Raise the Titanic

    The first officer's face paled, his body stiffened. "There is alternative, sir?"

    Parotkin shook his head. "The orders were clear. We must obliterate the ship rather than let her fall into the hands of Americans."

    Parotkin took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "Have the crew ready the nuclear missile carrier and steer a course ten miles north of the Titanic for our firing position."

    The first officer stared at Parotkin for a long moment, his face void of expression. Then he slowly wheeled and made for the radio telephone and ordered the helmsman to steer fifteen degrees to the north.

    Thirty minutes later, all was in readiness. The Mikhail Kurkov dug her bow into the swells at the position laid for the missile launch as Parotkin stood behind the radar operator. "Any hard sightings?" he asked.

    "Eight jet aircraft, a hundred and twenty miles west, closing rapidly."

    "Surface vessels?"

    "Two small ships bearing two-four-five, twenty-one miles southwest."

    "That would be the tugs returning," the first officer said.

    Parotkin nodded. "It's the aircraft that concern me. They will be over us in ten minutes. Is the nuclear warhead armed?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Then begin the countdown."

    The first officer gave the order over the phone and then they moved outside and watched from the starboard bridge wing as the forward cargo hatch swung smoothly aside and a twenty-six-foot Stoski surface-to-surface missile slowly rose from its concealed tube into the gusty dawn air.

    "One minute to firing," came a missile technician's voice over the bridge speaker.

    Parotkin aimed his glasses at the Titanic in the distance. He could just make out her outline against the gray clouds that crawled along the horizon. A barely perceptible shiver gripped his body. His eyes reflected a distant sad look. He knew he would be forever cursed among sailors as the captain who sent the helpless and resurrected ocean liner back to her grave beneath the sea. He was standing braced and waiting for the roar of the missile's rocket engine and then the great explosion that would pulverize the Titanic into thousands of molten particles when he heard the sound of ru

    "Captain!" he blurted. "An urgent signal from an American submarine!"

    "Thirty seconds to firing," the voice droned over the intercom.

    There was unmistakable panic in the radio operator's eyes as he thrust the message into Parotkin's hands. It read:

USS DRAGONFISH TO USSR MIKHAIL KURKOV DERELICT VESSEL RMS TITANIC UNDER PROTECTION OF UNITED STATES NAVY ANY OVERT ACT OF AGGRESSION ON YOUR PART WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE REPEAT IMMEDIATE RETALIATORY ATTACK

    ----SIGNED CAPTAIN USS SUBMARINE DRAGONFISH

    "Ten seconds and counting," came the disembodied voice of the missile technician over the speaker. "Seven . . . six..' .

    Parotkin looked up with the clear, unworried expression of a man who has just received a million rubles through the mail.

    ". . . five . . . four . . . three . . ."

    "Stop the countdown," he ordered in precise tones, so there could be no misunderstanding, no misinterpretation.

    "Stop countdown," the first officer repeated into the bridge phone, his face beaded with sweat. "And secure the missile."

    "Good," Parotkin said curtly. A smile spread across his face. "Not exactly what I was told to do, but I think Soviet Naval authorities will see it my way. After all, the Mikhail Kurkov is the finest ship of her kind in the world. We wouldn't want to throw her away because of a senseless and foolish order from a man who is undoubtedly dead, now would we?"

    "I am in complete accord." The first officer smiled-back. "Our superiors will also be interested to learn that in spite of all our sophisticated detection gear, we failed to discover the presence of an alien submarine practically on our doorstep. American undersea penetration methods must truly be highly advanced."

    "I feel sure the Americans will be just as interested in learning that our oceanographic research vessels carry concealed missiles."

    "Your orders, sir?"

    Parotkin watched the Stoski missile as it sank back into its tube. "Set a course for home." He turned and peered across the sea in the direction of the Titanic. What had happened to Prevlov and his men? Were they alive or dead? Would he ever know the true facts?

    Overhead the clouds began turning from gray to white and the wind dropped to a brisk breeze. A solitary sea gull emerged from the brightening sky and began circling the Soviet ship. Then, as if heeding a more urgent call to the south, it dipped its wings and flew off toward the Titanic.

70

    "We're done in," Spencer said in a voice so low that Pitt wasn't sure he heard him.

    "Say again."

    "We're done in," he repeated through slack lips. His face was smeared with oil and a rustlike slime. "It's a hopeless case. We've plugged most of the holes Drummer opened with his cutting torch, but the sea has battered the hull all to hell and the old girl is taking water faster than a sieve."

    "We've got to keep her on the surface until the tugs return," Pitt said. "If they can add their pumps to ours we can stay ahead of the leaks until the damage can be patched"

    "It's a damned miracle that she didn't go down hours ago.

    How much time can you give me?" Pitt demanded.

    Spencer stared wearily down at the water sloshing around his ankles. "The pump engines are ru

    "And if you had enough fuel to keep the diesels going?"

    "I could probably keep her on the surface without assistance until noon," Spencer answered.

    "How much fuel will it take?"

    "Two hundred gallons would do nicely,

    They both looked up as Giordino plunged down a companionway and splashed into the water covering the deck of the No. 4 boiler room.

    "Talk about frustration," he moaned. "There are eight aircraft up there, circling the ship. Six Navy fighters and two radar recon planes. I've tried everything except standing on my head and exposing myself and all they do is wave every time they make a pass."

    Pitt shook his head in mock sadness. "Remind me never to play charades on your team."

    "I'm open for suggestions," Giordino said. "Suppose you tell me how to notify some guy who's flying by at four hundred miles an hour that we need help, and lots of it?"

    Pitt scratched his chin. "There's got to be a practical solution."

    "Sure," Giordino said sarcastically. "Just call the Automobile Club for a service call."

    Pitt and Spencer stared with widened eyes at each other. The same thought had suddenly occurred to them in the same instant.

    "Brilliance," Spencer said, "sheer brilliance."

    "If we can't get to a service station," Pitt said gri

    Giordino looked lost. "Fatigue has queered your minds," he said. "Where are you going to find a pay phone? What will you use for a radio? The Russians smashed ours, the one in the helicopter is soaked through, and Prevlov's transmitter caught two bullets during the brawl." He shook his head "And you can forget those flyboys upstairs. Without a brush and bucket of paint, there's no way to get a message across to their eager little minds."