by John Blaine
“I think what you think. The drill rig was deliberately dumped!But why? That’s what I’m wondering.”
It was a wonder that Rick shared. Roger Pryor had told him that the big offshore drilling rigs cost anywhere from ten to fifty million dollars, depending on size and capability. With the amount of oil drilling taking place around the continental shelves of the world, such rigs were worth their weight in gold. If one was lost, it was replaced in a hurry. The idea that the rig had been sabotaged to collect insurance had occurred to him, but he knew that such big rigs were never covered up to their full value by insurance, if full value meant replacement value. Usually the insurance covered some percentage of their market value, which grew less with age. The insurance company might pay for part of the replacement cost, but the company would have to pay the rest. Meanwhile, the company was losing thousands of dollars for every day the rig could have been operating.
“There have been signs of oil off George’s Bank, east ofCape Cod ,” Rick recalled. “Do you suppose the drill rig was being towed there?”
“Search me. And I don’t know how we can find out until the Coast Guard report is published.
Eventually we’ll get more information. But right now, what I want to know is what we’re going to do.”
“We’re going to take a look,” Rick said promptly. He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eight-thirty. If we start now, we can have everything ready by ten, and be over the wreck before eleven. We’d be back in time for lunch, if Mom delayed it a half-hour. If we dive while the sun’s high, the visibility will be better.”
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“Okay. We’ll have to alert the troops.”
“You do that while I make some notes. I’ll have to figure down time and decompression time.”
Scotty left, and Rick sat down at the library desk and began jotting down notes on what they would need. He was too experienced a diver to leave anything to chance. For a first look, a short time on the wreck would be sufficient. He based his plan on a maximum of ten minutes on the wreck, at a depth of 200 feet.
The dive was close to the limit for compressed-air scuba, and even beyond the limit for some divers.
The nitrogen in the air became a poison at that depth, and the way it reacted on the diver depended on how long he stayed and his individual tolerance. No two divers were alike. Rick knew that he and Scotty had good tolerance, and that on a brief dive neither would feel the effects of nitrogen narcosis, the strange physical change that made a diver mentally incompetent. Some sufferers had even removed their mouthpieces and offered their precious air to a passing fish. Others had thrown off tanks entirely and swam blithely into the depths, not even conscious that they would never return.
The poetic French had named nitrogen narcosis “Rapture of the Deep.” It was appropriate. Rick had no intention of ever experiencing it. He took out a copy of the official Navy diving tables and found decompression time. He and Scotty, and maybe Dick Antell, would need a minute’s wait at 20 feet, then four minutes to decompress at 10 feet. That was to allow nitrogen absorbed by their tissues to escape harmlessly. A too-sudden ascent would release large bubbles of nitrogen, causing painful, serious, or even fatal injury to the diver from “the bends,” so-called because the diver often doubled up in pain.
Curiously, aside from the danger of permitting the nitrogen to escape in big bubbles by a sudden ascent, its absorption by the body did not cause nitrogen narcosis at depths less than about 180 feet. Few divers felt it at lesser depths, and some didn’t even get the symptoms as deep as 300 feet. It was a highly individual matter, and a diver’s tolerance could vary from day to day.
Rick rechecked the tables and noted the decompression times and stops needed if they stayed more than ten minutes on the wreck, or went deeper than 200 feet.That done, he planned the positions for those who would dive, then went on to complete his list of supplies.
He decided that the best boat for their purpose would be the big scow the island’s tenant farmer used for fishing. It was an oversize, flat-bottomed rowboat, about 18 feet long, and very wide and stable. It had a low freeboard, which made it easy for divers to enter and leave the water. Five divers with gear wouldn’t crowd it uncomfortably. A 10-horse-power outboard motor pushed it along at a good speed.
The first step was to get the boat. He went to the farm and made sure the Huggins family didn’t plan to use the boat that morning, then took it from its mooring in a small creek behind the barn and chugged to the main dock. The gas tank was only half full. He filled it and pumped up the pressure.
From a locker on the dock Rick took a coil of quarter-inch nylon line and a bright-orange plastic buoy.
They would be used for buoying the wreck permanently. He secured the buoy to one end of the line, then began measuring with the aid of a yardstick kept on the dock to measure the length of fish. It was a highly optimistic measuring tool. Only a few times had the full length been necessary, and none of those had been fish caught by Rick. He thought wryly that a simple foot ruler would have served for most of his catch.
He made loops just big enough for a hand at the 10-, 20-, 30-, 40-, and 50-foot marks, then skipped to Page 27
100, 150, and 200. The line was 250 feet long. It would rise at an angle once he secured it to the wreck, but that didn’t matter. Herecoiled the line and placed it in the boat.
Scotty was already in the diving-gear room when Rick arrived. He was filling tanks from the big cascade of large tanks. Rick got to work. As Scotty finished topping off a tank, Rick put on a pressure gauge and rechecked. For himself, Scotty, and Dick Antell, they filled two-tank units. For Barby and Jan, they filled the colored single tanks.
Dick Antell came in as they were working and looked around with appreciation. “Very neat,” he approved.“Whose bright-colored bottles?”
“The red one is Jan’s, and the blue one is Barby’s. The twin blocks are for us.”
“Singles for the girls?” Dick asked.
Rick nodded as he applied the pressure gauge to Jan’s tank. “We stick to the old adage-which isn’t strictly true, of course-that you can’t get into trouble on a single tank. I won’t let them go down to the wreck on this first dive. Maybe we’ll take them down for a five-minute look on the second dive.”
“And a single tank is good enough for a five-minute look,” the submersible pilot finished. “But suppose something happens on that second dive and they use up too much air?”
“In that case,” Scotty told him, “they’ll have to buddy-breathe with Rick and me.”
Dick chuckled. “If they have to share your tanks, you’ll have them where you can keep an eye on them?”
“On the button.”Rick grinned. “They’re bright, and they’re sensible, both of them. Rut they’re also a shade more adventurous than we like, so we’ve learned to take precautions. Just in case, though, we’ll have a spare tank in the lowest safety position.
“This one.”He selected a single tank, which Scotty filled. Rick gave it a final check.
“Now for my problem,” Dick Antell said. “What can I do for a suit? I didn’t bring my own gear. I didn’t expect to dive.”
Only one suit on the rack would fit the big pilot, and that was Hobart Zircon’s. Rick explained that the physicist was teaching a summer course at Cal Tech, and added, “He’s a great guy, and if he were here he’d lend you the stuff himself. Use all his gear. His fins have adjustable heel straps, so they should fit, too. How much weight do you use in a wet suit with two tanks?”
“I think ten pounds should be enough.”
“Then you’ll have to take some weights off Zircon’s belt. He uses twenty-four pounds. Help yourself.
The belt is marked with his name.”
Rick and Scotty busied themselves loading the tanks into the old coaster wagon that had been modified to haul diving gear, then took the wagon to the scow and put the air bottles carefully in place on the deck.
Back in the gear room, Scotty collected equipment
while Rick read from the list. “Weight belts for all hands. Yours ready, Dick?” The pilot nodded and handed the corrected belt to Scotty, who put it in the Page 28
wagon.
Rick continued through the list. Life vests, knives, masks, snorkels, depth gauges, compasses, fins. He called for three watch cases, designed to hold watches safely under pressure. The ordinary “diver’s watch” was waterproof only to about 60 feet. He, Dick, and Jan would need to put their watches in protective cases. Barby, who would be at 50 feet, could use Scotty’s regular diver’s watch, which she already wore.
As Rick continued, Scotty added a small staff to the growing pile in the wagon. Wound around it, ready to unfurl when needed, was the bright-red flag with a diagonal white stripe that meant “Divers below.
Stay clear.”
Finally Rick went to a drawer and took out a foot-long metal rod to which a plastic-covered cylinder was attached. Dick Antell looked at him in surprise.“Sharks in these waters?”
“More than we need,” Rick said. “Mostly blues, with a mako or hammerhead now and then for good measure.And once Scotty and I saw a Great White.Scared us to death. But it wasn’t hunting, I guess. It just swam away. I’ll bet it was bigger than a Navy submarine.”
Scotty chuckled. “That white shark grows five feet every time Rick tells the story. Shucks, I’ll bet it wasn’t an inch over 50 feet long.”
Dick Antell grinned with understanding. “Actually, the big whites do grow to 40 feet, and that’s a lot of man-eater. I saw one once that was about 20 feet long, and believe me, it looked bigger than a blue whale.”
“I’d guess ours was about 15 feet,” Rick said. “Anyway, we didn’t try to make a pet of it.”
“No,” Scotty agreed. “We were down on a wreck not far from here, and we hid behind what was left of the railing and didn’t even breathe for fear our bubbles would attract the beast.”
Rick removed the protecting plastic and checked his implement. Inside the cylinder was a shotgun shell.
When the cylinder was driven against an object-such as a shark-it slammed the cartridge down onto a firing pin. The explosion would kill a shark of reasonable size, and stun a big one. But, Rick thought, it would probably give a 40-foot man-eater only a slight headache. It also gave the diver a headache, because the effect of the explosion was felt by the user.The greater the depth, the more the explosive effect because of confinement by the water pressure. It wasn’t a weapon to be used lightly on a short rod. A longer rod could be attached, but then it had to be carried in the hand. Rick preferred to hang the powerhead, as it was called, from his belt. There was a safety that prevented accidental explosions.
Barby and Jan had timed themselves perfectly so that all work would be accomplished by the time they arrived. They came in as Rick added the power-head to the wagonload. Both girls were in swimsuits.
“Not taking a camera, Rick?” Jan asked, surveying the load.
He shook his head. “Not this time. We’ll just make a brief survey. I may take pictures on the next dive.”
He, Scotty, and Dick Antell retired to undress and put on swim trunks, the pilot using big Hobart Zircon’s. They were too large around the waist, but suitable for use under a wet suit. When they returned to the gear room, Hartson Brant was there with Roger Pryor. The girls were already getting into their suits, and as the three joined in the process of pulling on the tight neoprene garments, Hartson Brant questioned Rick about the dive plan. Rick stated it briefly, then gave the assignments.
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“Barby at top safety, 50 feet.Jan next at 100 feet.Dick Antell at 150.Scotty and I will go down to the wreck. He and I will flip, and the winner will swap places with Dick after five minutes. Maximum down time will be ten minutes. The spare tank and regulator will be at 150 feet.”
“How much rise time will you have to allow?” Jan asked.
It was essential not to rise too fast, and Rick had figured the proper ascent speed into his plan. “Scotty, Dick, and I will have to take three and a half minutes to go up to the 20-foot stop. You won’t need to decompress at 100 feet, Jan, but we’ll pick you up on the way and you ascend with us. Our speed will be fine for you.”
Actually, rise time could take a bit less than three and a half minutes, but Rick always built in a safety factor.
“The plan sound all right to you, Dick?” Dr. Brant asked.
The submersible pilot grinned. “I’ve been watching and listening like a suspicious squid. You see, I’m mighty particular about the kind of buddies I dive with, being somewhat fond of this oversize hide of mine. But Rick and Scotty have acted like pros, so far, and I’m happy about the whole thing.”
Everyone was fully suited now except for headgear and gloves. Barby drew herself up in her blue suit and said loyally, “You couldn’t do better than to dive with Rick and Scotty.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Antell replied. “I dive with topnotch professionals all the time. But very seldom do I have a chance to dive with girls who look like the diving-gear advertisements in Skin Diver magazine.”
Rick grinned. Dick Antell’s comment was appropriate. The two girls did look like models for magazine ads.
Barby and Jan rewarded the pilot with smiles. Jan commented, “If you’re as good a safety man as you are a flatterer, Rick and Scotty are in good hands. Shall we go see?”
Take your own regulators and fins,” Rick said. “And let’s get going. There’s a wreck out there that needs our attention!”
CHAPTER VII
Dive One
Scotty manned the outboard on the big scow while Rick got busy putting regulators on the tanks, then checking them. When the tanks were ready he passed out life vests with a reminder to be sure the valves were closed and the carbon dioxide bottles properly seated. The girls put on their vests, and he held their tanks while they got into them and secured the heavy bottles with quick-release belts. He passed out weight belts, knives in leg sheaths, and snorkels.
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As the scow neared the orange life jackets that served as a temporary buoy, Dick and the girls put on headgear and fins. The girls added gloves. Rick checked the three, turned on their air, and watched while they rechecked the regulators. Then he got into his own gear. By the time he was fully equipped except for fins, Scotty was slowing the boat down so as not to overrun the life jackets. Rick reached out, caught the jackets, and hauled them aboard. He untied the line and secured it to a ring on the boat’s bow. Now they were anchored to the wreck. Scotty cut off the motor and got into his own gear.
There was a socket on the scow’s bow. Rick placed the diver’s flag and unfurled it. The wind snapped the red banner with its diagonal white stripe so that it stood out, clear and unmistakable. As Scotty re-checked his regulator and reached over his shoulder to turn on his own air, Rick secured the free end of the new buoy line to his belt, then hung the power-head in place and put on fins. They were ready.
He repeated the dive plan, then instructed, “Go down the anchor line.Barby and Jan together. Barby stops at 50 feet by her gauge. Jan waits for Dick. When he arrives, they go down together. Jan drops off at 100 feet. Scotty and I will pick up Dick on the way down, then leave him with the spare air bottle at 150 feet. I’ll be carrying the new buoy line, which has loops to mark the footage. Scotty will carry the spare tank and hang it at Dick’s stop.Any questions?”
There were none. The last step was to rinse face masks and put them on. The two girls did so, then sat down on the gunwale, backs to the water, and waited for Rick’s signal.
He nodded. “Go.”
The two went over backwards into the water in the standard diver’s entry, managing to look graceful in spite of the weight of gear. For a moment they surfaced, put mouthpieces in place, then did perfect surface dives and started down the anchor line like a pair of matched mermaids, one red and the other blue.
“You’re next, Dick.”
Antell simply stepped over the side, putting mouthpiece in place
as he went. Under water, he turned and went down the anchor line headfirst.
Scotty picked up the spare tank, looped his arm through the harness, then stepped over the side. He put his mouthpiece in place and waited for Rick.
Rick gave a last quick look around. They were alone on the sea. He pulled the mask down over his face, adjusted his mouthpiece, then picked up line and buoy and jumped in. He released the buoy and starting paying out line. The anchor rope went down at a steep angle into green water, and he couldn’t see more than a few feet. He hoped visibility would be better below. Feet moving slowly,He and Scotty swam into the depths.
The water was always murky after a storm, but often the suspended matter that ruined visibility was in a surface layer. That was the case today. Ten feet down, the water cleared, and Rick could see Barby holding to the anchor line, a still-vague blue image 40 feet below. At 20 feet he had to clear his ears and snort into his face mask to equalize pressure. After that, adjustment was nearly automatic. He kept swallowing as the pressure increased, to allow his Eustachian tube to open and admit air under higher pressure. As always, he felt the wonderful sense of lightness and freedom he experienced when diving.
With his buoyancy balanced by his tanks and weight belt, he was as nearly weightless as he could ever be without making a space flight.
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At 50 feet they reached Barby. She reached out and took the buoy line Rick was carrying, found the 50-foot loop and moved upward a few feet to grasp it. Rick put his face mask close to hers and winked.
She winked back. With a hand on each line, she hung suspended, watching them as they went down.
Dick and Jan were waiting at the 100-foot level. The reds had filtered out, leaving the underwater world a dark blue-green. Jan’s red suit looked black. Rick held up thumb and forefinger closed in a circle, and Jan gave him the signal back, indicating that she was fine. She pointed. Rick turned and saw a small school of fish passing. They looked like jack mackerel. Rick looked up. He could just see Barby, silhouetted against the light coming from the surface. He waved, and she waved back. Good. She could see Jan, then, and be ready to swim down if an emergency should develop and Jan summoned her by banging on her air tank with her knife handle.