Plunkett raised an eyebrow. “I hope you didn’t expect us to hold our breath.”
“No.”
“Good,” Plunkett said, satisfied. “Speaking for myself, I’d have expired before ascending thirty meters.” He hesitated and stared at Pitt curiously. “Swim, you can’t be serious?”
“A ridiculous hope bred of desperation,” Pitt replied philosophically. “I know better than to believe our bodies could survive the onslaught of extreme pressure and decompression.”
“You say that was your original idea. Do you have another—like trying to float this monster off the bottom?”
“You’re getting warm.”
“Lifting a fifteen-ton vehicle can only be accomplished in a vivid imagination.”
“Actually, it hinges on Al Giordino,” Pitt answered with forbearance. “If he’s read my mind, he’ll meet us in a submersible equipped with—”
“But he let you down,” said Plunkett, sweeping an arm over the empty seascape.
“There has to be a damn good reason for it.”
“You know and I know, Mr. Pitt, no one will come. Not within hours, days, or ever. You gambled on a miracle and lost. If they do come to search, it’ll be over the wreckage of your mining community, not here.”
Pitt did not reply but gazed into the water. The lights of the DSMV had drawn a school of hatchetfish. Silver with deep bodies and flattened on the sides, slender tails wavered in the water as rows of light organs flashed along their lower stomachs. The eyes were disproportionately large and protruded from tubes that rose upward. He watched as they swirled gracefully in lazy spirals around the great nose of Big John.
Slowly he bent forward as if listening, then sank back again. “Thought I heard something.”
“A mystery we can still hear over that blaring music,” Plunkett grunted. “My eardrums have ceased to function.”
“Remind me to send you a condolence card at a later date,” said Pitt. “Or would you rather we give up, flood the cabin, and end it?”
He froze into immobility, eyes focused on the hatchetfish. A great shadow crept over them, and as one they darted into the blackness and vanished.
“Something wrong?” asked Plunkett.
“We have company,” Pitt said with an I-told-you-so grin. He twisted in his seat, tilted his head, and looked through the upper viewing window.
One of the NUMA Soggy Acres submersibles hung suspended in the void slightly above and to the rear of the DSMV. Giordino wore a smile that was wide as a jack-o’-lantern’s. Next to him, Admiral Sandecker threw a jaunty wave through the large round port.
It was the moment Pitt had wished for, indeed silently prayed’, for, and Plunkett’s great bear hug showed how gladly he shared the moment.
“Dirk,” he said solemnly, “I humbly apologize for my negative company. This goes beyond instinct. You are one crafty bastard.”
“I do what I can,” Pitt admitted with humorous modesty.
There were few times in his life Pitt had seen anything half as wonderful as Giordino’s smiling face from inside the submersible. Where did the admiral come from? he wondered. How could he have arrived on the scene so quickly?
Giordino wasted little time. He motioned to a small door that shielded an exterior electrical receptacle. Pitt nodded and pressed a button. The door slipped open into a hidden slot, and in less than a minute one of the articulated robotic arms on the submersible connected a cable.
“Am I coming through?” Giordino’s voice burst clearly over the speakers.
“You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice, pal,” answered Pitt.
“Sorry we’re late. The other submersible swamped and sank on the surface. This one shorted its batteries and we lost time in repairs.”
“All is forgiven. Good to see you, Admiral. I didn’t expect your honored presence down here.”
“Cut the apple-polishing,” Sandecker boomed. “What’s your status?”
“We have a leak that will close down our power source within forty or fifty minutes. Beyond that we’re in good shape.”
“Then we’d better get busy.”
With no more wasted conversation, Giordino maneuvered the submersible until its bow was on the same level and facing the lower broadside of the DSMV. Then he engaged the manipulator arms mounted on the front below the control sphere. They were much smaller than the arm system on Big John and more intricate.
The sub’s modular arms were designed to accommodate several types of hand mechanisms and operate them hydraulically. The left hand was attached to the arm by a rotating wrist, which in turn was connected to three fingers with sensors in their tips that could identify any material from wood and steel to plastic, cotton, and silk. Under the operator’s delicate touch, enhanced by a computer sensory system, the fingers could dexterously thread a small needle and tat lace or, if the occasion demanded, crush rock.
Smoothly the robotic arm unraveled a hose running from a small tank to a large rod with a hole running through its center core.
The right arm’s wrist was fitted with a series of four circular metal-cutting discs. Each disc was serrated with a different edge and could be interchanged depending on the hardness of the material it was slicing.
Pitt peered at the left-hand assembly curiously. “I knew the discs were stored on board the submersible, but where did you find the oxygen cutting equipment?”
“I borrowed it from a passing submarine,” Giordino answered without elaboration.
“Logical.” There was a tired acceptance in Pitt’s voice, unsure whether his friend was stroking him.
“Beginning separation,” said Giordino.
“While you’re cutting us free I’ll pump up our air volume by a couple of atmospheres to compensate for the extra weight from the leakage flow.”
“Sound idea,” agreed Sandecker. “You’ll need all the buoyancy you can build. But mind your pressure safety limits or you’ll run into decompression problems.”
“Decompression schedules will be monitored by our computer,” Pitt assured him. “Neither Dr. Plunkett nor I look forward to a case of the bends.”
As Pitt began pumping compressed air into the control and engine compartments, Giordino jockeyed the submersible so that both arm and hand manipulators could operate independently. The hand with the three articulated fingers positioned the fat welding rod against a bolt that ran through a mounting brace. The rod held a positive charge while the DSMV was negative. A bright arc suddenly flared when contact was made between the rod and bolt. As the metal glowed and melted, oxygen spurted through the hole in the rod, dispersing the buildup.
“Arc gouging,” Pitt explained to Plunkett. “They’re going to sever all mounts, drive shafts, and electrical connections until the control housing breaks free of the main frame and track mechanism.”
Plunkett nodded in understanding as Giordino extended the other arm until a spray of sparks signaled the cutting discs were attacking their target. “So that’s the ticket. We float to the surface as pretty as an emptied bottle of Veuve Cliquot-Ponsardin Gold Label champagne.”
“Or a drained bottle of Coors beer.”
“First pub we hit, Mr. Pitt, the drinks are on me.”
“Thank you, Dr. Plunkett. I accept, providing we have enough buoyancy to take us up.”
“Blow the guts out of her,” Plunkett demanded recklessly. “I’d rather risk the bends than certain drowning.”
Pitt did not agree. The excruciating agony divers had suffered over the centuries from the bends went far beyond man-inflicted torture. Death was a relief, and survival often left a deformed body racked with pain that never faded. He kept a steady eye on the digital reading as the red numbers crept up to three atmospheres, the pressure at roughly twenty meters. At that depth their bodies could safely endure the increased pressure squeeze, he estimated, in the short time remaining before nitrogen gas began forming in their blood.
Twenty-five minutes later, he was about to rethink his estimate when a growing creaking noise reverberated inside the compartment. Then came a deep grinding that was magnified by the density of the water.
