Titanic 2012

piece and not the ripped apart, pancaked-in-on-itself ship that it’d become, David had no doubt that the mighty little Scorpio could “Raise the Titanic.” She was that strong.

However, their mission was not to raise Titanic so much as to raid and plunder her. Some news accounts used the term ‘rape’ her, but Ingles didn’t see it that way. Not in the least. It was well documented in the literature that Titanic took down many treasures with her—far more than dishware—and the belief held that even the sealed hold that carried a treasure-trove of vintage automobiles would be perfectly preserved at the depths where Titanic resided. Even a sandwich at such depths would be perfectly preserved and edible unless found in a Stover’s lunchbox—which would be permeated then with corrosive salts and more toxic than sea water. So what of the stash of mailbags crossing the Atlantic in 1912? They resided in a sealed section of the ship. A wealth of letters, documents, and bank notes alone. So what of all the jewelry stowed in the safes aboard yet to be discovered? Not to mention brass and gold fixtures and shipboard items within the ship? The treasures that had survived all these years—museum pieces for world showcases, and each item itself worth a fortune!

It was just a matter of using modern means to salvage the treasures awaiting them from what remained inside the various safes aboard, the staterooms, the varied first, second, and third-class dishes and silverware, the mailbags, the secret cargo in the holds—like the rumored crates of Vickers automatic machine guns destined for the US Army, and a stash of now quite antique automobiles. Not to mention an Egyptian mummy on its way to New York.

Yes it was all extremely controversial, and Ingles’d had to walk through a sizeable crowd of protestors noisier than the seagulls to get aboard, but history would eventually prove the mission the right thing to do—of this he was certain. Otherwise the enormous sacrifice of all those 1600 souls aboard the night Titanic went to its watery grave would have been in vain. At least that was the sound byte put out for the media and the public.

The other side argued that Titanic was a cemetery, sacred ground; they championed Dr. Robert Ballard, who had consecrated that solemn peace of the death ship at the bottom of the Atlantic. Ingles recalled Robert Ballard in a Red Sox ball cap when the discoverer of the Titanic in its grave had last left Titanic’s ruins decades ago. He had certainly put his stamp on the discovery and had every good intention to proclaim it a last resting place, a sanctified ground, a place not to be disturbed, a place nothing should be removed from.

Author Rod Serling’s brother Robert’s worst novel—Ghosts of the Titanic—prevailed in the minds of many, but for Ingles and other scientists such concerns amounted to superstitious claptrap— Twilight Zone nonsense.

“Make no mistake about it,” said a white-bearded stout fellow confronting Ingles, jabbing at the derrick with his pipe. “This monster can hoist up an entire Sherman tank from below if you give the order, Dr. Ingles. If need be, we can bring up that blasted ship piece by piece, compartment by compartment.”

“Capable of a quarter million pounds of lift,” David replied, smiling. “May sound like science fiction but there you have it. Please, call me David.”

“Indeed, young man… indeed.” They shook hands.

“Your voice sounds somewhat familiar. You’re Dr. Dimitri Alandale, aren’t you, sir? We’ve spoken. You called my iPhone.”

“Aye—first mate, science officer, and you look like your photo, yes? Sometimes a good thing!”

“You’ve got me!” Ingles joked, and they both looked out to sea.

“Ahhh, yes! I called you from my Droid—lot of interference. Cell phones don’t always work out at sea. Well, son, our captain’ll see you soon ’nough. Busy with that bloody press conference.” He pointed to the pier with his pipe.

“Good to meet you, sir.”

“Sorry there’s no one to welcome you aboard other than me.” A tall, gaunt man perhaps in his early to mid- sixties, Dr. Dimitri Alandale was half Greek, half Scotsman. He looked the picture of a graying oceanographer and seaman, and Ingles took an instant liking to the man whose laugh came so easily.

The two seamen, young and old, stood in silent admiration of the machinery before them. They understood its enormous power, that its express purpose was to lower and lift a massive platform on which thousands of tons of sensing devices, search and salvage equipment, as well as recovered artifacts would rest. This equipment would be made available two miles below the surface to the diving teams, men and women whose experiences uniquely qualified them to participate in this historic dive into the very bowels of Titanic.

Ingles would be among the divers using the new underwater breathing apparatus that allowed divers to explore the vast interiors of the sleeping giant below the North Atlantic.

He would be among two other divers set to dive the bow section of the shipwreck while another team of three divers were planning to explore the aft section of the wreck. Swigart would pilot the sub carrying all the divers below, while an eighth man, Kyle Fiske, almost Swigart’s age, would help monitor the dive teams from the control room aboard Scorpio along with Dr. Entebbe and Captain Forbes. In essence, two teams of three divers, two additional diver-ready backup men in the form of Fiske and Swigart manning controls—eight in all. Overall Commander of Divers and making all the decisions at this point was Lou Swigart. Fiske was considered the man to take over for Lou in the event something happened to Swigart. Fiske could also step in for any one of the others in the event he was needed.

All of them had passed extensive tests utilizing the new technology that amounted to breathing oxygenated liquid into their lungs. Essentially, they were going through an act of ‘de-evolution’—returning to a fish-like existence in that their lungs would be filled with liquid, but liquid from which they could sustain life.

It was a technology developed by the US Navy, and Ingles had been among the first test subjects. It essentially involved a moment of death before coming out on the other side, unless a diver panicked, in which case, there was no other side. Having the liquid pumped from the lungs after mission accomplished was no picnic either, but breathing from lungs filled with what scientist had finally come up with for deep ocean and exotic diving, OPFC, a highly oxygen-enriched, lighter than typical liquid perfluorocarbon as clear as vodka which allowed for breathing and safe pressures as deep as two and a half miles below the surface—the same depth as where Titanic awaited.

In any event, there was no room for error.

“I can hardly imagine being able to withstand temperatures of minus 1,700 degrees,” muttered Alandale in Ingles’ ear. The man’s large-faced, wide grin was infectious, and now Ingles placed his looks: Alandale had the bearing and appearance of the actor Max Von Sydow in his later years.

“Our dive suits are made of the same material as the Cryo-Cable here,” David replied, giving a mock-squeeze to the huge cable. Ingles had imagined this trip and the dives ahead of them many times over; he’d imagined the giant four-sided, metal basket atop a huge platform at the bottom of the sea chockfull with treasures that Neptune would cry for. Treasures that would find their way to public museums across the globe. Treasures dredged up by human hands from Titanic’s secret interiors.

Sure I’m in it for the money, but I’m here for the adrenaline rush, too, he thought, being honest with himself.

The press called them fortune hunters, mercenaries, but there was more to it than money—far more. Ingles turned at the shouting of orders from below. From where he stood alongside Alandale, he could see that every major media outlet had shown up, some with microphones milling about the pier. Others made moves to come aboard the research vessel but were held in check by a pair of brawny crewmembers.

Reporters, Ingles thought. Most would kill their mothers for an inside story.

The last time Ingles had spoken to a reporter was on his return from Japan where he’d been branded a hero for saving lives. No one said much about Wilcox. Hell, Wilcox had saved his life so that he could himself go on to save others. But Wilcox had died in the tragedy—no story in that, he facetiously realized. And him… made out the big hero. Twisted story indeed so far as David Ingles was concerned. No, he’d failed his best friend when Terry most needed him.

Ingles’ dark glasses lightened when the sun slipped behind a cloud, relieving the scene of the blinding April morning glare. He wore a sailor’s Navy Pea coat and matching watch cap, looking like any crewmember as he’d hoped to get through the reporters without notice, without anyone recognizing him, and it’d worked. He just wanted to blend in at this point; he could be himself and was seldom at ease any longer when not at sea.