‘More or less simultaneously with gale winds of up to force nine. Which will grow worse through the night. Ultimately I anticipate we’ll get hurricane winds, of up to force eleven or twelve.’
‘Once the submersible reaches the surface,’ Richards said grimly, ‘it will take the better part of an hour – under normal weather conditions – to haul the submarine on board. God knows how long it will take under typhoon conditions.’
‘I’ll do my best to hold the Neptune steady for you as long as I can,’ Humphries said, ‘I’ve been a sailor long enough to know I can’t compete with the sea, and neither can you.’
‘Not even the sea,’ Richards said, ‘is going to take that submarine away from me.’
By 6.47 p.m. the submersible and her cargo were only three eighths of a mile beneath the surface, and continued to rise to the surface more rapidly than had been calculated. But the sea became rougher, too, as the winds increased, and although a full hour remained before sunset, the sky was as dark as though night had already fallen. The stabilizers checked the movements of the Neptune somewhat, but her roll was already noticeable, and she was beginning to pitch, too, which was an even more serious development. Under other circumstances she would have weighed anchor and headed into the storm, but Captain Humphries, in spite of his grave misgivings, continued to ride in place.
The minute-by-minute ascension of the barge no longer mesmerized the members of the Project Neptune staff, but the operations centre remained crowded, and no one left. The race against the storm had become the most important element in the drama still to be played.
There was little that men could do other than wait and watch. Two of Franklin Richards’ lieutenants went to the open aft hold to make certain its sliding metal cover would function properly after the Zoloto was made secure in her niche. At 7.05 p.m.
Captain Humphries conferred by telephone with Richards, and the latter then ordered the raising of the hydraulically operated, electromagnetized cranes.
The roll of the Neptune immediately became more pronounced, and she began to pitch erratically. Waves were beginning to break over her bow, and occasionally one that was as powerful as it was unpredictable slapped against her side, causing the whole vessel to shudder.
The rain, which had been gentle, was falling in a sheet now, and the wind blew it almost horizontally, causing a drumming sound as it beat against the thick glass of the operations centre. The daylight continued to fade prematurely, and at 7.18 p.m. the Captain ordered all floodlights turned on.
A thin, white line showed around Franklin Richards’ mouth, but he betrayed no other signs of nervousness, and the staff took courage from his apparent calm.
At 7.23 an unseen underwater current struck one end of the submersible, tipping it, and the Zoloto rolled to one side.
There was nothing the men on the Neptune could do to correct the condition. They breathed more easily as the float righted itself. The electromagnets continued to hold the submarine in place, even though it was off centre, but everyone knew that another current might cause it to fall overboard and sink to the bottom again.
Finally, at 7.31 p.m., Richards gave the order that had been awaited since the start of the operation. ‘Lower your claw-cranes,’ he said.
The balance of the Neptune was disturbed as the cranes dipped down into the sea off the fantail, and the ship pitched even more violently. Although the floodlight beams were the most powerful man could devise it was impossible to see clearly through the pelting rain.
The magnetized cranes needed no human help, however, and finding their target beneath the surface, they closed around it.
Richards waited until he was certain the grip was secure. ‘Jettison submersible’s gasoline,’ he directed.
The float, growing lighter by the second as her petrol drained into the sea, rose more rapidly to the surface, giving the cranes assistance.
‘Cut off electromagnetic lines to the submersible,’ Richards ordered.
Only the cranes held on to the submarine now.
‘Bring your cargo on board!’
The cranes rose into the air, cradling the Zoloto of more than 6,000 tons gross weight.
The typhoon mocked the efforts of mere men, and winds of force II velocity struck in repeated gusts, causing the Neptune to roll and pitch perilously.
But the cranes did not release their cargo, even though the bow rose high out of the water, then plunged abruptly until it was almost completely submerged. The automated equipment performed flawlessly, and the submarine was lowered into the open hold.
‘Close your hatch over!’ There was hoarse triumph in Richards’ voice.
The Zoloto 14-2967 was safely on board, the cranes were retracted and the closing cover made the prize secure.
But the battle was not yet ended. Franklin Richards wanted to salvage his football field, which was still attached to the mother ship by a number of lines and cables.
The storm was not to be denied at least one victim, however, and one by one the lines were torn loose in the shrieking gale.
The voice of Captain Humphries came over the intercom. ‘Frank,’ he said, ‘your submersible is breaking up. There’s no way to save it.’
Richards merely shrugged as the storm smashed the float, reducing a marvel of ingenious human design to bits of metal and wire, cloth and wood, that were scattered in the South China Sea.
The rescue of the sunken submarine was completed against odds that no man could have imagined, but there was no elation. Franklin Richards hurried off to his suite, where he was violently seasick, and many of the others, including Adrienne, followed his example.
Porter was one of the few who remained in the operations centre, and clinked champagne glasses with Marie Richards. But even those who remained on their feet were too bone-weary to celebrate.
The storm did not begin to abate until mid-morning, and a weary Captain Humphries notified his Navy escort of his position. They sailed at full speed to rejoin him, and as the clouds began to dissipate the Air Force squadrons once again appeared overhead.
Adrienne was still in bed, recovering from the effects of her illness, so Porter took complete charge of the security operation. Corporation representatives were stationed in the aft hold and on the deck above it, all of them armed with sub-machine guns and under orders to halt the approach of anyone other than authorized personnel.
Two distinguished nuclear physicists, accompanied by a senior scientist on the staff of the Atomic Energy Commission, went into the hold, remaining for several hours. Thereafter they maintained complete silence regarding their findings, and neither then nor later did anyone, including Franklin Richards and others who had participated in Project Neptune, learn whether a Russian atomic bomb had been recovered.
The trio had scarcely emerged when two of America’s top code experts went below. They stayed for the better part of the afternoon, by which time the sun was shining again in a serene sky. Like their nuclear energy colleagues they, too, said nothing, and it was impossible for anyone to discover whether they had come across the Russian naval code that the President and National Security Council had regarded as being easily as vital as the salvaging of an atomic device.
Not until early in the evening did a team of undertakers and their assistants go to the hold, carrying stacks of coffins. They were also under orders not to talk, and nothing was said regarding the number of the Zoloto’s dead crew they prepared for burial. Subsequently the White House would decide whether, in the spirit of detente, the bodies would be returned to the government of the Soviet Union.