her forward. The diffused brilliance of the water when struck by the sun's rays, broke the surface light into thin beams of yellow shafts which reached downward, displaying an indistinct carpet of colors. A trigger fish was visible now, hanging motionless in the three-dimensional fluid, cautiously eyeing the huge shadow of the hull as it drifted overhead.
Boland placed his hand on the shoulder of the man seated at the magnetometer. «As we pass over the first of the wrecks, sing out a heading for the next one in line.» He turned to Stanley. «Signal Lieutenant Harper in the engine room. Keep it down to bare steerageway.»
The atmosphere of the detection room was tense. Two minutes passed; two interminable minutes, while they waited for the dead and buried remains of a long-lost ship to come into view.
The seafloor could be clearly seen on the monitors now. The plant life was strange and lush when it should have been as barren as an underwater lunar landscape. There was no sign of coral, only wide frond kelp and delicately colored seaweed clung to a rocky, uneven bed, constantly changing tint in the tremulous light filtering down from the surface. Pitt was fascinated. It was like looking at a flourishing Oriental garden that had sunk beneath the sea.
A long-haired youngster who manned the sonar spoke with an utter lack of excitement. «Coming up on a wreck, Commander.»
«Okay, get ready for a computer scan.»
«For the records?» Pitt asked.
«For identification,» Boland replied. «The memory banks contain all the known data on the ships that are missing. We'll try and match our data with that in the computer. Hopefully, we can coax the sea into giving up a few secrets.»
«Here she comes,» Stanley said.
Three pairs of eyes locked themselves on the monitors. It was an eerie sight The ship, or what was left of it, was covered with a thick layer of seagrowth. Two masts, fore and aft, reached in grotesque and hopeless desperation for the sky. The single funnel was intact with a coating of brown corrosion, and everywhere along the deck there were twisted chunks of nondescript metal. As they watched the screen, the long greenish body of a moray eel wiggled furiously through a porthole, its mouth opening and closing menacingly.
«My God, that sucker was at least ten feet long,» Boland exclaimed.
«Probably closer to eight, allowing for magnification of the TV lenses,» Pitt said.
«I might be hallucinating,» Stanley said, «but Tm sure I saw the remains of a farm tractor in the hold.»
Their attention was interrupted by the hum of the computer as the printout sheets began folding into the basket. The instant the machine stopped, Boland ripped out the paper and began reading aloud.
Data indicates ship probable Liberian freighter, Oceanic Star, 5,135 tons, cargo: rubber and farm machinery; reported missing June 14, 1949.
The men in the detection room stopped what they were doing and stared in mute silence at the paper in Commander Boland's hand. No one spoke. No one had to.
They had discovered their first victim of the Pacific Vortex.
Boland was the first to react He snatched the mike from its cradle. «Radio room. This is Boland. Open maritime frequency. Send message code sixteen.»
Pitt said: «A little premature concerning the bearing failure, aren't you? We haven't found the Starbuck yet.»
«True,» Boland admitted briefly. «I'm jumping the gun but I want Admiral Hunter to know exactly where we are, just in case.»
«Expecting trouble?»
«No sense in taking chances.»
«Next contact, bearing two hundred eighty-seven degrees,» the sonar operator droned conversationally.
They returned and waited at the monitors until the sloping deck of a steamer came into view, the stern rising high while the bows were lost in the blue green depths. The camera sled passed over a massive round smokestack and they were able to peer down into its black interior. The middle of the ship was laced with valves and piping, and carried no superstructure, but the stern section rose several decks, sprouting an ugly maze of ventilation tubes. Growth had claimed all the metal parts and even the cables trailing off the masts. Exotically hued fish of every variety were swimming among the rigging, as though the skeleton of the dead ship was their own personal playground.
Boland's voice repeated the precise figures on the computer display.
Japanese oil tanker, Ishiyo Maru, 8,106 tons, reported missing with all hands, September 14, 1964.
«God,» Stanley murmured. «This place is a veritable cemetery. I'm beginning to feel like a damned grave digger.»
The roll call of the decayed and lifeless ships was repeated six more times in the next hour. Four merchantmen, a large schooner, and an ocean-going trawler were located and identified. The tenseness in the detection room heightened as each new find was scanned and analyzed. And when the final moment came, the moment they had geared their conscious minds for, it curiously caught them all by surprise.
The sonar operator suddenly pressed his earphones tighter against his ears and fixed an intense, unbelieving stare at his instrument panel. «I have a contact with a submarine bearing one hundred ninety degrees,» he said.
«Certain?» Boland demanded.
«Bet my dear mother's virtue on it. I've read subs before, Commander, and this is a big one.»
Boland hit the mike. «Bridge? When I give the word, stop all engines and drop anchor. Fasti Get that?»
«Affirmative, sir,» came the rough-edged voice over the speaker.
«What is the depth?» Pitt asked.
Boland nodded. «Depth?» he ordered.
«Ninety feet.»
Pitt and Boland stared at one another. «Compounds the mystery, wouldn't you say?» Pitt asked quietly.
«That it does,» Boland answered softly. «If Dupree's message was fake, why include the correct depth level?»
«Our mastermind probably reasoned that nobody in their right mind would believe a reading of ninety feet. I'm seeing it with my own two eyes and I still don't believe it.»
«She's coming into camera range.» Stanley announced. «There. there, we have a submarine.»
They stared at the image of a massive black shape lying below the slow-moving keel of the Martha Ann. To Pitt it was like looking down at a model ship in a bathtub. Her length was at least twice that of the conventional nuclear submarine. Instead of the more familiar hemispherical bows, her fore end was formed with a more pointed design. The usual perfect cigar shape was also missing and had been replaced with a hull that tapered smoothly into a classic swept-back symmetry. Gone too was the great dorsal finlike conning tower of other submarines. In its place sat a smaller rounded hump. Only the control planes on the stern remained the same, as did two bronze propellers rucked neatly under the sleek hull. The submarine looked comfortably serene, like some huge Mesozoic denizen on a late afternoon nap. It was not the way it should have looked, and Pitt could feel his skin start to gooseflesh.
«Away marker,» Boland snapped.
«Marker?» Pitt questioned.
«A low frequency electronic beeper,» Boland answered. «In case we're forced to leave the area, we have a waterproof transmitter sitting on the seabed giving out periodic signals. That way we can pinpoint the position without a search when we return.»
«Our bows have just cleared the wreck, Commander.» This from the sonar operator.
Boland bellowed into the intercom mike. «All engines stop. Away anchor.» He swung and faced Pitt. «Did you get a look at its number?»
«Nine-eight-nine,» Pitt said tersely.
«That's her, the Starbuck,» Boland said reverently. «I never really thought Td lay eyes on her.»
«Or what's left of her,» Stanley added, his face suddenly pale. «Just thinking about those poor bastards entombed down there is enough to make your skin crawl.»
«It does give you a queer feeling deep down in your gut,» Boland agreed.
