"This, I'm afraid," said Sandecker, "is every salvage man's nightmare come true-raise a derelict only to have it snatched away by a whim of the weather." He looked grimly at Uphill and Butera. "It looks as though you two made the trip for nothing. You'd better get back to your ships and make a run for it."
"Make a run for it, hell!" Uphill boomed. "We just got here."
"I couldn't have said it better." Butera grinned and looked up at Sandecker. "The Morse and the Wallace can tow an aircraft earner through a swamp in a tornado if they have to. They're designed to slug it out with anything Mother Nature can dish out. If we can get a cable on board the Titanic and get her under tow, she'll stand a fighting chance of riding out the storm intact."
"Pulling a forty-five-thousand-ton ship through the jaws of a hurricane," Sandecker murmured. "That's a pretty heady boast."
"No boast." Butera came back dead-serious. "By fastening a cable from the stern of the Morse to the bow of the Wallace, our combined power can tow the Titanic in the same manner as a pair of railroad engines in tandem can pull a freight train."
"And, we can do it in thirty-foot seas at a speed of five to six knots," Uphill added.
Sandecker looked at the two tug captains and let them go on.
Butera charged ahead. "Those aren't run-of-the-mill harbor tugs floating out there, Admiral. They're deep-sea, ocean-rescue tugs, two hundred and fifty feet in length with five-thousand-horse diesel power plants, each boat capable of hauling twenty thousand tons of dead weight at ten knots for two thousand miles without running out of fuel. If any two tugs in the world can pull the Titanic through a hurricane, these can."
"I appreciate your enthusiasm," Sandecker said, "but, I won't be responsible for the lives of you and your crews on what has to be an impossible gamble. The Titanic will have to drift out the storm as best she can. I'm ordering you both to shove off and head into a safe area."
Uphill looked at Butera. "Tell me, Commander, when was the last time you defied a direct command from an admiral?"
Butera feigned mock thoughtfulness. "Come to think of it, not since breakfast."
"Speaking for myself and the salvage crew," Pitt said, "we'd welcome your company."
"There you have it, sir," Butera said, grinning. "Besides, my orders from Admiral Kemper were either to bring the Titanic into port or take out papers for an early retirement. Me, I opt for the Titanic."
"That's mutiny," Sandecker said flatly; but there was no hiding the trace of satisfaction in his tone, and it took no great stroke of perception to recognize that the argument had gone exactly as he had planned it. He gave everyone a very shrewd look and said, "Okay, gentlemen, it's your funeral. Now that that's settled, I suggest that instead of sitting around here, you get about the business of saving the Titanic."
Captain Ivan Parotkin stood on the port wing bridge of the Mikhail Kurkov and searched the sky with a pair of binoculars.
He was a slender man of medium height with a distinguished face that almost never smiled. He was in his late fifties, but his receding hair showed no sign of gray. A thick turtleneck sweater covered his chest while his hips and legs were encased in heavy woolen pants and knee boots.
Parotkin's first officer touched him on the arm and pointed skyward above the Mikhail Kurkov's huge radar dome. A four-engine patrol bomber appeared out of the northeast and magnified until Parotkin could make out its Russian markings. The aircraft seemed to be crawling scant miles per hour above its stalling speed as it swept overhead. Then suddenly a tiny object ejected from the underbelly, and seconds later a parachute blossomed open and began drifting over the ship's forward mastpeak, its occupant finally dropping into the water about two hundred yards off the starboard bow.
As the Mikhail Kurkov's small boat put away and dipped over the mountainous, wide-spaced waves, Parotkin turned to his first officer. "As soon as he is safely on board, conduct Captain Prevlov to my quarters." Then he laid the binoculars on the bridge counter and disappeared down a companionway.
Twenty minutes later, the first officer knocked at the highly polished mahogany door, opened it, and then stood aside to allow a man to pass through. He was thoroughly soaked and dripping salt water in puddles about the deck.
"Captain Parotkin."
"Captain Prevlov."
They stood there in silence a few moments, both highly trained professionals, and sized each other up. Prevlov had the advantage; he'd studied Parotkin's service history in depth. Parotkin, on the other hand, had only repute and first appearances to form a judgment. He wasn't sure he liked what he saw. Prevlov came off too handsome, too foxlike for Parotkin to grasp a favorable sense of warmth or trust.
"We are short on time," Prevlov said. "If we could get right down to the purpose of my visit-"
Parotkin held up his hand. "First things first. Some hot tea and a change of clothing. Dr. Rogovski, our chief scientist, is about your height and weight."
The first officer nodded and closed the door.
"Now then," Parotkin said, "I am certain a man of your rank and importance didn't risk his life parachuting into running sea merely to observe the atmospheric phenomenon of a hurricane."
"Hardly. Personal danger is not my cup of tea. And speaking of tea, I don't suppose you have anything stronger on board?"
Parotkin shook his head. "Sorry, Captain. I insist on a dry ship. Not exactly to the crew's liking, I admit, but it does save occasional grief."
"Admiral Sloyuk said you were a paragon of efficiency."
"I do not believe in tempting the fates."
Prevlov unzipped his sodden jumpsuit and let it fall on the floor. "I am afraid you are about to make an exception to that rule, Captain. We, you and I, are about to tempt the fates as they have never been tempted before."
57
Pitt could not escape the feeling he was being deserted on a lonely island as he stood on the foredeck of the Titanic and watched the salvage fleet get under way and begin moving toward the western horizon and safer waters.
The Alhambra was the last in line to slip past, her captain flashing a "good luck" with his addis lamp, the news people quietly, solemnly filming what might be the last visual record of the Titanic. Pitt searched for Dana Seagram among the crowd gathered at the railings, but his eyes failed to pick her out. He watched the ships until they became small dark specks on a leaden sea. Only the missile cruiser Juneau and the Capricorn remained behind, but the salvage tender would soon depart and follow the others once the tug captains signaled they had the derelict in tow.
"Mr. Pitt?"
Pitt turned to see a man who had the face of a canvas weary prizefighter and the body of a beer keg.
"Chief Bascom, sir, of the Wallace. I brought a two-man crew aboard to make fast the towing cable."
Pitt smiled a friendly smile. "I bet they call you Bad Bascom."
"Only behind my back. It's a name that's followed me ever since I tore up a bar in San Diego." Bascom shrugged. Then his eyes narrowed. "How did you guess?"
"Commander Butera described you in glowing terms... behind your back, that is."
"A good man, the commander."
"How long will it take for the hookup?"
"With luck and the loan of your helicopter, about an hour."
"No problem over the helicopter; it belongs to the Navy anyway." Pitt turned and gazed down at the Wallace as Butera very carefully backed the tug toward the Titanic's old straight up-and-down bow until he was less than a hundred feet away. "I take it the helicopter is to lift the tow cable on board?"