Several ROVs flitted about the sea bottom, displaying the massive cache of ANFO explosives piled into the slit trench. One ROV turned upward, its camera capturing the arrival of the bulk cutter as it dropped to the seabed and vanished in a cloud of sediment.
The current blew the water clear as the ROV moved in for a closer view. When it turned to capture the side of the cutter, Pitt nearly choked. Clasped by the cutter’s manipulator and held to its side like a bread basket was the NUMA submersible Starfish.
Yet it wasn’t the appearance of the Starfish that startled Pitt. What took his breath away was the sight of his daughter, sitting alone and helpless in the pilot’s seat of the stricken submersible.
68
Ninety minutes.
That was the remaining life of the Starfish’s battery reserves. Once the power failed and the carbon dioxide scrubbers ceased, Summer would die a slow death from asphyxiation. Unless hypothermia from the cold struck first.
When Díaz and his men forced her into the submersible and lowered it over the side, she knew he didn’t intend for her to surface again. She immediately activated the life-support systems, while shutting off all nonessential power drains. She was thankful her father had powered down everything when they were brought aboard the Sea Raker, leaving her some remaining battery charge.
Once on the seafloor, she realized ninety minutes was a false hope. As the bulk cutter’s treads began turning and the big machine lurched forward, she saw the massive pit filled with explosives. Her death would come soon — and violently.
The cutter trudged to the edge of the trench and stopped. Its manipulator arm rotated outward, swinging the Starfish from its side. An operator on the surface released the manipulator’s grip and the submersible dropped into the trench, landing upright on a carpet of explosives.
A pair of ROVs captured the scene, their lights blinding Summer as they buzzed about the submersible. They gradually pulled away, hovering over the bulk cutter as it crawled into the darkness.
Summer peered out the viewport until the ROVs faded to a small speck of light. Then she went to work.
She had one last gambit: the fact she could still make the submersible buoyant. The ROV may have destroyed the sub’s external thrusters on their first encounter, but it hadn’t hampered the Starfish’s ability to surface.
Summer powered the ballast tank pumps and initiated a purge to empty the flooded tanks. She waited for a reaction, but nothing happened. There was normally a hissing of compressed air, followed by a gurgle of expelled water, but now there was only silence. She checked the power and circuit breakers and tried a second time.
Again nothing. Then she checked the compressed air cylinder that supported the ballast tank. The gauge read zero. The Sea Raker’s crew had emptied the cylinder to prevent such an attempt.
Glancing out the viewport at the bed of explosives, she tried not to panic. She took a deep breath — and thought of one more option. The Starfish was fitted with twin lead weights that could be jettisoned for lift in an emergency. Her father had released one set of weights when they tried to escape the bulk cutter, but another still remained.
She climbed behind the seat, where under a floor panel she found a secondary release. Grabbing the handle, she twisted it to the drop position.
Nothing happened.
The Sea Raker’s crew had done their handiwork there, too, securing the weight so it couldn’t be released. Díaz had made sure her last voyage was a one-way trip.
With an angry resignation, Summer slid into the pilot’s seat and gazed into the darkness, wondering how much longer she had left to live.
69
A trickle of cold sweat ran down Pitt’s back as he watched the Starfish being deposited on the pile of explosives. The ROV’s underwater cameras tracked the bulk cutter as it left the submersible and crawled to the utility platform, which had been separately lowered to the seafloor. The cutter stopped alongside the platform and used its manipulator to pluck up the end of the coiled detonator tube filled with TNT.
The bulk cutter reversed course and began crawling back toward the explosives trench, unraveling the tube along its side. It eventually pulled the snake-like detonator tube clear of the utility platform, trailing a wire cable. Tagged with small floats, the cable led to the surface, where a console operator a few rows ahead of Pitt could ignite the charge on command.
Pitt glanced around the control room and dismissed any thought of trying to commandeer the bulk cutter. Three men operated its controls from an expanded console near the front of the room. Near it was a side exit door, guarded by a pair of armed soldiers. Farther back was an unoccupied table used for the auxiliary cutter, followed by a half-dozen staggered workstations that controlled the ROVs, the utility platform, and numerous shipboard cameras.
Nearest Pitt was one of the ROV control stations: a large table topped with several monitors and a joystick control system. A slight man in military fatigues and cap hunkered over the controls, engrossed in tracking the movements of the bulk cutter with his ROV’s camera.
Pitt watched the camera’s view of the detonator tube trailing beside the cutter and had an idea. He’d need some help, but it was all that time allowed.
The key was the ROV and its operator station at the back of the room. Weaponless, Pitt stepped to a nearby bookshelf filled with technical manuals. He selected the thickest one, then crept back to the station. As the operator focused on the controls, he never noticed Pitt step behind him and smash the binder into his temple.
The operator let out a muted grunt as he tumbled from his chair, a communications headset flying off him. Pitt instantly slipped an arm around his throat and squeezed in a tight choke hold. The dazed man gave little resistance as Pitt dragged him out the back door with a few quick steps. The action went undetected. While the front of the control room was brightly illuminated by the video screen, the rear was virtually black.
Outside, the operator regained his bearings and tried to break free. Pitt didn’t give him the opportunity, swinging him forward and driving him into a bulkhead. The man didn’t throw up an arm in time and connected headfirst with the steel wall. His skull made a loud clang, and Pitt felt him go limp.
“I’m sure Díaz offers workmen’s comp,” Pitt muttered. He dragged the man behind a storage locker and removed his cap. Placing it on his own head, he hurried back to the control room and took his place at the ROV controls.
Díaz was yelling and pointing at the big screen, and Pitt immediately saw why. The unmanned ROV had drifted to the bottom and was sitting idle, its main camera pointed at a rock. Pitt kept his face hidden behind the monitors as he groped for the toggle and thruster controls. An experienced hand at operating ROVs, Pitt managed to raise the vehicle and move it forward, quieting Díaz’s complaints.
He quickly gained a feel for the ROV, which operated much like a backyard, radio-controlled helicopter. He guided the ROV across the bottom, pursuing the tracks of the bulk cutter until the cutter and its trailing detonator tube came into view.
There were two monitors on his operator’s desk, which relayed video feeds from separate cameras on the front and back of the ROV. Only the front view was displayed on the screen at the front of the room. He experimented with the commands and found the drop-down menu for picture quality.