Kiel said nothing but limply allowed Chavez to shove him into the uppermost sleeping bunk. Then Chavez followed and sat on the edge, his feet dangling over the side.
Merker struggled through the crotch-deep water to the forward viewport and looked out. He could see only the haloed outline of the Sappho II through the blinding glare of her lights. Even though the other craft hovered only ten feet away, there was nothing she could do for the stricken Deep Fathom while they were both surrounded by the relentless pressure of the hostile deep. As long as she is still there, Merker thought, they haven't written us off. He took no small consolation in the fact that they were not alone. It wasn't much to lean on, but it was all they had.
On board the supply ship Alhambra, camera crews from the three major networks, swept up in the swirling tide of expectation, feverishly struggled to get their equipment into action. Along every available foot of starboard-deck railing, wire-service reporters peered through binoculars in hypnotic concentration at the Capricorn floating two miles away, while photographers aimed their telephoto lenses on the surface of the water between the ships. Trapped in one corner of a makeshift pressroom, Dana Seagram pulled a foul-weather jacket tightly around her shoulders and gamely stood up to the dozen news people armed with tape recorders who were pushing microphones toward her face as though they were lollipops.
"Is it true, Ms. Seagram, that attempting to raise the Titanic three days ahead of schedule is in reality a last-ditch attempt to save the lives of the men trapped below?"
"It is only one of several solutions," Dana replied.
"Are we to understand that all other attempts have failed?"
"There have been complications," Dana admitted.
Inside one of the jacket's pockets, Dana nervously twisted a handkerchief until her fingers turned sore. The long months of give-and-take with the men and women of the press were beginning to tell.
"Since the loss of communications with the Deep Fathom, how can you know for certain whether the crew is still alive?"
"Computer data assure us that their situation will not turn critical for another four hours and forty minutes."
"How does NUMA intend to bring up the Titanic if the electrolyte chemical is not fully injected into the silt around the hull?"
"I can't answer that," Dana said. "Mr. Pitt's last message prom the Capricorn only stated that they were going to raise the wreck in the next few hours. He did not offer details regarding the method."
"What if it's too late? What if Kiel, Chavez, and Merker are already dead?"
Dana's expression went rigid. "They are not dead," she said with eyes blazing. "And, the first one of you who reports such a cruel and inhuman rumor before it's a proven fact will get their ass kicked off this ship, credentials and Nielsen ratings be damned. Do you understand?"
The reporters stood there a moment in mute surprise at Dana's sudden display of anger, and then slowly and silently they began to lower the microphones and melt toward the deck outside.
Rick Spencer unrolled a large piece of paper on the chart table and anchored it down with several half-empty coffee mugs. It was an overhead drawing that depicted the Titanic and her position in relation to the sea floor. He began pointing a pencil at various spots about the hulk that were marked with tiny crosses.
"Here's the way it shapes up," he explained. "According to the computer data, we set eighty charges, each containing thirty pounds of explosives, at these key points in the sediment along the Titanic's hull."
Sandecker leaned over the drawing, his eyes scanning the crosses. "I see that you've staggered them in three rows on each side."
"That's right, sir," Spencer said. "The outside rows are set sixty yards away; the middle, forty; and the inner rows are just twenty yards from the ship's plates. We'll detonate the starboard outer row first. Then eight seconds later we fire the port outer row. Another eight seconds and we repeat the procedure with the middle rows, and so on."
"Kind of like rocking a car back and forth that's stuck in the mud," Giordino volunteered.
Spencer nodded. "You might say that's a fair comparison."
"Why not jolt her out of the silt with one big bang?" Giordino asked.
"It's possible a sudden shock might do it, but the geologists are in favor of separate overlapping shock waves. It's vibration we're after."
"Have we the explosives?" Pitt asked.
"The Bomberger carries nearly a ton for seismic research purposes," Spencer replied. "The Modoc has four hundred pounds in her stores for underwater salvage blasting."
"Will it do the trick?"
"Border line," Spencer admitted. "Another three hundred pounds would have given us a more acceptable margin for success."
"We could have it flown from the mainland by jet and air-dropped," Sandecker suggested.
Pitt shook his head. "By the time the explosives arrived, and were loaded in a sub and planted on the sea floor, it would be two hours too late."
"Then we'd best get on with it," Sandecker said brusquely. "We have a tight deadline to meet." He turned to Gunn. "How soon can the explosives be set in place?"
"Four hours," Gunn said unhesitatingly.
Sandecker's eyes narrowed. "That's cutting it pretty thin. That only leaves a leeway of fourteen minutes."
"We'll make it," Gunn said. "However, there is one condition."
"What is it?" Sandecker snapped impatiently.
"It will take every operational submersible we've got."
"That means pulling the Sappho II from its station beside the Deep Fathom," Pitt said. "Those poor bastards down there will think we're deserting them."
"There's no other way," Gunn said helplessly. "There's simply no other way."
Merker had lost all track of time. He stared at the luminous dial on his watch but his eyes couldn't focus on the glowing numbers. How long since the derrick had fallen across their buoyancy tanks, he wondered, five hours, ten, was it yesterday? His mind was sluggish and confused. He could only sit there without moving a muscle, breathing shallowly and slowly, each breath seemingly taking a lifetime. Gradually, he became aware of a movement. He reached out and touched Kiel and Chavez in the darkness, but they made no sound, no response; they had fallen into a lethargic stupor.
Then he became aware of it again, a minute but perceptible something that was not where it was supposed to be. His mind turned over as though it were immersed in syrup. But at last he had it. Except for the relentless rise of the water, there was no change, no sign of physical motion inside the flooding cabin; it was the angle of the Sappho II's light beam through the forward viewports that had dimmed.
He dropped off the bunk into the water-it came up to his chest now-and almost as if in a nightmare, he struggled toward the upper front ports and peered into the depths outside.
Suddenly, his numbed senses were gripped by a fear such as he had never known before. His eyes widened and glazed, his hands clenched in futility and despair.
"Oh Godl" he cried aloud. "They're leaving us. They've given us up."
Sandecker twisted the huge cigar he had just lit and continued to pace the deck. The radio operator raised his hand and the admiral turned in mid-step and came up behind him.
"The Sappho I reporting, sir," Curly said. "She's finished positioning her charges."
"Tell her to head topside as fast as her buoyancy tanks will take her. The higher she goes, the less pressure on her hull when the explosives detonate." The admiral swung and faced Pitt, who was keeping a watchful eye on the four monitors, whose cameras and floodlights were mounted in strategic spots around the Titanic's superstructure. "How does it look?"