Raise the Titanic

    Gu

    "Sonar."

    "Can you give me an approximate fix on where she'll appear?"

    "She should break water about six hundred yards off the port quarter."

    "Time?"

    There was a pause.

    "Time?" Gu

    "Is now soon enough for you, Commander?"

     At that very moment, a huge wave of bubbles spread across the sea and the fantail of the Titanic burst up into the afternoon sun like a gigantic whale. For a few seconds it seemed as though there was no stopping her soaring flight from the depths-her stern kept crowding into the sky until she came free of the water up to the boiler casing, where her No. 2 fu

    Nobody could speak. They all just stood there, too stu

    Pitt was the first to find his voice. "She's up," he managed in a barely audible whisper.

    "She's up," Gu

    Then the spell was broken by the pulsing blades of the Capricorn's helicopter as it headed into the wind and angled over the debris-laden forecastle of the resurrected ship. The pilot held the craft on a level position a few feet above the deck and almost instantly two tiny specks could be seen dropping out of a side door.

    Giordino scrambled up the access ladder and found himself staring at the hatch cover of the Deep Fathom. Thank God for small miracles the hull was still sound. Cautiously, he maneuvered his body on top of the rounded, slippery deck and tried the handwheel. The spokes felt like ice, but he gripped firm and gave a heavy twist. The handwheel refused to cooperate.

    "Stop dawdling and open the damned thing," Dr. Bailey boomed behind him. "Every second counts."

    Giordino took a deep breath and heaved with every ounce the muscles of his oxlike body could give. It moved an inch. He tried again, and this time forced half a turn, and then, finally, it began spi

    Dr. Bailey pushed past and lowered his immense hulk through the hatch and down the interior ladder. The icy water stung his skin. He pushed off the rungs and dogpaddled toward the after part of the submersible until hip, hand touched something soft in the dim light. It was a leg. Following it over the knee, he felt his way toward the torso. His hand came out of the water at shoulder level and he touched a face.

    Bailey moved closer until his nose was a bare inch from the face in the darkness. He tried to feel for a pulse, but his fingers were too numb from the cold water, and he detected nothing that indicated life or death. Then, suddenly, the eyes fluttered open, the lips trembled, and a voice whispered, "Go away . . . I told you . . . I'm not working today."

    "Bridge?" Curly's voice scratched through the speaker.

    "This is the bridge," answered Gu

    "Ready to patch in the helicopter."

    "Go ahead."

    There was a pause and then a strange voice cracked onto the bridge. "Capricorn, this is Lieutenant Sturgis."

    "This is Commander Gu

    "Dr. Bailey has entered the Deep Fathom. Please stand by."

    The brief respite gave everyone a chance to study the Titanic. She looked uncompromisingly utilitarian and downright naked without her towering fu

    "Capricorn, this is Sturgis. Over."

    "Gu

    "Mr. Giordino has just given me three fingers and a thumbs-up sign. Merker, Kiel, and Chavez are still alive."

    A strange quiet followed. Then Pitt walked over to the emergency equipment panel and pressed the siren button. The ear-splitting sound whooped across the water.

    Then the Modoc's whistle blared in reply, and Pitt saw the normally reserved Sandecker laugh and throw his cap in the air. The Monterey Park joined in, and the Alhambra and finally the Bomberger, until the sea around the Titanic was one huge cacophony of sirens and whistles. Not to be outdone, the Juneau moved up and punctuated the mad din with a thunderous salute from her eight-inch gun mount.

    It was a moment that none of those present would ever live again. For the first time in all the years he could remember, Pitt felt the trickle of warm tears on his cheeks.

49

    The late-afternoon sun was just touching the tops of the trees as Gene Seagram sat slouched on a bench in East Potomac Park and contemplated the Colt revolver in his lap. Serial number 204,783, he thought, you're about to serve the purpose you were manufactured for. Almost lovingly, he ran his fingers over the barrel, the cylinder, and the grips. Suicide it seemed the ideal solution to end his flight into black depression. He marveled that he hadn't thought of it before. No more uncontrollable crying in the middle of the night. No more sensations of worthlessness or the gnawing inside his guts that his life had been a transparent sham.

    His mind envisioned the past few months as reflected in the cracked and distorted mirror of acute despair. The two things he had cherished most were his wife and the Sicilian Project. Now Dana was gone, his marriage a shambles. And the President of the United States had taken what seemed to Seagram to be a needless risk in leaking his precious project to the sworn enemy of democracy.

    Sandecker had revealed to him the presence of the two Soviet agents on the Titanic's salvage fleet. And the fact that the CIA had warned the admiral not to interfere with their espionage activities only served to drive, what seemed to Seagram, another nail into the coffin of the Sicilian Project. Already one of NUMA's engineers had been murdered, and just this morning, the daily report from Sandecker's staff to Meta Section told of the trapped submersible and the apparent hopelessness of rescuing its crew. It had to be sabotage. There could be no doubt of it. The mismatched pieces of the puzzle were forced into unfitting slots by Seagram's confused brain. The Sicilian Project was dead, and he now made up his mind to die with it. He was in the act of releasing the gun's safety catch when a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke in a friendly tone.