Austin and Zavala exchanged an amused glance. "You're looking at it," Austin said.
Becker's astonishment gave way to barely restrained fury. He whirled around to face the captain. "How in God's name are these two… gentlemen going to rescue Captain Petersen and his men?"
Captain Larsen was wondering the same thing, but was more re- served. "I suggest you ask them," he replied, with obvious embar- rassment at Becker's outburst.
"Well?" Becker said, glaring first at Austin, then at Zavala. Becker could not have known that the two men who had stepped off the helicopter equaled a shipload of rescuers. Born in Seattle, Austin had been raised in and around the sea, which was not sur- prising, since his father was the owner of a marine salvage company. While studying for his master's degree in systems management at the University of Washington, he'd attended a highly rated Seattle dive school, where he'd attained proficiency in a number of specialized areas. He'd put his expertise to work on North Sea oil rigs, had worked for his father awhile, then had been hired by the CIA to conduct underwater intelligence. When the Cold War ended, he'd been recruited by Sandecker to head the Special Assignments Team.
Zavala was the son of Mexican parents who had waded across the Rio Grande, settling in Santa Fe. His oil-stained mechanical genius was the stuff of legend around the halls ofNUMA, and he could re- pair, modify or restore any kind of engine ever devised. He had spent thousands of hours as a pilot in helicopters and small jet and turbo- prop craft. His assignment to Austin's team had proved a fortunate pairing. Many of their assignments would never become public knowledge, but their wisecracking camaraderie in the face ofdan- aer masked a steely determination and a competence few could rival.
Austin calmly regarded Becker with piercing blue-green eyes the color of coral under water. He was not unsympathetic to Becker's plight and deflected the Dane's fury with a broad smile. "Sorry for being flip. I should have explained immediately that the rescue ve- hicle is on its way."
"Should be here in about an hour," Zavala added.
"There's a lot we can do in the meantime," Austin said. He turned to the captain. "I need help unloading a piece of equipment from the chopper. Can you spare a few men with strong backs?"
"Yes, of course." The captain was relieved to be doing something at last. Moving with crisp efficiency, he dispatched his first mate to round up the work detail.
At Austin's direction, the grunting crewmen lifted a large wooden crate from the helicopter's storage compartment and set it down on the deck. Using a crowbar from the helicopter, Austin pried the top off the box and peered inside. After a quick inspection, he said, "Everything looks shipshape. What's the latest on the situation?"
Captain Larsen pointed to the bobbing buoy that marked the sunken cruiser. While Austin and Zavala listened intently, Larsen provided a quick summary of the collision and sinking.
It doesn't make sense," Austin said. "From what you say, they had plenty of sea room."
So did theAndrea Doria and the Stockholm/' Zavala said, refer- ring to the disastrous sea collision off Nantucket.
Becker mumbled something about SOS criminals, but Austin ig- nored him and concentrated on the business at hand. "What makes you so sure the captain and his men are still alive?"
We were doing a whale population survey not far from here when we got the call for help," Larsen said. "We dropped a hy- drophone over the side and picked up the sound of someone tapping an SOS on the hull in Morse code. Unfortunately, we can only re- ceive, not send, messages. However, we determined that there were thirteen men, including Captain Andersen, trapped in a pocket of air in the forward bunkroom. The air is foul, and they were in the early stages of hypothermia."
"When did you last hear from them?"
"About two hours ago. It was essentially the same message, only
the tapping has become much fainter. Toward the end, they tapped out the same word over and over." "What was it?"
Desperate.
Austin broke the grim silence that followed. "Did you get any other equipment down to the ship?"
"The Faroese Coast Guard called the NATO base on Stremoy. They contacted the NATO submarine rescue network minutes after the cruiser went down. Those ships you see out there are mostly from Scandinavian countries. We've been acting as the interim mother ship. A Swedish vessel should arrive soon with a rescue ve- hicle, but like the others, it's useless in this situation. It's set up to res- cue men through a submarine rescue hatch. We've been able to pinpoint the cruiser's location two-hundred-sixty feet down, but be- yond that, for all our technical ability, we're only spectators at a dis- aster in the making."
"Not necessarily," Austin said.
"Then you think you can help?" Becker said with pleading eyes.
"Maybe," Austin said. "We can say better after we see what we're up against."
Becker apologized for his earlier abruptness. "Sorry I flew off the handle. We're grateful for your offer to help. I owe a special debt to Captain Petersen. After we were hit and there was no doubt the cruiser would sink within minutes, he made sure I had a place in a lifeboat. When he learned others were still below, he rushed off to help them and must have been trapped when the ship sank."
"He's a brave man. All the more reason for saving him and his crew," Austin said. "Do you have any idea of the ship's position on the bottom?"
"Yes, of course. Come with me," the captain said. He led the way
to an electronics lab off the main deck. The room was equipped with computer monitors used for remote sensing projects. "This is a high- resolution sonar picture of the LeifErifyson," he said, indicating the image on a large monitor. "As you can see, she is lying at a slight angle on an inclined slope. The crews' quarters are here, one deck below the mess area, a short distance back from the bow. Obviously, air was trapped here." He circled a section of hull with the cursor. "It's a miracle they're still alive."
"It's a miracle they may wish never happened," Becker observed glumly.
"Tell us about the compartment."
"It's quite large. There are bunks for two dozen crewmen. It's reached by a single companionway through the mess hall. There is also an emergency hatch."
"We'll need specific details about the bunkroom, particularly the location of pipes, conduits and structural supports."
The captain handed over a file. "The navy department faxed this material to us in anticipation of the rescue attempt. I think you'll find everything you need. If not, we can get it to you quickly."
Austin and Zavala studied the ship's schematic layouts, then went back to the sonar image. "There's only so much we can learn from pictures," Austin said finally. "Maybe it's time I went for a swim."
"Good thing you brought your swimsuit," Zavala said.
"It's the new Michelin model. Guaranteed to wow the ladies."
Becker and the captain wondered if they had stumbled into the company of madmen. They exchanged puzzled glances, then hurried to keep up with the NUMA men. While Zavala sketched out their strategy for Captain Larsen and Becker, Austin supervised the four strapping crewmen as they moved the crate until it was under a boom. They unwound cable from the crane, then Austin ran it into the big box and gave the signal to start the hoist.
The bright-yellow figure that rose from the crate was nearly seven feet tall and looked like a robot in a fifties sci-fi film. The cast alu- minum arms and legs did indeed bulge like those of the Michelin Man, and the helmet resembled an oversized fishbowl. The arms ended in pincers like those of an insect. Four small fans protected by circular housings projected from the elbows and the back of the arms.
Austin rapped his knuckles against the unit pack attached to the figure's back. "This is the latest in Hardsuit technology. This model can operate at depths of two thousand feet for up to six hours, so I'll have plenty of leeway. Mind if I borrow a short ladder? I'll need an experienced boat crew in the water, too."