Mercer didn’t say it aloud but he was sure she had told this story many times; her sense of dramatic timing was too good not to be practiced.
“The Wetherby rolled right there against the dock, parting her mooring hawsers as she turned onto her side. Another stevedore was injured by one of the heavy ropes when it snapped back toward the dock. He lost his hand but went on to make a full recovery. In fact his niece is a lieutenant commander in the Coast Guard.”
It took Mercer a second to process that bit of information. “Ah, so that’s how you became interested in the disaster?”
“Uncle Ralph told me this story so many times I had it memorized by the time I was ten,” Ruth admitted.
“So the Wetherby’s on fire and capsized?”
“That’s right. The current took hold of her before she could settle, and she started drifting down the Niagara River toward the falls. Because she was on her side she slipped under the railroad bridge that spanned the river between Fort Erie and Buffalo and also under the nearby Peace Bridge. Eyewitness on the Peace Bridge said that it looked like the river was on fire as she passed underneath, and people at the falls saw the burning oil slick going over and thought it was part of a show. By the time the Wetherby reached Grand Island, where the Niagara splits into the Chippawa and American channels, she’d grounded herself a couple of times, once for nearly two hours before enough water had piled against her upstream side to push her farther toward the falls.
“She finally came to rest just above the northern tip of Grand Island in the Chippawa Channel, and as luck would have it she settled into the deepest trough on the river, a sixty-foot sinkhole left over when the glaciers retreated and created both the river and the falls.”
That reminded Mercer that Niagara Falls had only been in existence since the last ice age, some twelve thousand years ago. That wasn’t even a blink of an eye in geologic terms.
“What was she like when you dove on her?”
“She’s lying on her side and, like I said, in sixty feet of water. The part of her hull facing the surface is in good shape. Freshwater isn’t as corrosive as salt but she’s taken a beating from logs and other flotsam coming down from Erie on the way to the falls. Last time I went down, and that was a good ten years ago, she had an oak tree embedded in her forecastle.”
“What are diving conditions like?”
“Hell,” a voice called out.
“Mr. Crenna.” Cali greeted the stranger, then turned to the little group. “This is Brian Crenna from Erie Salvage and Dredging. He’ll be in charge of the salvage barge and support ship.” Cali made the introductions.
Crenna was a plug of a man standing about five foot six with a hard, round gut and a snarled black beard. He wore company coveralls and steel-toed boots, a hardhat tucked under one of his muscular arms. When Mercer shook his hand, he realized Crenna was missing his pinkie. He also realized that Crenna wasn’t particularly happy about being here.
“Why do you say the conditions are hell?” Mercer asked.
Crenna spat. “Because about a hundred and seventy-five thousand cubic feet of water come down the Niagara River every second. That’s twelve thousand tons. Some places the current runs two knots, some it runs eight. Some days the winds come from Lake Erie, which increases the flow ten or twenty percent. Others it’s off Ontario which slows things a bit. And some days it changes every couple of hours so you never know what you’re going to get. Then there’s the fact that last winter saw some heavy snows so the river’s still in flood. And that sinkhole where the Wetherby got herself lodged is loaded with back currents and whirlpools. If you know anything about diving then you’ll know what I’m describing is hell.” He waited for anyone to speak. When no one did, he added, “And don’t forget if you get into trouble the damned falls are only a couple miles downstream.”
“Yes, well thank you,” Cliff Roberts said in his best bureaucratic voice.
“I named a crazy price to agree to this job,” Crenna said, addressing Roberts, “and you said you’d pay it but don’t for a second think I agree this is a good idea. We should wait until the spring runoff ebbs and we know we’ll have a few good days of weather.”
Roberts pulled himself to his full five foot seven. While he managed an inch on the tow boat operator, he fell far short of intimidating him. “You’ve been hired by the United States Government for a very important mission. We are paying you for your expert advice concerning the salvage operation. Anything else you have to say is merely your opinion and quite frankly I don’t care about it. Do your job.”
Mercer expected Crenna to turn around and walk off again. Placed in a similar circumstance, Mercer would have, after a few choice words. Crenna stood his ground, his dark eyes never leaving Roberts’s, and it was almost as if Mercer could see his mind at work. But in the end he must have decided the money was more important to him than his own feelings about working for a martinet like Roberts.
“You coming with us?” he finally asked.
“No,” the director of NEST said as if the question was absurd. “I’m needed back in Washington.”
Crenna spat again. “Good ’nuf.”
“Why don’t you tell Mercer the plan?” Cali said to dispel the tension and cleanse the air of testosterone. “Mercer just arrived and hasn’t been filled in yet.”
Crenna shot Mercer a dark look. “You another one from Washington?”
“Don’t hold it against me but that’s where I live. I’m a prospecting geologist.”
“Noticed the hands when we shook,” Crenna remarked and glanced at Roberts. “Figured you’ve done some work in your life.”
Mercer knew the type. It was inevitable in his line of work. When on a consulting job, he usually spent equal amounts of time with mine managers and the miners themselves. While most understood the other guys had a job to do, there were always a few on both sides who carried a chip on their shoulder about their own importance. There was nothing wrong with being proud of what you did. Mercer applauded it. What he didn’t like, and what he saw in Roberts as well as Crenna, was disdain for the other side of the management/labor symbiosis.
“So what is your plan, Mr. Crenna?”
“Captain.”
“Captain it is.”
“As soon as my crew arrives,” Crenna began, “we’ll tow the crane under the bridges and downstream to the site. As you can see she’s built low because there isn’t much clearance under them bridges. Once over the Wetherby I’ll deploy the hydraulic anchors to keep us in position, then I’ll send for you all. I don’t want you on the barge until it’s secure.” Cali made to protest but Crenna cut her off. “I’ve got liability issues as it is, so no argument. Once you’re aboard I’ll send down a couple of divers to assess the wreckage and determine the best way in.”
“You’re not going to try to lift her?”
“Can’t risk it if the current picks up,” Crenna said. “The hulk would produce enough drag to pull the anchors off the river bottom.”
Mercer nodded. Crenna seemed to know his business. “Most likely you’ll have to cut through the hull to find the crates.”
“Which shouldn’t be too difficult,” Crenna agreed. “With a little luck we’ll get her open by tomorrow and have your crates on the surface the next day or so. Provided they’re still aboard. It’s possible they were thrown from her when she was being dragged downriver. Which case they’re in the sinkhole at the base of the falls which is deeper than the falls are high.”
Mercer had considered that when Cali first told him she’d found that the Wetherby had sunk on the Niagara River. But even with the possibility that the crates of plutonium ore lay scattered at the base of the largest waterfall in North America, he still considered her discovery the first break they’d had in the investigation.