The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

by Clive Cussler

  Over many years, Brown pieced together every scrap of data pertaining to Waratah, with an emphasis on the reports surrounding her loss. Although maritime historians believed she went down much farther north due to sightings by other ships that survived the tempest, Brown bet his cards on the observations of Joe Conquer and D. J. Roos. Both men met not long after Roos claimed to have seen a ship lying on the bottom off the mouth of the Xora River, and they compared notes. They agreed on a location, and Roos drew a map with an X marking the spot.

  They put the final resting place of Waratah four miles off the Xora River where its waters met the sea off Transkei Coast. This area is known as the Wild Coast, an inhospitable shoreline where severe ocean conditions prevail.

  Roos followed up with several flights over the next few years but never again found the sea visibly clear enough to reveal a shipwreck on the bottom. Engine trouble and poor weather conditions also worked against him. Unfortunately, he was killed in a car accident, and his map was missing for several years before his family found it in the back of a desk drawer.

  In 1977, a routine sidescan sonar survey by a South African university recorded an unknown wreck 360 feet deep several miles off the Xora River. The contact caused much speculation, but most historians ruled it out as Waratah.

  After an unsuccessful sonar survey in the southern area preferred by historians, Brown became more certain than ever that the reports by Conquer and Roos of a wreck they swore they saw off the Transkei Coast pointed to the Waratah.

  Believing wholeheartedly that the legendary ship could be found, I funded Emlyn’s searches, beginning in 1987, when he conducted an intense sidescan survey of the area surrounding the wreck six miles offshore. Making several passes, Emlyn’s crew estimated that the vessel’s dimensions were quite similar to those of the long-missing ship.

  Emlyn came back early in 1989 and attempted to lower cameras over the wreck. But little was accomplished, because the powerful five-knot Agulhas Current swept the cameras past the wreck and left him with only blurred images of the seafloor.

  Later that year, he returned aboard the survey vessel Deep Salvage I. Using a sophisticated diving bell, Captain Peter Wilmot, master of the vessel, descended to the wreck and captured vague video footage of the hull. But again, the current was too much for the bell, and Wilmot’s video images fell far short of making a positive identification.

  This was proving one tough mystery to solve.

  Not one to give up against the odds of a Las Vegas keno game, Emlyn plunged forward. In 1991, he was on site with Deep Salvage I again, only this time he was accompanied by the world-famous scientist Professor Hans Fricke and his sophisticated submersible Jago, which was capable of diving to depths of nine hundred feet. It was inside Jago that Professor Fricke became the first person to observe and film living coelacanths in the ocean.

  History repeated itself. The current again bedeviled operations during the ten-day mission, and Jago was never even launched.

  Back to the drawing board.

  In 1995, Emlyn was approached by Rehan Bouwer, a professional technical diver who believed he could reach the wreck during a carefully calculated Trimix dive, using a combination of three different breathing mixtures.

  The first attempt was defeated by foul weather, and not until January 1997 did Emlyn and Bouwer’s expert divers make another attempt. Pushing mixed-gas decompression tables to the limits, Bouwer and Steve Minne, the two-man team that had successfully dived on the cruise liner Oceanos that sank almost within sight of Emlyn’s wreck, dropped deep into the restless sea.

  They were unable to reach the bottom, the unrelenting current sweeping them thirty-six feet over the wreck. At that depth there was little light from above, and they had to rely on dive lights. They didn’t see much, but there was no doubt in their minds that the vessel they’d drifted over was the size of Waratah. She was lying upright with a slight list. Most of her forward superstructure appeared gone, as if destroyed by a monstrous wave. During the thirty-five-second flyby, Minne was certain that the upper bulwark of the stem could have been that of Waratah.

  The dive plan allowed a descent time of only three minutes to reach the seafloor at 340 feet, where they spent twelve minutes. This was followed by a complicated decompression ascent lasting two hours. During the drift-decompression stops, the five-knot current dragged the divers far downstream from the wreck site before they could be retrieved. Rarely had technical deep diving been so severely tested without the slightest mishap.

  Over the next two days, the dive team conducted three more descents but could not come close enough to positively identify the elusive ship on the bottom.

  Sadly, Rehan Bouwer was later lost in a diving accident in June of 1998.

  Undaunted, Emlyn teamed up in 1999 with Dr. Ramsey and his crew from the Marine Geoscience Unit to conduct a high-resolution sidescan sonar image of the wreck off the Xora River. Everyone was certain their highly sophisticated equipment would produce the final proof that the wreck was indeed Waratah. The expedition members set sail in June, which in the Southern Hemisphere is wintertime.

  Astounding imagery was captured by the Marine Geoscience team, and all the early indications pointed to a high probability that the wreck was indeed Waratah. Closer inspection of the sonar imagery suggested that the dimensions and various features of the wreck seemed quite similar to those contained in the Waratah’s shipbuilder plans.

  A black-and-white camera was mounted on the sidescan and towed seven meters above the wreck. This seemed to be the only plausible way of beating the strong current. For fear of losing an expensive sensor and camera, the gear was not swept as close as Emlyn might have liked. Yet Emlyn found good images that matched portholes, deck machinery, and winches, as the camera flew over the stem section like a kite.

  Confident that the wreck was indeed Waratah, and dogged in his stubbornness to prove once and for all that the lost ship was within his grasp, Emlyn initiated what he thought would be the final expedition. For this mission, he hired the services of Delta Oceanographic and their two-man submersible, which flew from the United States especially to close the final chapter on Waratah.

  Excitement began to mount when the team arrived over the wreck site. All systems were tested and okayed, the weather was clear without more than a four-knot wind, and the sea was calm. Since all attempts over the past eighteen years had been plagued by technical problems and adverse weather conditions, Emlyn could not believe his luck. Incredibly, even the notorious current seemed to have slackened. Seeing the flat sea, Emlyn thought it might be a sign. Conditions were too good not to have been touched by the wand of good fortune.

  He and Dave Slater, the submersible pilot, slipped through the hatch and settled into their cramped positions. The crane lowered them into the water, and divers unhooked the lift cable. Once free, Slater took the sub down to the seafloor. Visibility was more than one hundred feet as the upright image of the ship’s superstructure came into view. Elation began to cool and was replaced by concern as they moved closer to the wreck. What they saw did not square with what they thought they should have been seeing.

  Through the submersible’s ports they recognized a military armored tank standing on the bottom. Their mood quickly became one of shock and disbelief.

  “It is not the Waratah—I repeat, not the Waratah,” came the voice of Slater over the radio to the stunned team above on the survey ship.

  They moved alongside the hull and rose even with the main deck. Tanks, with their guns pointed into the gloom, and rubber tires could be seen still secured where they had been tied down when the ship left port. At first Emlyn naively wondered how Waratah could have been carrying tanks when World War I was still six years away when she sank. Surely this was not possible. It was difficult to accept the hard fact that this was not the 1909 British mail ship Waratah.

  It proved the eye sees what it wants to see. The general characteristics and dimensions of the two ships were very similar. The d
iver accounts and sidescan sonar recordings had all been misinterpreted. What Emlyn had discovered after all this adversity was most likely a World War II cargo ship that had been torpedoed by a German U-boat. As it turned out, that is exactly what she was.

  Eleven tanks were counted, and scattered dumps of small arms. Emlyn and Slater searched for a name or some identifying clue that would reveal the identity of the sunken cargo ship, but none was found.

  Disheartened, Emlyn and his team returned to Cape Town. His later research showed that the name of the ship he had thought was Waratah was actually the 4,926-ton Nailsea Meadow. She was transporting a cargo of tanks and other military hardware for General Montgomery’s Eighth Army on a voyage north toward the Suez Canal to Egypt when she was torpedoed by the U-196 in 1942. Like so many ships found by NUMA, she was not where she was supposed to be. Documented records put her four miles north of her actual watery grave.

  So where was Waratah? Why has all the evidence gathered over years of intense research pointed to this location? The thinking now is that the old liner lies much closer to shore, a theory I’ve always held because it seemed unlikely to me that Roos could have seen Waratah from the air through 350 feet of water—150 to 200 feet maybe, but not beyond the length of a football field, plus the yardage of the goalpost and then some.

  There is little doubt that Joe Conquer witnessed a ship with a black hull and khaki-colored upper deck superstructure roll over and sink in a violent storm. If he and Roos are correct, then Waratah lies much closer to shore than where Emlyn found Nailsea Meadow.

  Emlyn’s efforts have not been abandoned. He remains focused, and we are both more determined than ever to get to the bottom of the mystery. Early in 2001, Emlyn conducted a helicopter surveillance survey over the waters off the Xora River where we think Waratah is most likely to be found. His primary objective was to establish boundaries for an extensive sidescan sonar search to be held later in the year when the weather settled down.

  I still have great confidence in Emlyn and his NUMA team. The search will continue, but, for now, Waratah retains her secrets, and the mystery lives on.

  PART TEN

  R.M.S. Carpathia

  I

  Savior of the Seas 1912,1918

  “Bridge!” wireless operator Harold Cottam shouted into the speaking tube.

  A few seconds passed before the booming voice of Carpathia’s second in command, Miles Dean, answered.

  “Bridge, go ahead,” Dean said.

  “I have received a CQD,” the operator said.

  “CQD,” Dean boomed, “from what vessel?”

  “Let me adjust the radio,” Cottam said. “Hold one second, please.”

  Straining to hear through the speaking tube, Dean could just make out the faint wavering sounds of the radio. The radio shack was less than a hundred yards aft, but as Dean waited, the source of the noise seemed miles distant. Keeping his ear close to the speaking tube, Dean scanned the water with a pair of binoculars. A full moon was reflecting off the water, which allowed night visibility, and Dean was concerned with ice floes. Twice already tonight, Dean had ordered course corrections, and he wanted to be alert in case another was necessary.

  “Sir,” Cottam said, “I have a complete message now.”

  “Go ahead, then,” Dean said.

  “It’s Titanic, sir,” the operator said slowly.

  “What about her?” Dean said.

  “She’s struck an iceberg, sir,” the operator said, “and reports she’s sinking.”

  “What’s her location?”

  “Latitude 41 degrees, 46 minutes north,” the operator read from his pad, “50 degrees, 41 minutes west.”

  “Stand by,” Dean said.

  Racing over to the chart table, he plotted out the location on a chart.

  “Telegraph Titanic that we are forty-eight miles distant,” Dean said. “Explain that with all the ice floes in the area, we cannot steam at full speed.”

  “How long, sir?” the operator said quickly. “How long should I tell them?”

  “Tell them we’re at most four hours away,” Dean said.

  “Yes, sir,” the operator said.

  Dean turned to the watch officer. “Awake Captain Rostron. Tell him we have received a distress call from Titanic and I’ve set a course north.”

  The man sprinted from the wheelhouse and raced down the deck.

  “Helmsman,” Dean said, “Starboard one-half, increase speed one-quarter.”

  The helmsman repeated the commands while Dean once again scanned the surface of the water with his binoculars.

  “God in heaven,” he muttered to himself, “take us through in safety and speed.”

  * * *

  As Titanic filled with water, First Operator John George Phillips continued transmitting as long as possible. CQD followed by MGY, the call sign for Titanic.

  “Have you tried the new sign?” Second Operator Harold Bride asked.

  “SOS?” Phillips asked, as the carpet under his feet became soaked.

  “Yes,” Bride said.

  “No,” Phillips said, “but I will now.”

  Phillips began tapping the keys. It was the first SOS ever sent.

  * * *

  From the deck of Titanic, seamen began firing rockets into the air.

  After streaking skyward, they exploded in a crescendo of white.

  From a floating palace of heat and light to a dreary place of haze and cold — the shock must have been incredible for the passengers of Titanic.

  In a lifeboat two hundred yards south of Titanic, Molly Brown watched the scene unfold in horror. The lights on the great liner remained burning as she groaned and creaked while the thousands of gallons of water filled her breached hull. From a distance, it seemed like a horrible joke, only the screams of the dying intruding.

  Then, all at once, Titanic’s giant stern rose in the air as if to wave good-bye.

  She slipped below the surface with one final burp.

  * * *

  Ten miles and a thousand lives from Titanic, the vessel Californian was dead in the water. Just to be safe, her captain was awaiting the light of dawn to try to pick her way through the ice field. Californian was an awkward six-thousand-ton vessel owned by the Leyland Lines and was designed more for cargo than passengers. Though she had cabin space for forty-seven passengers, tonight she carried none. Her route for this journey was London to Boston, but at this instant she was surrounded by an ice field that allowed for no safe movement.

  Second Officer Harold Stone waited for morning in the bridge. He watched the ship in the distance through binoculars. Whatever vessel it was had also stopped. Stone did not know Titanic had struck an iceberg. Californian’s wireless operator had shut the set off for the night before the distress call had been sent, so those on watch just assumed the ship on the horizon was waiting for first light to continue on.

  * * *

  Captain Rostron burst into the wheelhouse, still buttoning the top few buttons on his starched white shirt.

  “Captain on the bridge,” Dean shouted.

  “How far away do you place us?” Rostron said without preamble.

  “Forty-six miles and just under four hours, sir,” Rostron said quickly.

  “Watch?” Rostron shouted.

  A seaman stood next to the window with a pair of binoculars trained on the sea.

  “Sir, I have bergs to both sides,” the seaman answered. “Seems like a field ahead.”

  Rostron turned to Dean. “What speed have you ordered?”

  “Three-quarters ahead, sir,” Dean noted.

  “Roger,” Rostron said. “Sound the alarm to awake the crew, Mr. Dean, then alert the galley to start as much soup and other hot liquids as they possibly can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dean said.

  “Then place two sailors on the bow and one in the crow’s nest as lookouts.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dean said.

  Rostron turned to another brass speaking tube. “Eng
ine room.”

  “This is Engineer Sullivan,” a sleepy sounding voice answered.

  “Sullivan,” Rostron shouted, “Titanic has struck an iceberg forty-five miles distant and we’ve been called to help with the rescue.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sullivan said quickly.

  “I’m going to need every ounce of steam you can give me, Sullivan,” Rostron said. “The crew is being wakened now.”

  “I understand, sir,” Sullivan said. “You can count on us.”

  “Full steam ahead, then, Mr. Sullivan,” Rostron said.

  “Full steam ahead,” Sullivan answered.

  Carpathia’s top speed was rated at fourteen knots.

  Within a quarter hour, Sullivan had her flying through the water at just over seventeen.

  Carpathia was a buzz of activity. She was flying across the water like a winning thoroughbred. From her stack, a thick stream of smoke and ash trailed off the stern. At 560 feet in length, with a breadth of 64 feet 3 inches, she could not be called a nimble ship. Still, Rostron was steering her through the ice fields as if she were a pleasure yacht. With a gross tonnage of 13,555 tons, Carpathia threw a large wake as she raced north. To the front, her bow parted the icy water like a razor through a hair. Twice already Captain Rostron had felt his keel scrape across underwater ice as his command had come close to icebergs. Even with that, he refused to back off the pace.

  “Signal from the bow lookout,” the helmsman shouted, “ice to port.”

  “Starboard an eight,” Rostron ordered.

  * * *

  Ship’s engineer Patrick Sullivan wiped his forehead with a rag, then stared again at the wall of gauges. Sullivan loved Carpathia and her inner workings, loved the feeling of power that was now surging through her hull. Built by C. S. Swan & Hunter with engineering by Wallsend Slipway Company for the Cunard Line, Carpathia featured a stack that rose a full 130 feet above the bottom of the vessel, and for Sullivan this was a blessing. The immense height of the stack created a great draft for the fires that supplied her power, and at this exact instant the fires were raging.