Dragon dp-10

by Clive Cussler

  “Bear with me,” Pitt said quietly. “I realize I seem like a heartless tyrant, but your presence has put me in a difficult position. When we have a better grip on what happened on the surface, and I talk with my superiors, we might work something out.”

  Pitt paused as he spotted Keith Harris, the project’s seismologist, standing in the doorway nodding for Pitt to talk outside the room.

  Pitt excused himself and approached Harris. He immediately saw the look of concern in Harris’ eyes.

  “Problem?” he asked tersely.

  Harris spoke through a great gray beard that matched his hair. “That disturbance has triggered a growing number of shocks in the seabed. So far, most all are small and shallow. We can’t actually feel them yet. But their intensity and strength are growing.”

  “How do you read it?”

  “We’re sitting on a fault that’s unstable as hell,” Harris went on. “It’s also volcanic. Crustal strain energy is being released at a rate I’ve never experienced. I’m afraid we could be looking at a major earthquake of a six-point-five magnitude.”

  “We’d never survive,” Pitt said stonily. “One crack in one of our domes, and the water pressure will flatten the entire base like leas under a sledgehammer.”

  “I get the same picture,” said Harris dismally.

  “How long have we got?”

  “No way to predict these things with any certainty. I realize it’s not much comfort, and I’m only guessing, but judging from the rate of build I’d guess maybe twelve hours.”

  “Time enough to evacuate.”

  “I could be wrong,” Harris came back hesitantly. “If we actually experience initial shock waves, the big quake might he only minutes behind. On the other hand, the shocks could taper off and stop just as easily.”

  He’d no sooner gotten the words out when they both felt a slight tremor beneath their feet and the coffee cups on the dining table began to clatter in their saucers.

  Pitt stared at Harris, and his lips pulled into a tense grin. “It seems that time is not on our side.”

  9

  THE TREMORS INCREASED with terrifying swiftness. A distant rumbling seemed to move closer. Then came sharp thumping sounds as small rocks tumbled down the canyon slopes and struck against the suboceanic buildings. Everyone kept glancing up at the great arched roof of the equipment chamber, fearful of an avalanche breaching the walls. One tiny opening, and the water would burst inside with the shattering power of a thousand cannons.

  All was calm, no panic. Except for the clothes they wore, nothing was carried but the computer records of the project. Eight minutes was all it took for the crew to assemble and ready the deep-sea vehicles for boarding.

  Pitt had known instantly that a few must die. The two manned submersibles were each designed to carry a maximum of six people. Seven might be crammed on board for a total of fourteen—the exact number of the project team—but certainly no more. Now they were burdened with the unplanned presence of the crewmen from Old Gert.

  The shocks were coming stronger and closer together now. Pitt saw no chance of a sub reaching the surface, unloading survivors, and returning in time to rescue those left behind. The round trip took no less than four hours. The suboceanic structures were slowly weakening under the increasing shocks, and it was only a question of minutes before they would give way and be crushed by the onslaught of the sea.

  Giordino read the dire signs in the fixed expression on Pitt’s face. “We’ll have to make two trips. Better I wait for the next—”

  “Sorry, old pal,” Pitt cut him off. “You pilot the first sub. I’ll follow in the second. Get to the surface, unload your passengers into inflatable rafts, and dive like hell for those who must stay behind.”

  “No way I can make it back in time,” Giordino said tautly.

  “Think of a better way?”

  Giordino shook his head in defeat. “Who gets the short end of the stick?”

  “The British survey team.”

  Giordino stiffened. “No call for volunteers? Not like you to leave a woman.”

  “I have to place our own people first,” Pitt answered coldly.

  Giordino shrugged, disapproval in his face. “We save them and then sign their death warrants.”

  A long, shuddering vibration shook the seabed, chased by a deep, menacing rumble. Ten seconds. Pitt stared down at his wristwatch. The shock lasted ten seconds. Then all was silent and still again, deathly silent.

  Giordino stared blankly for an instant into the eyes of his friend. Not the slightest fear showed. Pitt seemed incredibly indifferent. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that Pitt was lying. There was never any intention to pilot the second sub. Pitt was set on being the last man out.

  It was too late now, too late for arguments, no time for drawnout goodbyes. Pitt grabbed Giordino by the arm and half pushed, half heaved the tough little Italian through the hatch of the first submersible.

  “You should be just in time to greet the admiral,” he said. “Give him my best.”

  Giordino didn’t hear him. Pitt’s voice was drowned out by falling rock that smashed against the dome and reverberated all around them. Then Pitt slammed the hatch shut and was gone.

  The six big men stuffed inside seemed to fill every square centimeter of the interior. They said nothing, avoiding each other’s stares. Then, as if all eyes were following a thrown football in the last seconds of a game, they watched expectantly as Giordino weaved like an eel through their packed bodies into the pilot’s seat.

  He swiftly switched on the electric motors that ran the submersible over rails into the air lock. He rushed through the checklist and had just programmed the computer when the massive interior door closed and water began surging through special restriction valves from the ice-cold sea outside. The instant the lock was filled and equalized with the immense water pressure, the computer automatically opened the exterior door. Then Giordino took over manual control, engaged the thrusters to maximum power, and drove the sub toward the waves far above.

  While Giordino and his passengers were in the lock, Pitt quickly turned his attention to the boarding of the second submersible. He ordered the NUMA team women to enter first. Then he silently nodded for Stacy to follow.

  She hesitated at the hatch opening, shot him a strained, questioning look. She was standing quite still as though stunned by what was happening around her.

  “Are you going to die because I took your place?” she asked softly.

  Pitt flashed a madcap smile. “Keep a date open for rum collins at sunset on the lanai of the Halekalani Hotel in Honolulu.”

  She tried to form the words for a reply, but before they came out the next man in line pushed her none too gently into the sub.

  Pitt stepped over to Dave Lowden, chief vehicle engineer on the project. About as perturbed as a clam, Lowden pulled up the zipper on his leather bomber jacket with one hand while pushing his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose with the other.

  “You want me to act as co-pilot?” Lowden asked in a low voice.

  “No, you take her up alone,” said Pitt. “I’ll wait for Giordino to come back.”

  Lowden could not control the saddened expression that crossed his face. “Better I should stay than you.”

  “You have a pretty wife and three kids. I’m single. Get your ass in that sub, and be quick about it.” Pitt turned his back on Lowden and walked over to where Plunkett and Salazar were standing.

  Plunkett also showed no shred of fear. The big ocean engineer looked as content as a sheepherder casually eyeing his flock during a spring shower.

  “Do you have a family, Doc?” Pitt asked.

  Plunkett gave a slight shake of his head. “Me? Not bloody likely. I’m an old confirmed bachelor.”

  “I thought as much.”

  Salazar was nervously rubbing his hands together, a frightened light in his eyes. He was achingly aware of his helplessness and a certainty that he was about to die.


  “I believe you said you had a wife?” Pitt asked, directing his question to Salazar.

  “And a son,” he muttered. “They’re in Veracruz.”

  “There’s room for one more. Hurry and jump in.”

  “I’ll make eight,” Salazar said dumbly. “I thought your submersibles only held seven.”

  “I put the biggest men in the first sub and crammed the smallest and three ladies in the second. There should be enough space left over to squeeze in a little guy like you.”

  Without a thank-you, Salazar scrambled into the submersible as Pitt swung the hatch cover closed against his heels. Then Lowden dogged it tight from the inside.

  As the submersible rolled into the air lock and the door closed with a sickening finality, Plunkett slapped Pitt’s back with a great bear paw of a hand.

  “You’re a brave one, Mr. Pitt. No man could have played God better.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t find an extra seat for you.”

  “No matter. I consider it an honor to die in good company.”

  Pitt stared at Plunkett, mild surprise in his eyes. “Who said anything about dying?”

  “Come now, man. I know the sea. It doesn’t take a seismographic genius to know your project is about to collapse around our ears.”

  “Doc,” Pitt said conversationally through a heavy tremor, “trust me.”

  Plunkett gave Pitt a very skeptical look. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Let’s just say, we’re catching the last freight out of Soggy Acres.”

  Twelve minutes later, the shock waves came in an endless procession. Tons of rock cascaded down from the canyon walls, striking the rounded structures with shattering force.

  Finally the battered walls of the undersea habitat imploded and billions of liters of icy black water boiled down and swept away man’s creation as completely as though it had never been built.

  10

  THE FIRST SUBMERSIBLE burst through a trough between the swells, leaping like a whale before belly-flopping into the bluegreen sea. The waters had calmed considerably, the sky was crystal clear, and the waves were rolling at less than one meter.

  Giordino quickly reached up to the hatch cover, gripped the quadrant of the handwheel, and twisted. After two turns it began to spin more easily until it hit the stops and he could push the cover open. A thin stream of water spilled inside the sub, and the cramped passengers thankfully inhaled the pure, clean air. For some it was their first trip to the surface in months.

  Giordino climbed through the hatch and into the small ovalshaped tower that protected the opening from the waves. He’d expected to find an empty ocean, but as he scanned the horizons his mouth gaped in horror and astonishment.

  Less than fifty meters away a junk, the classic Foochow Chinese sailing ship, was bearing down on the floating submersible. Square projecting deck over the bow and high oval-like stern, it carried three masts with square matting sails stretched by bamboo strips and a modern type jib. The painted eyeballs on the bows seemed to rise up and peer down at Giordino.

  For a brief instant, Giordino could not believe the incredulity of the encounter. Of all the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, he’d surfaced at precisely the right spot to be rammed by a ship. He leaned over the sub’s tower and shouted inside.

  “Everybody out! Hurry!”

  Two of the junk’s crew spotted the turquoise submersible as it rose on a swell, and they began yelling at their helmsman to steer hard to starboard. But the gap was almost closed. Pushed by a brisk breeze, the gleaming teak hull bore down on the people spilling out of the sub and leaping into the water.

  Nearer it came, the spray flying from the bows, the massive rudder swinging hard against the current. The crew of the junk stood rooted at the railing, staring in amazement at the unexpected appearance of the submersible in their path, fearful of an impact that could shatter the junk’s bow and send it to the bottom.

  The surprise, the reaction time of the spotters before they shouted a warning, the delay of the helmsman before he understood and twisted a modern wheel that replaced the traditional tiller, all worked toward an inevitable collision. Too late the ungainly vessel went into an agonizingly slow turn.

  The shadow of the great projecting bow fell over Giordino as he grasped the outstretched hand from the last man inside. He was in the act of heaving him out when the junk’s bow raised on a swell and came down on the stern of the submersible. There was no loud tearing noise of a crash, there was hardly a noise at all, except a soft splash followed by gurgling as the sub rolled to port and the water poured in through the open hatch.

  Then came shouting on the decks of the junk as the crew pulled on the sails, dropping them like venetian blinds. The ship’s engine coughed to life and was thrown into full astern as life rings were thrown over the side.

  Giordino was pitched away from the junk as it slipped past only an arm’s length away, yanking the last passenger through the hatch, grating the skin from his knees, and falling backward, forced underwater by the body weight of the man he saved. He had the foresight to keep his mouth closed but took saltwater up his nose. He snorted clear and gazed around. Thankfully, he counted six heads bobbing on the swells, some floating easily, some swimming for the life rings.

  But the submersible had quickly filled and lost its buoyancy. Giordino watched in rage and frustration as the deep-sea craft slid under a swell stern-first and headed for the bottom.

  He looked up at the passing junk and read the name on her ornately painted stern. She was called Shanghai Shelly. He swore a storm at the incredible display of dirty luck. How was it possible, he cursed, to be rammed by the only ship within hundreds of kilometers? He felt guilty and devastated for failing his friend Pitt.

  He only knew that he must commandeer the second sub, dive to the bottom, and rescue Pitt no matter how vain the attempt. They had been closer than brothers, he owed too much to the maverick adventurer to let him go without a fight. He could never forget the many times Pitt had come through for him, times when he thought all hope had vanished. But first things first.

  He looked about. “If you’re injured, raise a hand,” he called out.

  Only one hand went up—from a young geologist. “I think I have a sprained ankle.”

  “If that’s all you’ve got,” grunted Giordino, “consider yourself blessed.”

  The junk came about and slowed, coming to a stop ten meters to the windward of the sub’s survivors. An older man with snow-white hair in a windblown mass and a long curling white mustache bent over the railing. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Is anyone hurt? Shall we lower a boat?”

  “Drop your gangway,” Giordino directed. “We’ll climb aboard.” Then he added, “Keep a sharp watch. We’ve another sub about to surface.”

  “I hear you.”

  Within five minutes of the exchange, all of the NUMA crew were standing on the deck of the junk, all except the geologist with the bad ankle who was being lifted by a net over the side. The man who had hailed them walked up and spread out his hands apologetically.

  “God, I’m sorry you lost your vessel. We didn’t see you until it was too late.”

  “Not your fault,” said Giordino, stepping forward. “We came up almost under your keel. Your lookouts were more alert than we had any right to expect.”

  “Was anyone lost?”

  “No, we’re all accounted for.”

  “Thank God for that. This has been one crazy day. We picked another man out of the water not twenty kilometers to the west. He’s in a bad way. Says his name is Jimmy Knox. He one of your men?”

  “No,” Giordino said. “The rest of my people are following in another submersible.”

  “I’ve ordered my crew to keep their eyes peeled.”

  “You’re most courteous,” Giordino said mechanically, his mind taking one step at a time.

  The stranger who seemed to be in command glanced around the open sea, a puzzled look on his face. “W
here are you all coming from?”

  “Explanations later. Can I borrow your radio?”

  “Of course. By the way, my name is Owen Murphy.”

  “Al Giordino.”

  “Right through there, Mr. Giordino,” said Murphy, wisely putting his curiosity on hold. He motioned toward a doorway in the large cabin on the quarterdeck. “While you’re occupied, I’ll see your men get into some dry clothes.”

  “Much obliged,” Giordino threw over his shoulder as he hurried aft.

  More than once, after the narrow escape from the submersible, the picture of Pitt and Plunkett standing helpless as millions of tons of water thundered down on them flashed through Giordino’s mind. He was coldly aware that he was probably already too late, the chances of their being alive were somewhere between zero and nonexistent. But the thought of abandoning them, giving them up for dead, was never remotely considered. If anything, he was more determined than ever to return to the seabed, regardless of the nightmare he might find.

  The NUMA submersible piloted by Dave Lowden surfaced half a kilometer off the junk’s beam. Thanks to the skilled ship handling of Murphy’s helmsman, Shanghai Shelly came to a smart stop less than two meters from the sub’s hatch tower. This time, all the submersible’s crew, except Lowden, stepped aboard dry.

  Giordino rushed back on deck after alerting Admiral Sandecker of the situation and advising the pilot of the flying boat to land alongside the junk. He stared straight down at Lowden, who was standing half in and half out of the sub.

  “Stand by,” hailed Giordino. “I want to take her back down.”

  Lowden waved negatively. “No can do. We developed a leak in the battery casing. Four of them shorted. Not nearly enough power left for another dive.”

  Lowden’s voice trailed away in icy silence. In the blank numbness of total failure, Giordino struck his fist against the railing. The NUMA scientists and engineers, Stacy and Salazar, even the crew of the junk, stared mutely into the beaten expression that lined his face.

  “Not fair,” he muttered in a sudden seething anger. “Not fair.”

  He stood there a long time, staring down into the unsympathetic sea as if penetrating its depths. He was still standing there when Admiral Sandecker’s aircraft appeared from the clouded sky and circled the drifting junk.