Raise the Titanic dp-4 Page 12

  Gunn turned to Woodson. "Activate the two stereo bottom cameras and strobes. We should have this on film."

  Woodson nodded and moved off toward his equipment.

  "Can you describe it?" Spencer asked.

  "It looks like a funnel sticking upright in the ooze." Munk's voice came through the instrument tunnel disembodied, but even the reverberated tone could not disguise the excitement behind it.

  Gunn's expression went skeptical. "Funnel?"

  Drummer leaned over Gunn's shoulder. "What kind of funnel?"

  "A funnel with a hollow cone tapering to a point that you pour stuff through, you dumb rebel," Munk replied irritably. "It's passing under the starboard hull now. Tell Giordino to hold the boat stationary the second it appears under the bow viewports."

  Gunn stepped over to Giordino. "Can you hold our position?"

  "I'll give it a go, but if the current starts swinging us broadside, I won't be able to keep precise control and we'll lose visual contact with whatever that thing is out there."

  Gunn moved to the bow and lay down on the rubber sheathed floor. He stared out of one of the four forward viewports together with Merker and Spencer. They all saw the object almost immediately. It was as Munk had described it simply an inverted bell-shaped funnel about five inches in diameter, its tip protruding from the bottom sediment. Surprisingly, its condition was good. The exterior surface of the metal was tarnished, to be sure, but it appeared to be sound and solid, with no indication of flaking or heavy rust layers.

  "Holding steady," Giordino said, "but I can't guarantee for how long."

  Without turning from the viewport, Gunn motioned to Woodson, who was bent over a pair of cameras, zooming their lenses toward the object on the sea floor. "Omar?"

  "Focused and shooting."

  Merker twisted around and looked at Gunn. "Let's make a grab for it."

  Gunn remained silent, his nose almost touching the port. He seemed lost in concentration.

  Merker's eyes narrowed questioningly. "What about it, Rudi? I say let's grab it."

  The words finally penetrated Gunn's thoughts. "Yes, yes, by all means," he mumbled vaguely.

  Merker unhooked a metal box that was attached to the forward bulkhead by a five-foot cable and positioned himself at the center viewport. The box contained a series of toggle switches that surrounded a small circular knob. It was the control unit for the manipulator, a four-hundred-pound mechanical arm that hung grotesquely from the lower bow of the Sappho I.

  Merker pushed a switch that activated the arm. Then he deftly moved his fingers over the controls as the mechanism hummed and the arm extended to its full seven-foot reach. It was eight inches shy of the funnel in the sediment outside.

  "I need another foot," Merker said.

  "Get ready," Giordino replied. "The forward movement may break my position."

  The funnel seemed to pass with agonizing slowness under the manipulator's stainless-steel claw. Merker gently eased the pincers over the lip of the funnel, and then he pressed another switch and they closed, but his timing was off; the current clutched the submersible and began swinging it broadside. The claw missed by no more than an inch and its pincers came together empty.

  "She's breaking to port," Giordino yelled, "I can't hold her."

  Quickly, Merker's fingers danced over the control box. He would have to try for a second grab on the fly. If he missed again, it would be next to impossible to relocate the funnel under the limited visibility. Sweat began erupting on his brow, and his hands grew tense.

  He bent the arm against its stop and turned the claw six degrees to starboard, compensating for the opposite swing of the Sappho. He flipped the switch again and the claw dropped, and the pincers closed in almost the same motion. The lip of the funnel rested between them.

  Merker had it.

  Now he eased the arm upward, gradually easing the funnel from its resting place in the sediment. The sweat was rolling into his eyes now, but he kept them open. There could be no hesitating one mistake and the object would be lost on the sea floor forever. Then the slimy ooze relinquished its hold and the funnel came free and rose up toward the viewports.

  "My God!" Woodson whispered. "That's no funnel."

  "It looks like a horn," Merker said.

  Gunn shook his head. "It's a cornet."

  "How can you be sure?" Giordino had left the pilot's console and was peering over Gunn's shoulder through the port.

  "I played one in my high-school band."

  The others recognized it now, too. They could readily make out the flaring mouth of the bell and behind it, the curved tubes leading to the valves and mouthpiece.

  "Judging from the look of it," Merker said, "I'd say it was brass."

  "That's why Munk's magnetometer barely picked it up on the graph," Giordino added. "The mouthpiece and the valve pistons are the only parts that contain iron."

  "Ah wonder how long it's been down here?" Drummer asked no one in particular.

  "It'd be more intriguing to know where it came from," said Merker.

  "Obviously thrown overboard from a passing ship," Giordino said carelessly. "Probably by some kid who hated music lessons."

  "Maybe its owner is somewhere down here, too." Merker spoke without looking up.

  Spencer shivered. "There's a chilling thought for you."

  The interior of the Sappho I fell silent.

  25

  The antique Ford trimotor aircraft, famed in aviation history as the Tin Goose, looked too awkward to fly, and yet she banked as gracefully and majestically as an albatross when she lined up for her final approach to the runway of the Washington National Airport.

  Pitt eased back the three throttles and the old bird touched down with all the delicacy of an autumn leaf kissing high grass. He taxied over to one of the NUMA hangars at the north end of the airport, where his waiting maintenance crew chocked the wheels and made the routine throatcutting sign. Flipping off the ignition switches, he watched the silver-bladed propellers gradually slow their revolutions and come to rest, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Then he removed the headphones, draped them on the control column, undid the latch on his side window and pushed it open.

  A bewildered frown slowly creased Pitt's forehead and hung there in the tanned, leathery skin. A man was standing on the asphalt below, frantically waving his hands.

  "May I come aboard?" Gene Seagram shouted.

  "I'll come down," Pitt yelled back.

  "No, please stay where you are."

  Pitt shrugged and leaned back in his seat. It took Seagram only a few seconds to climb aboard the trimotor and push open the cockpit door. He wore a stylish tan suit with vest, but his well-tailored appearance was diluted by a sea of wrinkles that creased the material, making it obvious that he hadn't seen a bed for at least twenty-four hours.

  "Where did you ever find such a gorgeous old machine?" Seagram asked.

  "I ran across it at Keflavik, Iceland," Pitt replied. "Managed to buy it at a fair price and have it shipped back to the States."

  "She's a beauty."

  Pitt motioned Seagram to the empty copilot's seat. "You sure you want to talk in here? In a few minutes the sun will make this cabin feel like the inside of an incinerator."

  "What I have to say won't take long." Seagram eased into the seat and let out a long sigh.

  Pitt studied him. He looked like a man who was unwilling and trapped . . . a proud man who had placed himself in an uncompromising position.

  Seagram did not face Pitt when he spoke, but stared nervously through the windshield. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here," he said.

  "The thought crossed my mind."

  "I need your help."

  That was it. No mention of the harsh words from the past. No preliminaries; only a straight-to-the-gut request.

  Pitt's eyes narrowed. "For some strange reason I had the feeling that my company was about as welcome to you as a dose of syphilis."

  "Your feeli
ngs, my feelings, they don't matter. What does matter is that your talents are in desperate demand by our government."

  "Talents . . . desperate demand . . ." Pitt did not disguise his surprise "You're putting me on, Seagram."

  "Believe me, I wish I was, but Admiral Sandecker assures me that you're the only man who stands a remote chance of pulling off a ticklish job."

  "What Job?"

  "Salvaging the Titanic. "

  "Of course! Nothing like a salvage operation to break the monotony of-" Pitt broke off in mid-sentence; his deep green eyes widened and the blood rose to his face. "What ship did you say?" His voice came in a hoarse murmur this time.

  Seagram looked at him with an amused expression. "The Titanic. Surely you've heard of it?"

  Perhaps ten seconds ticked by in utter silence while Pitt sat there stunned. Then he said, "Do you know what you're proposing?"

  "Absolutely."

  "It can't be done!" Pitt's expression was incredulous, his voice still the same hoarse murmur. "Even if it were technically possible, and it isn't, it would take hundreds of millions of dollars . . . and then there's the unending legal entanglement with the original owners and the insurance companies over salvage rights."

  "There are over two hundred engineers and scientists working on the technical problems at this moment," Seagram explained. "Financing will be arranged through secret government funding. And as far as legal rights go, forget it. Under international law, once a vessel is lost with no hope of recovery, it becomes fair game for anybody who wishes to spend the money and effort on a salvage operation." He turned and stared out the windshield again. "You can't know, Pitt, how important this undertaking is. The Titanic represents much more than treasure or historic value. There is something deep within its cargo holds that is vital to the security of our nation."

  "You'll forgive me if I say that sounds a bit farfetched."

  "Perhaps, but underneath the flag-waving, the facts hold true."

  Pitt shook his head. "You're talking sheer fantasy. The Titanic lies in nearly two and a half miles of water. The pressure at those depths runs several thousand pounds to the square inch, Mr. Seagram; not square foot or square yard, but square inch. The difficulties and barriers are staggering. No one has ever seriously attempted to raise the Andrea Doria or the Lusitania from the bottom . . and they both lie only three hundred feet from the surface."

  "If we can put men on the moon, we can bring the Titanic up to the sunlight again," Seagram argued.

  "There's no comparison. It took a decade to set a four-ton capsule on lunar soil. Lifting forty-five thousand tons of steel is a different proposition. It may take months just to find her."

  "The search is already under way."

  "I heard nothing-"

  "About a search effort?" Seagram finished. "Not likely that you should. Until the operation becomes unwieldy in terms of security, it will remain secret. Even your assistant special projects director, Albert Giordano-"

  "Giordino."

  "Yes, Giordino, thank you. He is at this very moment piloting a search probe across the Atlantic sea floor in total ignorance of his true mission."

  "But the Lorelei Current Expedition . . . the Sappho I's original mission was to trace a deep ocean current."

  "A timely coincidence. Admiral Sandecker was able to order the submersible into the area of the Titanic's last known position barely hours before the sub was scheduled to surface."

  Pitt turned and stared at a jet airliner that was lifting from the airport's main runway. "Why me? What have I done to deserve an invitation to what has to be the biggest hare-brained scheme of the century?"

  "You are not simply to be a guest, my dear Pitt. You are to command the overall salvage operation."

  Pitt regarded Seagram grimly. "The question still stands. Why me?"

  "Not a selection that excites me, I assure you," Seagram said. "However, since the National Underwater and Marine Agency is the nation's largest acknowledged authority on oceanographic science, and since the leading experts on deep-water salvage are members of their staff, and since you are the agency's Special Projects Director, you were elected."

  "The fog begins to lift. It's a simple case of my being in the wrong occupation at the wrong time."

  "Read it as you will," Seagram said wearily. "I must admit, I found your past record of bringing incredibly difficult projects to successful conclusions most impressive." He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. "Another factor that weighed heavily in your favor, I might add, is that you are considered somewhat of an expert on the Titanic. "

  "Collecting and studying Titanic memorabilia is a hobby with me, nothing more. It hardly qualifies me to oversee her salvage."

  "Nonetheless, Mr. Pitt, Admiral Sandecker tells me you are, to use his words, a genius at handling men and coordinating logistics." He gazed over at Pitt, his eyes uncertain. "Will you take the job?"

  "You don't think I can pull it off, do you, Seagram?"

  "Frankly, no. But when one dangles over the cliff by a thread, one has little say about who comes to the rescue."

  A faint smile edged Pitt's lips. "Your faith in me is touching."

  "Well?"

  Pitt sat lost in thought for several moments. Finally, he gave an almost imperceptible nod and looked squarely into Seagram's eyes. "Okay, my friend, I'm your boy. But don't count you're chickens until that rusty old hulk is moored to a New York dock. There isn't a bet-maker in Las Vegas who'd waste a second computing odds on this crazy escapade. When we find the Titanic, if we find the Titanic, her hull nay be too far gone to raise. But then nothing is absolutely impossible, and though I can't begin to guess what it is that's so valuable to the government that warrants the effort, I'll try, Seagram. Beyond that, I promise nothing."

  Pitt broke into a wide grin and climbed from the pilot's seat. "End of speech. Now then, let's get out of this hot box and find a nice cool air-conditioned cocktail lounge where you can buy me a drink. It's the least you can do after pulling off the con job of the year."

  Seagram just sat there, too drained to do anything except shrug in helpless acquiescence.

  26

  At first John Vogel treated the cornet as simply another restoration job. There was no rarity suggested by its design. There was nothing exceptional about its construction that would excite a collector. At the moment it could excite nobody. The valves were corroded and frozen closed; the brass was discolored by an odd sort of accumulated grime; and a foul, fishlike odor emanated from the mud that clogged the interior of its tubes.

  Vogel decided the cornet was beneath him; he would turn it over to one of his assistants for the restoration. The exotics, those were the instruments that Vogel loved to bring back to their original newness the ancient Chinese and Roman trumpets, with the long, straight tubes and the ear-piercing tones; the battered old horns of the early jazz greats; the instruments with a piece of history attached-these, Vogel would repair with the patience of a watchmaker, toiling with exacting craftsmanship until the piece gleamed like new and played brilliantly clear tones.

  He wrapped the cornet in an old pillowcase and set it against the far wall of his office.

  The Executone on his desk uttered a soft bong. "Yes, Mary, what is it?"

  "Admiral James Sandecker of the National Underwater and Marine Agency is on the phone." His secretary's voice scratched over the intercom like fingernails over a blackboard. "He says it's urgent."

  "Okay, put him on." Vogel lifted the telephone. "John Vogel here."

  "Mr. Vogel, this is James Sandecker."

  The fact that Sandecker had dialed his own call and didn't bluster behind his title impressed Vogel.

  "Yes, Admiral, what can I do for you?"

  "Have you received it yet?"

  "Have I received what?"

  "An old bugle."

  "Ah, the cornet," Vogel said. "I found it on my desk this morning with no explanation. I assumed it was a donation to the museum."


  "My apologies, Mr. Vogel. I should have forewarned you, but I was tied up."

  A straightforward excuse.

  "How can I help you, Admiral?"

  "I'd be grateful if you could study the thing and tell me what you know about it. Date of manufacture and so on."

  "I'm flattered, sir. Why me?"

  "As chief curator for the Washington Museum's Hall of Music, you seemed the logical choice. Also, a mutual friend said that the world lost another Harry James when you decided to become a scholar."

  My God, Vogel thought, the President. Score another point for Sandecker. He knew the right people.

  "That's debatable," Vogel said. "When would you like my report?"

  "As soon as it's convenient for you."

  Vogel smiled to himself. A polite request deserved extra effort. "The dipping process to remove the corrosion is what takes time. With luck, I should have something for you by tomorrow morning."

  "Thank you, Mr. Vogel," Sandecker said briskly. "I'm grateful."

  "Is there any information concerning how or where you found the cornet that might help me?"

  "I'd rather not say. My people would like your opinions entirely without prompting or direction on our part."

  "You want to compare my findings with yours, is that it?"

  Sandecker's voice carried sharply through the earpiece. "We want you to confirm our hopes and expectations, Mr. Vogel, nothing more."

  "I shall do my best, Admiral. Good-by."

  "Good luck."

  Vogel sat for several minutes staring at the pillowcase in the corner, his hand resting on the telephone. Then he pressed the Executone. "Mary, hold all calls for the rest of the day, and send out for a medium pizza with Canadian bacon and a half gallon of Gallo burgundy."

  "You going to lock yourself in that musty old workshop again?" Mary's voice scratched back.

  "Yes," Vogel sighed. "It's going to be a long day."

  First, Vogel took several photos of the cornet from different angles. Then he noted the dimensions, general condition of the visible parts, and the degree of tarnish and foreign matter that coated the surfaces, recording each observation in a large notebook. He regarded the cornet with an increased level of professional interest. It was a quality instrument; the brass was of good commercial grade, and the small bores of the bell and the valves told him that it was manufactured before 1930. He discovered that what he had thought to be corrosion was only a hard crust of mud that flaked away under light pressure from a rubber spoon.