Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex (10 page)

Pitt studied the screens. The cameras were just being lowered in the water; he could see the swells slap at the lenses as they slipped under the surface and entered the silent void of sun-sparkled, restless liquid. Two of the cameras recorded color, making the blue-green shadows seemingly drift off into infinity.

“The next instrument is an advanced sonar system,” Boland continued. “It takes detailed 'sound' pictures of the ocean floor and anything on it. We also have a side-scanning system that takes in half a mile on either side of the hull. Their sensors will also be towed behind the ship.”

“A mile-wide detection belt,” Pitt said. That should cut an impressive swath through the search sector."

Pitt noted that Boland made no conscious effort to introduce him to any of the crew manning the equipment. If there was one thing Boland sadly lacked, it was the barest hint of social courtesy. Pitt found himself wondering how Boland ever made lieutenant commander.

“And this little sweetheart over here,” Boland said proudly, “is the real brain of the outfit A Selco-Ramsey 8300 computer system.” He nodded at a tall, narrow panel of lights and knobs standing atop a wide-set keyboard. “Latitude-longitude, velocity and heading, complete on-board capability. In short, it hooks into the centralized control system, and from this point in time until we discover the Starbuck, this inhuman mass of transistors will run the ship.” “Makes it sanitary,” Pitt murmured. “How's that?”

“Untouched by human hands.” Boland's brow furrowed.  “Yeah, you might say that”

Pitt leaned over the keyboard operator's shoulder and studied the printout tapes. “A neat arrangement The Selco-Ramsey 8300 can be overridden and re-programmed from a master control. In this case, probably the operations bunker back at Pearl Harbor. Makes it handy for Admiral Hunter in the event we go the same way as the people on the Lillie Marlene. At the first sign of trouble, he and Denver can override our system, turn the ship around, and bring it back to port. He may lose the crew, but the 101st Fleet gets its super salvage ship home intact. A neat arrangement indeed.”

“You know your electronics,” Boland said slowly. His face had a strange mixture of suspicion and respect.

“You might say I have a passing acquaintance with most of the equipment you have on board.”

“You've seen all this before?”

“On at least three of NUMA's oceanographic research ships. Your capability is a bit more specialized since your primary objective is salvage. But our state-of-the-art is slightly ahead of yours due to the scientific nature of our explorations.”

“My apologies,” Boland forced a smile. “I've been underestimating your talents.” He wheeled, walked across to the detection room officer, spoke a few words to him, and returned. “Come on, I'll buy you a drink.”

“Do Navy regulations cover that?” Pitt grinned, somewhat taken by Boland's sudden display of friendliness.

Boland's return grin had a touch of shrewdness to it. “You forget. Technically, this is a civilian ship.”

“I'm all for technicalities.”

They had just started for the door when the detection room officer announced: “Television cameras and sonar sensors in position, Skipper.”

Boland nodded. “Fast work, Lieutenant Well get underway immediately...”

“One moment,” Pitt interrupted. “Just out of curiosity, what's our depth reading?”

Boland looked at him questioningly and then turned. “Lieutenant?”

The detection room officer was already bent over the sonar sensor, staring intently at the jagged shading that crawled across the readout paper.

“Five thousand, six hundred seventy feet, sir.”

“Anything unusual in that?” Boland queried.

“Should be deeper,” Pitt answered. “Can we have a look at your ocean floor charts?”

“Here, sir.” The lieutenant moved to a large chart table with a frosted glass top and switched on the overhead illuminator. He unrolled a large chart and clipped it to the edge of the table. “North Pacific sea-floor. Not very detailed, I'm afraid. Very few depth-sounding expeditions in this part of the world.”

Manners suddenly struck Boland. “Dirk Pitt, this is lieutenant Stanley.”

Pitt nodded. “Okay, Stanley, let's see what youVe got” He set his elbows on the edge of the table and peered at the strange-looking contours that represented the floor of the Pacific Ocean. “What's our position?”

“Bight here, Major.” Stanley made a small fix on the chart. “32°10/ N, 151°17' W.”

“That puts us over the Fullerton Fracture Zone,” said Pitt slowly.

 “Sounds like a football injury.” Boland was also hunched over the table.

“No, a fracture zone is a crack in the earth, a seam that allows movement during ocean spreading. There are hundreds of them between here and the California coast”

“I see what you mean by the depth. According to the chart, the seabed should be over fifteen thousand feet deep hereabouts.” Stanley underlined the nearest depth reading to their position.

“It's possible that we're near a seamount,” Pitt said.

“The bottom is rising on our port side,” Boland said quietly. “Two hundred fifty feet in one mile. Nothing strange about that One of the smaller seamounts might do it”

Pitt shook his head. “Except that none show on the chart.”

“Probably hasn't been sounded and marked yet.”

“Yet, if the slope is still rising, the summit can't be too far away. It's your ship, Paul, but I think an investigation is in order. The Starbuck's message capsule was sent by persons unknown after she disappeared. It stands to reason that she's resting in a depth that's within reach.”

Boland tiredly rubbed his eyes. “Sounds logical, but this can't be the only uncharted seamount in the area. There might be fifty more.”

“We can't afford to overlook even one.”

Boland looked thoughtful. Then he straightened and faced Stanley. “Lieutenant, program a course toward the high ground. Feed the sensor readings into the computer and place the helm on centralized control. Keep me informed of any sudden changes of depth. I'll be in my cabin.” He turned to Pitt “Now then, how about that drink?”

The TV camera sled and sonar sensors were reeled out on tow lines, the centralized control system was engaged on the computer, and within ten minutes the Martha Ann was underway on a slow, wide swing to the east The helmsman on the bridge stood idly smoking in the doorway of the wheelhouse, the spokes of the wheel slowly turning back and forth as if guided by an invisible hand. The ship pushed through the swells, her crew busy scanning and checking a paneled sea of wavering dials, colored lights, and monitors.

Pitt and Boland remained in the captain's cabin through the midafternoon, the time passing with agonizing slowness as the sonar sensors reported an ever-rising seafloor. One hour, two, then three. Pitt kept himself buried in reports and data on the Star-buck, while Boland concerned himself with salvage plans if and when the Martha Ann got lucky. Four-thirty in the afternoon. The idle conversation of the men on deck and down in the engine room turned inevitably to women; only the men in the detection room remained silent, intent on their monitors and instruments. Stanley's occasional “bottom still rising” over the intercom, kept a degree of normalcy about the ship. There was no more tedious routine than searching for a shipwreck.

Suddenly at five o'clock, Stanley's voice fairly burst from the speakers. “Bottom up nine hundred feet in the last half mile!”

Pitt stared at Boland. Without a word, they both jumped to their feet and hurried to the detection room. Stanley was bent over the chart table making notations. It's unbelievable, Skipper. I've never seen anything like it Here we are hundreds of miles from nowhere, and the seafloor has suddenly risen to only twelve hundred feet from the surface. And it's still coming."

“That's one hell of a steep rise,” Pitt said.

“Could be part of the Hawaiian Islands slope,” Boland ventured.

“We're too far north. I doubt if there's any connection. This baby stands all by herself.”

“Eleven hundred feet,” Stanley said loudly.

“Good Lord! It's got a rising gradient of one foot in height for every two in length,” Pitt said softly.

Boland spoke barely above a whisper. “If it doesn't level off soon, we'll run aground.” He spun around to face Stanley. “Disengage the computer. Return to manual.”

Five seconds was all it took for Stanley to reply. “Running on manual, sir.”

Boland picked up the intercom mike. “Bridge? Boland here. What do you see eight hundred yards dead ahead?”

A metallic voice came back over the speaker. “Nothing, sir. Horizon's clear.”

“Any sign of white water?”

“None, Commander.”

Pitt looked up at Boland. “Ask him for the color of the sea.”

“Bridge. Any change in the color of the sea?”

There was a brief hesitation. “It's turning more of a green, sir, about five hundred yards off the port bow.”

“Eight hundred and still rising,” Stanley said.

“The plot thickens,” Pitt said. “I expected a lighter blue as the summit neared the surface. Green indicates underwater vegetation. Mighty strange for sea plants to grow around here.”

“Seaweed doesn't take kindly to coral?” Boland said questioningly.

“That, and the warmer temperatures common to this part of the ocean,”

“I've got a solid reading on the magnetometer.” This from a blond, curly haired man. at a console.

“Where?” Boland demanded.

“Two hundred yards, bearing two hundred eighty degrees.”

“Might be paydirt,” Boland said elatedly.

“A second reading three hundred yards, bearing three hundred fifteen degrees. Another two contacts. God, they're all around us.”

“Sounds like a bonanza,” Pitt grinned.

“Stop all engines,” Boland yelled into the intercom.

“The bottom contour is jumping off the readout sheet,” Stanley said excitedly. “Four hundred fifty feet and she hasn't stopped yet.”

Pitt peered at the TV monitors. Nothing showed on the screens yet, and nothing would, with visibility limited to a hundred feet. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his neck and face. He found himself wondering why he was sweating. The detection room was fully air-conditioned. He shoved the now damp handkerchief carelessly back into his pocket and aimed his eyes at the monitors.

The microphone was still in Boland's hand. He lifted it to his lips and Pitt could hear his voice echoing through the ship. “This is Boland. We've made a touchdown on the first pass. All indications are that we're over the graveyard of the Pacific Vortex. I want every man on full alert. We have no picture of the danger here, so we don't want to get caught with our defenses down. As a point of interest, we may well be the only ship on record ever to reach these waters in one piece.”

Pitt's eyes never left the monitors. The bottom began showing as the momentum of the Martha Ann carried her forward. The diffused brilliance of the water when struck by the sun's rays, broke the surface light into thin beams of yellow shafts which reached downward, displaying an indistinct carpet of colors. A trigger fish was visible now, hanging motionless in the three-dimensional fluid, cautiously eyeing the huge shadow of the hull as it drifted overhead.

Boland placed his hand on the shoulder of the man seated at the magnetometer. “As we pass over the first of the wrecks, sing out a heading for the next one in line.” He turned to Stanley. “Signal Lieutenant Harper in the engine room. Keep it down to bare steerageway.”

The atmosphere of the detection room was tense. Two minutes passed; two interminable minutes, while they waited for the dead and buried remains of a long-lost ship to come into view.

The seafloor could be clearly seen on the monitors now. The plant life was strange and lush when it should have been as barren as an underwater lunar landscape. There was no sign of coral, only wide frond kelp and delicately colored seaweed clung to a rocky, uneven bed, constantly changing tint in the tremulous light filtering down from the surface. Pitt was fascinated. It was like looking at a flourishing Oriental garden that had sunk beneath the sea.

A long-haired youngster who manned the sonar spoke with an utter lack of excitement. “Coming up on a wreck, Commander.”

“Okay, get ready for a computer scan.”

“For the records?” Pitt asked.

“For identification,” Boland replied. “The memory banks contain all the known data on the ships that are missing. We'll try and match our data with that in the computer. Hopefully, we can coax the sea into giving up a few secrets.”

“Here she comes,” Stanley said.

Three pairs of eyes locked themselves on the monitors. It was an eerie sight The ship, or what was left of it, was covered with a thick layer of seagrowth. Two masts, fore and aft, reached in grotesque and hopeless desperation for the sky. The single funnel was intact with a coating of brown corrosion, and everywhere along the deck there were twisted chunks of nondescript metal. As they watched the screen, the long greenish body of a moray eel wiggled furiously through a porthole, its mouth opening and closing menacingly.

“My God, that sucker was at least ten feet long,” Boland exclaimed.

“Probably closer to eight, allowing for magnification of the TV lenses,” Pitt said.

“I might be hallucinating,” Stanley said, “but Tm sure I saw the remains of a farm tractor in the hold.”

Their attention was interrupted by the hum of the computer as the printout sheets began folding into the basket. The instant the machine stopped, Boland ripped out the paper and began reading aloud.

Data indicates ship probable Liberian freighter, Oceanic Star, 5,135 tons, cargo: rubber and farm machinery; reported missing June 14, 1949.

The men in the detection room stopped what they were doing and stared in mute silence at the paper in Commander Boland's hand. No one spoke. No one had to.

They had discovered their first victim of the Pacific Vortex.

Boland was the first to react He snatched the mike from its cradle. “Radio room. This is Boland. Open maritime frequency. Send message code sixteen.”

Pitt said: “A little premature concerning the bearing failure, aren't you? We haven't found the Starbuck yet.”

“True,” Boland admitted briefly. “I'm jumping the gun but I want Admiral Hunter to know exactly where we are, just in case.”

“Expecting trouble?”

“No sense in taking chances.”

“Next contact, bearing two hundred eighty-seven degrees,” the sonar operator droned conversationally.

They returned and waited at the monitors until the sloping deck of a steamer came into view, the stern rising high while the bows were lost in the blue green depths. The camera sled passed over a massive round smokestack and they were able to peer down into its black interior. The middle of the ship was laced with valves and piping, and carried no superstructure, but the stern section rose several decks, sprouting an ugly maze of ventilation tubes. Growth had claimed all the metal parts and even the cables trailing off the masts. Exotically hued fish of every variety were swimming among the rigging, as though the skeleton of the dead ship was their own personal playground.

Boland's voice repeated the precise figures on the computer display.

Japanese oil tanker, Ishiyo Maru, 8,106 tons, reported missing with all hands, September 14, 1964.

“God,” Stanley murmured. “This place is a veritable cemetery. I'm beginning to feel like a damned grave digger.”

The roll call of the decayed and lifeless ships was repeated six more times in the next hour. Four merchantmen, a large schooner, and an ocean-going trawler were located and identified. The tenseness in the detection room heightened as each new find was scanned and analyzed. And when the final moment came, the moment they had geared their conscious minds for, it curiously caught them all by surprise.

The sonar operator suddenly pressed his earphones tighter against his ears and fixed an intense, unbelieving stare at his instrument panel. “I have a contact with a submarine bearing one hundred ninety degrees,” he said.

“Certain?” Boland demanded.

“Bet my dear mother's virtue on it. I've read subs before, Commander, and this is a big one.”

Boland hit the mike. “Bridge? When I give the word, stop all engines and drop anchor. Fasti Get that?”

“Affirmative, sir,” came the rough-edged voice over the speaker.

“What is the depth?” Pitt asked.

Boland nodded. “Depth?” he ordered.

“Ninety feet.”

Pitt and Boland stared at one another. “Compounds the mystery, wouldn't you say?” Pitt asked quietly.

“That it does,” Boland answered softly. “If Dupree's message was fake, why include the correct depth level?”

“Our mastermind probably reasoned that nobody in their right mind would believe a reading of ninety feet. I'm seeing it with my own two eyes and I still don't believe it.”

“She's coming into camera range.” Stanley announced. “There . . . there, we have a submarine.”

They stared at the image of a massive black shape lying below the slow-moving keel of the Martha Ann. To Pitt it was like looking down at a model ship in a bathtub. Her length was at least twice that of the conventional nuclear submarine. Instead of the more familiar hemispherical bows, her fore end was formed with a more pointed design. The usual perfect cigar shape was also missing and had been replaced with a hull that tapered smoothly into a classic swept-back symmetry. Gone too was the great dorsal finlike conning tower of other submarines. In its place sat a smaller rounded hump. Only the control planes on the stern remained the same, as did two bronze propellers rucked neatly under the sleek hull. The submarine looked comfortably serene, like some huge Mesozoic denizen on a late afternoon nap. It was not the way it should have looked, and Pitt could feel his skin start to gooseflesh.

“Away marker,” Boland snapped.

“Marker?” Pitt questioned.

“A low frequency electronic beeper,” Boland answered. “In case we're forced to leave the area, we have a waterproof transmitter sitting on the seabed giving out periodic signals. That way we can pinpoint the position without a search when we return.”

“Our bows have just cleared the wreck, Commander.” This from the sonar operator.

Boland bellowed into the intercom mike. “All engines stop. Away anchor.” He swung and faced Pitt. “Did you get a look at its number?”

“Nine-eight-nine,” Pitt said tersely.

“That's her, the Starbuck,” Boland said reverently. “I never really thought Td lay eyes on her.”

“Or what's left of her,” Stanley added, his face suddenly pale. “Just thinking about those poor bastards entombed down there is enough to make your skin crawl.”

“It does give you a queer feeling deep down in your gut,” Boland agreed.