Jar reappeared with another message. This one read…
TO SEA SPRITE FROM NUMA HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON. IF POSSIBLE, TRY TO EFFECT A RESCUE OF THE PEOPLE ABOARD OCEAN WANDERER FLOATING HOTEL. I WILL RELY ON YOUR JUDGMENT AND BACK YOUR DECISION. SANDECKER
"Well, at least we now have official authorization," said Maverick.
"We only have forty people on board Sea Sprite," said Barnum. "The Ocean Wanderer has over a thousand. I can't in good conscience run away."
"What about Dirk and Summer down in Pisces?"
"They should be able to tough out the storm underwater protected by the reef."
"How's their air supply?" asked Maverick.
"Enough for four more days," replied Barnum.
"If this bloody storm passes, we should be back on station in two."
"Providing we can hook up with the Ocean Wanderer and tow her a safe distance from shore."
Maverick looked out the windshield. "Once we enter the eye of the storm, we should be able to make good headway."
"Program the hotel's last position and predicted drift into the computer," ordered Barnum. "Then set a course for a rendezvous."
Barnum started to rise' from his chair to order his radio operator to report his decision to attempt a rescue of the Ocean Wanderer to Admiral Sandecker, when to his horror a monstrous wave, more towering than any before, rose nearly eighty feet above the pilothouse that was already nearly fifty feet above the waterline, and came crashing down with unimaginable force that hammered and engulfed the entire vessel. The Sea Sprite bravely surged through the watery mountain, plunging into what seemed a bottomless trough before rising again.
Barnum and Maverick looked into each other's eyes in stunned astonishment when another wave of even more staggering dimensions smashed and immersed the research ship, plunging her into its depths.
Crushed by millions of tons of water, the Sea Sprite's bow dove down, down, deeper and deeper, as if she never intended to stop.
10
Ocean Wanderer was now totally helpless. Free of her moorings, the floating hotel was at the full mercy of the hurricane's assault. There was nothing left the men could do to save the guests and the hotel.
Morton was becoming more desperate by the minute. He faced one critical decision after another. He could either order the ballast tanks filled to higher levels, settling the hotel lower in the water to lessen the rate of drift under the vicious gale, or empty the tanks and allow the waves to toss the luxury structure and its passengers about like a house in a Kansas tornado.
On the face of it the first option seemed the most practical. But that meant a battering by an irresistible force against a nearly immovable object. Already, sections of the hotel were giving way, allowing flooding into the lower levels that pushed the pumps to their limits. The second option would mean extreme discomfort for everyone on board and speed up the inevitable impact on the Caribbean island's rocky coast.
He was about to opt for filling the tanks to the brim when the wind suddenly began to slacken. After half an hour it almost died away completely and the sun beamed down on the hotel. People in the ballroom and theater started to cheer, believing the worst of the storm was over.
Morton knew better. True gale winds had decreased but the sea was still rough. Looking through the salt-stained windows, he could see the gray inner walls of the hurricane soaring into the sky. The storm was moving directly over them and they were now in the hurricane's eye.
The worst was yet to come.
In the few short hours remaining before the eye passed, Morton called together all his maintenance people and every able male employee and passenger. Then he divided them up into work parties, assigning some to repair the damage and others to shore up the lower-level windows that were badly leaking and ready to give way. They labored heroically and soon their efforts paid off. The flooding decreased and the pumps began to gain on the leaks.
Morton realized they had merely gleaned a temporary reprieve as long they remained in the eye, but it was vital to keep up morale and assure everyone they had a fighting chance of survival, even though he didn't believe it himself.
He returned to his office and began studying charts of the Dominican Republic shoreline, attempting to predict where the Ocean Wanderer might be driven ashore. With luck they could be forced onto one of the many beaches, but most were too small, some even blasted out of the rock to build hotel resorts. His best estimate was that they had a ninety percent chance of striking rocks created out of volcanic lava many millions of years ago.
In his worst nightmare Morton could not conceive how he could remove a thousand human beings from the battered hotel and transport them safely to land while it was being bashed by giant waves against unyielding rocks.
There seemed no way of avoiding a terrible fate.
He had never felt so vulnerable, so impotent. He was rubbing his tired and reddened eyes when his communications operator burst through the door.
"Mr. Morton, help has come!" he shouted. Morton looked at him blankly.
"A rescue ship?"
The operator shook his head. "No, sir, a helicopter."
Morton's brief optimism sank. "What good is a single helicopter?"
"They radioed that they were going to lower two men onto the roof."
"Impossible." Then he realized that it was possible as long as they were in the hurricane's eye. He rushed past the operator and stepped into his private elevator, taking it to the roof of the hotel. As the doors opened and he walked out onto the roof, he was dismayed to find the entire sporting complex had been swept away, leaving nothing but the swimming pool. He was especially horrified to see that the life rafts had all vanished.
Now that he had a clear three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the inner hurricane, he stood awestruck at the sheer malevolent beauty of it all. Then he looked straight up and saw a turquoise-colored helicopter descending down on the hotel. He could see the word numa in bold letters painted on the fuselage. The aircraft paused and hovered twenty feet above the deck, as two men in turquoise jumpsuits and crash helmets were lowered by cables to the roof of the hotel. Once they disengaged, two large bundles wrapped in orange plastic came down on another cable. They quickly disconnected the hook and signaled an all clear.
A man inside the helicopter pulled up the cables on a winch and gave a thumbs-up sign as the pilot banked away from the hotel and ascended up through the hurricane's eye. Seeing Morton, the two visitors approached, easily carrying the bulky bundles.
The taller of the two removed his helmet, revealing a thick head of black hair, graying on the temples. His face was craggy from a life in the elements and his opaline green eyes, edged in mirth lines, seemed to bore into Morton's brain.
"Please take us to Mr. Hobson Morton," he said in a voice strangely calm under the circumstances.
"I'm Morton. Who are you and why are you here?"
A glove was removed and a hand extended. "My name is Dirk Pitt. I'm special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency." He turned to a short man with dark curly hair and heavy eyebrows who looked to be descended from a Roman gladiator. "This is my assistant director, Al Giordino. We came to effect a tow for the hotel."
"I was told the company tugs could not leave port."
"Not Odyssey tugs, but a NUMA research ship capable of towing a vessel the size of your hotel."
Willing to snatch at any straw, Morton motioned Pitt and Giordino into his private elevator and escorted them down to his office.