalized from a test rack was hammered around the joints for stability and finished off in a wrapped layer of the handyman's favored duct tape.
As Mcintosh sifted through the remaining pieces of scrap wood, a sudden rushing noise drifted up from the bowels of the ship. In a few minutes, the sound doubled in intensity, resembling the rumbling waters of a turbulent stream. Mcintosh stood slowly and addressed the captain in a somber, matter-of-fact voice.
“Sir, they've opened the sea cocks. They mean to sink her.”
Several unseen voices gasped in horror at Mcintosh's words and numerous cries of “No!” echoed through the hold. Morgan ignored them all.
“Looks like we'll have to make do with three spars,” the captain replied calmly. “I need seven men on each pole. Let's get them up now.”
A rush of men moved forward and grabbed the spars as the first drops of seawater began trickling into the hold through a half-dozen small bilge drains mounted flush on the hold's deck. Within minutes, they were sloshing around in ankle-deep water as the men positioned the ends of the spars against the forward corner of the hatch, next to the entry ladder. On the top step, a man stood with a two-foot-high triangular block of timber, his job to insert it under the open hatch lid and keep it wedged open.