Merker had it.
Now he eased the arm upward, gradually easing the funnel from its resting place in the sediment. The sweat was rolling into his eyes now, but he kept them open. There could be no hesitating one mistake and the object would be lost on the sea floor forever. Then the slimy ooze relinquished its hold and the funnel came free and rose up toward the viewports.
"My God!" Woodson whispered. "That's no funnel."
"It looks like a horn," Merker said.
Gunn shook his head. "It's a cornet."
"How can you be sure?" Giordino had left the pilot's console and was peering over Gunn's shoulder through the port.
"I played one in my high-school band."
The others recognized it now, too. They could readily make out the flaring mouth of the bell and behind it, the curved tubes leading to the valves and mouthpiece.
"Judging from the look of it," Merker said, "I'd say it was brass."
"That's why Munk's magnetometer barely picked it up on the graph," Giordino added. "The mouthpiece and the valve pistons are the only parts that contain iron."
"Ah wonder how long it's been down here?" Drummer asked no one in particular.
"It'd be more intriguing to know where it came from," said Merker.
"Obviously thrown overboard from a passing ship," Giordino said carelessly. "Probably by some kid who hated music lessons."
"Maybe its owner is somewhere down here, too." Merker spoke without looking up.
Spencer shivered. "There's a chilling thought for you."
The interior of the Sappho I fell silent.
25
The antique Ford trimotor aircraft, famed in aviation history as the Tin Goose, looked too awkward to fly, and yet she banked as gracefully and majestically as an albatross when she lined up for her final approach to the runway of the Washington National Airport.
Pitt eased back the three throttles and the old bird touched down with all the delicacy of an autumn leaf kissing high grass. He taxied over to one of the NUMA hangars at the north end of the airport, where his waiting maintenance crew chocked the wheels and made the routine throatcutting sign. Flipping off the ignition switches, he watched the silver-bladed propellers gradually slow their revolutions and come to rest, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Then he removed the headphones, draped them on the control column, undid the latch on his side window and pushed it open.
A bewildered frown slowly creased Pitt's forehead and hung there in the tanned, leathery skin. A man was standing on the asphalt below, frantically waving his hands.
"May I come aboard?" Gene Seagram shouted.
"I'll come down," Pitt yelled back.
"No, please stay where you are."
Pitt shrugged and leaned back in his seat. It took Seagram only a few seconds to climb aboard the trimotor and push open the cockpit door. He wore a stylish tan suit with vest, but his well-tailored appearance was diluted by a sea of wrinkles that creased the material, making it obvious that he hadn't seen a bed for at least twenty-four hours.
"Where did you ever find such a gorgeous old machine?" Seagram asked.
"I ran across it at Keflavik, Iceland," Pitt replied. "Managed to buy it at a fair price and have it shipped back to the States."
"She's a beauty."
Pitt motioned Seagram to the empty copilot's seat. "You sure you want to talk in here? In a few minutes the sun will make this cabin feel like the inside of an incinerator."
"What I have to say won't take long." Seagram eased into the seat and let out a long sigh.
Pitt studied him. He looked like a man who was unwilling and trapped . . . a proud man who had placed himself in an uncompromising position.
Seagram did not face Pitt when he spoke, but stared nervously through the windshield. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here," he said.
"The thought crossed my mind."
"I need your help."
That was it. No mention of the harsh words from the past. No preliminaries; only a straight-to-the-gut request.
Pitt's eyes narrowed. "For some strange reason I had the feeling that my company was about as welcome to you as a dose of syphilis."
"Your feelings, my feelings, they don't matter. What does matter is that your talents are in desperate demand by our government."
"Talents . . . desperate demand . . ." Pitt did not disguise his surprise "You're putting me on, Seagram."
"Believe me, I wish I was, but Admiral Sandecker assures me that you're the only man who stands a remote chance of pulling off a ticklish job."
"What Job?"
"Salvaging the Titanic. "
"Of course! Nothing like a salvage operation to break the monotony of-" Pitt broke off in mid-sentence; his deep green eyes widened and the blood rose to his face. "What ship did you say?" His voice came in a hoarse murmur this time.
Seagram looked at him with an amused expression. "The Titanic. Surely you've heard of it?"
Perhaps ten seconds ticked by in utter silence while Pitt sat there stunned. Then he said, "Do you know what you're proposing?"
"Absolutely."
"It can't be done!" Pitt's expression was incredulous, his voice still the same hoarse murmur. "Even if it were technically possible, and it isn't, it would take hundreds of millions of dollars . . . and then there's the unending legal entanglement with the original owners and the insurance companies over salvage rights."
"There are over two hundred engineers and scientists working on the technical problems at this moment," Seagram explained. "Financing will be arranged through secret government funding. And as far as legal rights go, forget it. Under international law, once a vessel is lost with no hope of recovery, it becomes fair game for anybody who wishes to spend the money and effort on a salvage operation." He turned and stared out the windshield again. "You can't know, Pitt, how important this undertaking is. The Titanic represents much more than treasure or historic value. There is something deep within its cargo holds that is vital to the security of our nation."
"You'll forgive me if I say that sounds a bit farfetched."
"Perhaps, but underneath the flag-waving, the facts hold true."
Pitt shook his head. "You're talking sheer fantasy. The Titanic lies in nearly two and a half miles of water. The pressure at those depths runs several thousand pounds to the square inch, Mr. Seagram; not square foot or square yard, but square inch. The difficulties and barriers are staggering. No one has ever seriously attempted to raise the Andrea Doria or the Lusitania from the bottom . . and they both lie only three hundred feet from the surface."
"If we can put men on the moon, we can bring the Titanic up to the sunlight again," Seagram argued.
"There's no comparison. It took a decade to set a four-ton capsule on lunar soil. Lifting forty-five thousand tons of steel is a different proposition. It may take months just to find her."
"The search is already under way."
"I heard nothing-"
"About a search effort?" Seagram finished. "Not likely that you should. Until the operation becomes unwieldy in terms of security, it will remain secret. Even your assistant special projects director, Albert Giordano-"
"Giordino."
"Yes, Giordino, thank you. He is at this very moment piloting a search probe across the Atlantic sea floor in total ignorance of his true mission."
"But the Lorelei Current Expedition . . . the Sappho I's original mission was to trace a deep ocean current."