48
At first everybody was too dumbstruck to move. The moment they had prayed for, had spent eight tortuous months struggling for, had sneaked up behind them and somehow they couldn't accept it as actually happening. Then the electrifying news began to sink in and they all began shouting at the same time, like a crowd of mission control space engineers during a rocket liftoff.
"Go baby, go!" Sandecker shouted as joyfully as a schoolboy.
"Move, you mother!" Giordino yelled. "Move, move!"
"Keep coming, you big beautiful rusty old floating palace, you," Spencer murmured.
Suddenly, Pitt rushed across to the radio and clutched Curly's shoulder in a viselike grip.
"Quick, contact Woodson on the Sappho II. Tell him the Titanic is on her way up and to get the hell out of the way before he's run over."
"Still on a surface course," the sonar operator said. "Speed of ascent accelerating."
"We haven't weathered the storm yet," Pitt said. "A hundred and one things can still go wrong before she breaks surface. If only-"
"Yeah," Giordino cut in, "like, if only the Wetsteel maintains its bond, or if only the bleeder valves can keep up with the sudden drop in water pressure, or if the hull doesn't take it in its mind to go snap, crackle, and pop. `If' . . . it's a mighty big word."
"Still coming and coming fast," the sonar operator said, staring at his scope. "Six hundred feet in the last minute."
Pitt swung to Giordino. "Al, find Doc Bailey and the pilot of the helicopter, and get in the air like a mad bull was on your ass. Then, as soon as the Titanic stabilizes herself, drop down on her forecastle deck. I don't care how you do it-rope ladder, winch, and bucket chair-crash-land the copter if you have to, but you and the good doctor drop down fast and pop the Deep Fathom's hatch cover and lift those men out of that hellhole!"
"We're halfway there." Giordino grinned. He was already out the door before Pitt could issue his next order to Spencer.
"Rick, stand by to hoist the portable diesel pumps on board the derelict. The sooner we can get ahead of any leaks, the better."
"We'll need cutting torches to get inside her," Spencer said, his eyes wide with excitement.
"Then see to it."
Pitt turned back to the sonar panel.
"Rate of ascent?"
"Eight hundred and fifty feet a minute," the sonar operator called back.
"Too fast," Pitt said.
"It's what we didn't want," Sandecker muttered through his cigar. "Her interior compartments are overfilled with air and she's soaring to the surface out of control."
"And, if we've miscalculated the amount of ballast water left in her lower holds, she could rocket two-thirds her length out of the water and capsize," Pitt added.
Sandecker looked him in the eye. "And that would spell finish to the Deep Fathom's crew." Then without another word, the admiral turned and led the exodus from the operations room to the deck outside, where everyone began scanning the restless swells in heart-pounding anticipation.
Only Pitt hung back. "What depth is she?" This to the sonar operator.
"Passing the eight-thousand-foot mark."
"Woodson reporting in," Curly intoned. "He says the Big T just went by the Sappho II like a greased pig."
"Acknowledge and tell him to surface. Relay the same message to the Sea Slug and Sappho I. " There was nothing left to do here so he stepped out the door and up the ladder to the port bridge wing, where he joined Gunn and Sandecker.
Gunn picked up the bridge phone. "Sonar, this is the bridge."
"Sonar."
"Can you give me an approximate fix on where she'll appear?"
"She should break water about six hundred yards off the port quarter."
"Time?"
There was a pause.
"Time?" Gunn repeated.
"Is now soon enough for you, Commander?"
At that very moment, a huge wave of bubbles spread across the sea and the fantail of the Titanic burst up into the afternoon sun like a gigantic whale. For a few seconds it seemed as though there was no stopping her soaring flight from the depths-her stern kept crowding into the sky until she came free of the water up to the boiler casing, where her No. 2 funnel had once stood. It was a staggering sight; the inside air bleeding down sent great torrents of spray shooting through the pressure-relief valves, shrouding the great ship in bit, blowing rainbowed clouds of vapor. She hung poised for several moments, clawing at the crystal blue heavens, and then, slowly at first, began to settle until her keel smacked the sea with a tremendous splash that sent a ten-foot wave surging toward the surrounding fleet of ships. She heeled down as if she had no intention of recovering. A thousand onlookers held their breath as she careened ever farther onto her starboard beam ends, thirty, forty, forty-five, fifty degrees, and there she hung for what seemed like a dreadful eternity; everyone was half-expecting her to continue the roll over onto her superstructure. But then, with agonizing sluggishness, the Titanic slowly began the struggle to right herself. Gradually, foot by foot, until her hull reached a starboard list of twelve degrees . . . and there she stayed.
Nobody could speak. They all just stood there, too stunned, too mesmerized by what they had just seen to do anything but breathe. Sandecker's weathered face looked ghostly pale even in the bright sun.
Pitt was the first to find his voice. "She's up," he managed in a barely audible whisper.
"She's up," Gunn acknowledged softly.
Then the spell was broken by the pulsing blades of the Capricorn's helicopter as it headed into the wind and angled over the debris-laden forecastle of the resurrected ship. The pilot held the craft on a level position a few feet above the deck and almost instantly two tiny specks could be seen dropping out of a side door.
Giordino scrambled up the access ladder and found himself staring at the hatch cover of the Deep Fathom. Thank God for small miracles the hull was still sound. Cautiously, he maneuvered his body on top of the rounded, slippery deck and tried the handwheel. The spokes felt like ice, but he gripped firm and gave a heavy twist. The handwheel refused to cooperate.
"Stop dawdling and open the damned thing," Dr. Bailey boomed behind him. "Every second counts."
Giordino took a deep breath and heaved with every ounce the muscles of his oxlike body could give. It moved an inch. He tried again, and this time forced half a turn, and then, finally, it began spinning easily as the air inside the sub hissed out and the pressure against the seal relaxed. When the handwheel halted at the end of its threads, Giordino swung the hatch open and peered into the darkness below. A stale, rancid smell rose up and attacked his nostrils. His heart sank when, after his eyes became accustomed to the darkness inside, he saw the water sloshing only eighteen inches from the upper bulkhead.
Dr. Bailey pushed past and lowered his immense hulk through the hatch and down the interior ladder. The icy water stung his skin. He pushed off the rungs and dogpaddled toward the after part of the submersible until hip, hand touched something soft in the dim light. It was a leg. Following it over the knee, he felt his way toward the torso. His hand came out of the water at shoulder level and he touched a face.
Bailey moved closer until his nose was a bare inch from the face in the darkness. He tried to feel for a pulse, but his fingers were too numb from the cold water, and he detected nothing that indicated life or death. Then, suddenly, the eyes fluttered open, the lips trembled, and a voice whispered, "Go away . . . I told you . . . I'm not working today."
"Bridge?" Curly's voice scratched through the speaker.