CV

50

In the cone of yellow light from the helicopter, all they could see was the raft bobbing on the swells and the gray water around it: the rest of the world was empty black. They swam to the raft and climbed in; already the copter was rising. The light blinked out, the blackness pressed closer.

As the dawn light spread over the silvery wrinkled sky, Hamling stood up on the pitching raft, supported by Martinez and Orr, and began to scan the ocean with his binoculars. For a long time nothing happened.

“There it is.” The upper works of Sea Venture were thrusting above the horizon.

“How far?”

“Wait a while—she isn’t all the way up yet.” Hamling watched, and finally said, “Five miles, maybe six.” He lowered the binoculars and tucked them into his belt pouch. “You want to swim a little, or would you rather hang around all day to be picked up?”

The men helped each other on with their liquid-air tanks, checked regulators, rubbed the compound on their faceplates. Orr and Martinez opened the valves of the flotation cells. As the raft sank, the five men slipped into the water.

After the fourth hour, Hamling surfaced long enough to catch a glimpse of Sea Venture and adjust the lubber line on his compass; then they went down again to five feet. An hour later, the hull of Sea Venture loomed ahead of them. They swam toward the stem. Hamling surfaced once more and peered at the black opening just above the waterline.

As each swell struck, the gray water foamed into the tube. He timed the surges: each one took six seconds, and the tube was barely emptied before the next one went in.

He tried to visualize what was happening inside the tube. The water hurtled in at an angle, slapped the forward side, filled the open passenger entrance, then rebounded from the back of the tube and washed out again. The direction of the surge was in their favor, but the water was going in at roller-coaster speed. Unless position and timing were exactly right, a man would come back out with broken limbs or a concussion.

Hamling uncoiled a line from his waist and handed the end of it to Martinez, signaling the others to link up. He turned on his back and swam close to the hull. Overhead he could see the pearl-gray lines of the troughs going in. He let himself become part of the rhythm. He visualized himself rising, catching the surge. He did not think of failure.

He counted seconds, then turned onto his side and propelled himself upward with three powerful strokes. He felt himself hurtling inward: in the blinding smother, he reached out, caught the smooth rail just where it ought to be, and hung on with all his strength as the backwash tried to suck him out again. Gasping and triumphant, he pulled himself into the passenger corridor and tied his line to the handrail. When the next surge went out, he tugged on the line. After a moment he felt it go slack, and pulled it in hand over hand as fast as he could. Martinez, with his face mask knocked awry, came in over the sill.

When they were all inside, Hamling waded to the watertight door at the end of the passage. The control wheel was in the center of the door. He turned it counterclockwise. It was frozen at first, then it gave. He pushed it open. While the rest of them got out of their gear, Martinez took a rubber wedge from his kit and drove it under the door with blows of a mallet. He tested the wedge with his hand and held up thumb and forefinger in an “OK” sign.