The Ghost from the Grand Banks

23. PHONE-IN

“There can’t be many people,” said Marcus Kilford, “who don’t know that it’s now less than four years to the Titanic centennial—or haven’t heard about the plans to raise the wreck. Once again, I’m happy to have with me three of the leaders in this project. I’ll talk to each of them in turn—then you’ll have a chance of calling in with any specific questions you have. At the right time, the number will flash along the bottom of the screen…

“The gentleman on my left is the famous underwater engineer Jason Bradley; his encounter with the giant octopus in the Newfoundland oil rig is now part of ocean folklore. He’s currently with the International Seabed Authority, and is responsible for monitoring operations on the wreck.

“Next to him is Rupert Parkinson, who almost brought the America’s Cup to England last year. (Sorry about that, Rupert.) His firm is involved in raising the forward portion of the wreck—the larger of the two pieces into which the ship is broken.

“On my right is Donald Craig, who’s associated with the Nippon-Turner Corporation—now the world’s largest media chain. He will tell us about the plans to raise the stern, which was the last part to sink—carrying with it most of those who were lost on that unforgettable night, ninety-six years ago…

“Mr. Bradley—would it be fair to call you a referee, making sure that there’s no cheating in the race between these two gentlemen?”

Kilford had to hold up his hand to quell simultaneous protests from his other two guests.

“Please, gentlemen! You’ll both have your turn. Let Jason speak first.”

Now that I’m disguised as a diplomat, thought Bradley, I’d better try to act the part. I know Kilford’s trying to needle us—that’s his job—so I’ll play it cool.

“I don’t regard it as a race,” he answered carefully. “Both parties have submitted schedules which call for the raising mid-April 2012.”

“On the fifteenth itself? Both of them?”

This was a sensitive matter, which Bradly had no intention of discussing in public. He had convinced ISA’s top brass that nothing like a photo finish must be allowed. Two major salvage operations could not possibly take place simultaneously, less than a kilometer apart. The risk of disaster—always a major concern—could be greatly increased. Trying to perform two difficult jobs at once was a very good recipe for achieving neither.

“Look,” he said patiently, “this isn’t a one-day operation. Titanic reached the bottom in a matter of minutes. It’s going to take days to lift her back to the surface. Perhaps weeks.”

“May I make a point?” said Parkinson, promptly doing so. “We have no intention of bringing our section of the wreck back to the surface. It’s always going to remain completely underwater, to avoid the risk of immediate corrosion. We’re not engaged in a TV spectacular.” He carefully avoided looking at Craig; the studio camera was less diffident.

I feel sorry for Donald, thought Bradley. Kato should have been here instead: he and Parky would be well matched. We might see some real fireworks, as each tried to be more sardonically polite than the other—in, of course, the most gentlemanly way possible. Bradley wished that he could help Donald, toward whom he had developed a warm, almost paternal feeling, but he had to remember that he was now a friendly neutral.

Donald Craig wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, and gave Parkinson a hurt look. Kilford seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Well, Mr. Craig? Aren’t you hoping to film the stern rising out of the water, with your synthetic iceberg looming over it?”

That was exactly what Kato intended, though he had never said so in public. But this was not the sort of secret that could be kept for more than a few milliseconds in the electronic global village.

“Well—er,” began Donald lamely. “If we do bring our section up above sea level, it won’t be there for long—”

“—but long enough for some spectacular footage?”

“—because just as you intend to do, Rupert, we’ll tow it underwater until it reaches its final resting place, at Tokyo-on-Sea. And there’s no danger of corrosion; most of the ironwork will still be enclosed in ice, and all of it will be at freezing point.”

Donald paused for a second; then a slow smile spread over his face.

“And by the way,” he continued, obviously gaining confidence, “haven’t I heard that you are planning a TV spectacular? What’s this story about taking scuba divers down to the wreck, as soon as it’s within reach? How deep will that be, Mr. Bradley?”

“Depends what they’re breathing. Thirty meters with air. A hundred or more with mixtures.”

“Then I’m sure half the sports divers in the world would love to pay a visit—long before you get to Florida.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, Donald,” said Parkinson amiably. “We’ll certainly give it a thought.”

“Well, now we’ve broken the ice—ha, ha!—let’s get down to business. What I’d like you to do—Donald, Rupert—is for each of you to explain where your project stands at the moment. I don’t expect you to give away any secrets, of course. Then I’ll ask Jason to make any comments—if he wants to. As C comes before P, you go on first, Donald.”

“Well—um—the problem with the stern is that it’s so badly smashed up. Sealing it in ice is the most sensible way of handling it as a single unit. And, of course, ice floats—as Captain Smith apparently forgot in 1912.

“My friends in Japan have worked out a very efficient method of freezing water, using electric current. It’s already at almost zero centigrade down there, so very little additional cooling is needed.

“We’ve manufactured the neutral-buoyancy cables and the thermoelectric elements, and our underwater robots will start installing them in a few days. We’re still negotiating for the electricity, and hope to have contracts signed very soon.”

“And when you’ve made your deep-sea iceberg, what then?”

“Ah—well—that’s something I’d rather not discuss at the moment.”

Though none of those present knew it, Donald was not stalling. He was genuinely ignorant—even baffled. What had Kato meant in their last conversation? Surely he must have been joking: really, it was not very polite to leave his partners in the dark…

“Very well, Donald. Any comments, Jason?”

Bradley shook his head. “Nothing important. The scheme’s audacious, but our scientists can’t fault it. And, of course, it has—what do you say?—poetic justice.”

“Rupert?”

“I agree. It’s a lovely idea. I only hope it works.”

Parkinson managed to convey a genuine sense of regret for the failure he obviously expected. It was a masterly little performance.

“Well, it’s your turn. Where do you stand?”

“We’re using straightforward techniques—nothing exotic! Because air is compressed four hundred times at Titanic’s depth, it’s not practical to pump it down to get lift. So we’re using hollow glass spheres; they have the same buoyancy at any depth. They’ll be packed—millions of them—in bundles of the appropriate size. Some may be put in the ship at strategic points, by small ROVs—sorry, Remote Operated Vehicles. But most of them will be attached to a lifting cradle we’re lowering down to the hull.”

“And just how,” interjected Kilford, “are you going to attach the hull to the cradle?”

Kilford had obviously done his homework, Bradley thought admiringly. Most laymen would have taken such a matter for granted, as a point not worth special attention; but it was the key to the whole operation.

Rupert Parkinson smiled broadly. “Donald has his little secrets; so have we. But we’ll be doing some tests very shortly, and Jason has kindly agreed to observe them—haven’t you?”

“Yes—if the U.S. Navy can lend us Marvin in time. ISA doesn’t have any deep subs of its own, alas. But we’re working on it.”

“One day I’d like to dive with you—I think,” said Kilford. “Can you get a video link down to the wreck?”

“No problem, with fiber optics. We have several monitoring circuits already.”

“Splendid. I’ll start bullying my producer. Well, I see there are lots of lights flashing. Our first caller is Mr.—sorry, I guess that’s Miss—Chandrika de Silva of Notting Hill Gate. Go ahead, Chandrika…”

24. ICE

“We’re in a buyer’s market,” said Kato with undisguised glee. “The U.S. and USSR navies are trying to underbid each other. If we got tough, I think they’d both pay us to take their radioactive toys off their hands.”

On the other side of the world, the Craigs were watching him through the latest marvel of communications technology. POLAR 1, opened with great fanfare only a few weeks ago, was the first fiber-optic cable to be laid under the Arctic ice cap. By eliminating the long haul up to the geostationary orbit, and its slight but annoying time delay, the global phone system had been noticeably improved; speakers no longer kept interrupting each other, or wasting time waiting for replies. As the Director-General of INTELSAT had said, smiling bravely through his tears, “Now we can devote comsats to the job God intended them for—providing service to airplanes and ships and automobiles—and everyone who likes to get out into the fresh air.”

“Have you made a deal yet?” asked Donald.

“It will be wrapped up by the end of the week. One Russki, one Yank. Then they’ll compete to see which will do the better job for us. Isn’t that nicer than throwing nukes at each other?”

“Much nicer.”

“The British and French are also trying to get into the act—that helps our bargaining position, of course. We may even rent one of theirs as a standby. Or in case we decide to speed up operations.”

“Just to keep level with Parky and Company? Or to get our section up first?”

There was a brief silence—just about long enough for the question to have traveled to the Moon and back.

“Really, Edith!” said Kato. “I was thinking of unexpected snags. Remember, we’re not in a race—perish the thought! We’ve both promised ISA to lift between seven and fifteen April ’12. We want to make sure we can meet the schedule—that’s all.”

“And will you?”

“Let me show you our little home movie—I’d appreciate it if you’d exit RECORD mode. This isn’t the final version, so I’d like your comments at this stage.”

The Japanese studios, Donald recalled, had a long and well-deserved reputation for model work and special effects. (How many times had Tokyo been destroyed by assorted monsters?) The detail of ship and seabed was so perfect that there was no sense of scale; anyone who did not know that visibility underwater was never more than a hundred meters—at best—might have thought that this was the real thing.

Titanic’s crumpled rear section—about a third of her total length—lay on a flat, muddy plain surrounded by the debris that had rained down when the ship tore in two. The stern itself was in fairly good shape, though the deck had been partly peeled away, but farther forward it looked as if a giant hammer had smashed into the wreck. Only half of the rudder protruded from the seabed; two of the three enormous propellers were completely buried. Extricating them would be a major problem in itself.

“Looks a mess, doesn’t it?” said Kato cheerfully. “But watch.”

A shark swam leisurely past, suddenly noticed the imaginary camera, and departed in alarm. A nice touch, thought Donald, silently saluting the animators.

Now time speeded up. Numbers indicating days flickered on the right of the picture, twenty-four hours passing in every second. Slim girders descended from the liquid sky, and assembled themselves into an open framework surrounding the wreckage. Thick cables snaked into the shattered hulk.

Day Four Hundred—more than a year had passed. Now the water, hitherto quite invisible, was becoming milky. First the upper portion of the wreck, then the twisted plating of the hull, then everything down to the seabed itself, slowly disappeared into a huge block of glistening whiteness.

“Day Six Hundred,” said Kato proudly. “Biggest ice cube in the world—except that it isn’t quite cube-shaped. Think of all the refrigerators that’s going to sell.”

Maybe in Asia, thought Donald. But not in the U.K.—especially in Belfast… Already there had been protests, cries of “sacrilege!” and even threats to boycott everything Japanese. Well, that was Kato’s problem, and he was certainly well aware of it.

“Day Six Hundred Fifty. By this time, the seabed will also have consolidated, right down to several meters below the triple screws. Everything will be sealed tight in one solid block. All we have to do is lift it up to the surface. The ice will only provide a fraction of the buoyancy we need. So…”

“…so you’ll ask Parky to sell you a few billion microspheres.”

“Believe it or not, Donald, we had thought of making our own. But to copy Western technology? Perish the thought!”

“Then what have you invented instead?”

“Something very simple; we’ll use a really hi-tech approach.

“Don’t tell anyone yet—but we’re going to bring the Titanic up with rockets.”

25. JASON JUNIOR

There were times when the International Seabed Authority’s deputy director (Atlantic) had no official duties, because both halves of the Titanic operation were proceeding smoothly. But Jason Bradley was not the sort of man who enjoyed inaction.

Because he did not have to worry about tenure—the income on his investments was several times his ISA salary—he regarded himself as very much a free agent. Others might be trapped in their little boxes on the authority’s organization chart; Jason Bradley roved at will, visiting any departments that looked interesting. Sometimes he informed the D.G., sometimes not. And usually he was welcomed, because his fame had spread before him, and other department heads regarded him more as an exotic visitor than a rival.

The other four deputy directors (Pacific, Indian, Antarctic, Arctic) all seemed willing enough to show him what was happening in their respective ocean empires. They were, of course, now united against a common enemy—the global rise in the sea level. After more than a decade of often acrimonious argument, it was now agreed that this rise was between one and two centimeters a year.

Bluepeace and other environmental groups put the blame on man; the scientists were not so sure. It was true that the billions of tons of CO₂ from thermal power plants and automobiles made some contribution to the notorious “Greenhouse Effect,” but Mother Nature might still be the principal culprit; mankind’s most heroic efforts could not match the pollution produced by one large volcano. All these arguments sounded very academic to peoples whose homes might cease to exist within their own lifetimes.

ISA chief scientist Franz Zwicker was widely regarded as the world’s leading oceanographer—an opinion he made little effort to discourage. The first item most visitors noticed when entering his office was the Time magazine cover, with its caption “Admiral of the Ocean Sea.” And no visitor escaped without a lecture, or at least a commercial, for Operation NEPTUNE.

“It’s a scandal,” Zwicker was fond of saying. “We have photo coverage of the Moon and Mars showing everything down to the size of a small house—but most of our planet is still completely unknown! They’re spending billions to map the human genome, in the hope of triggering advances in medicine—someday. I don’t doubt it; but mapping the seabed down to one-meter resolution would pay off immediately. Why, with camera and magnetometer we’d locate all the wrecks that have ever happened, since men started to build ships!”

To those who accused him of being a monomaniac, he was fond of giving Edward Teller’s famous reply: “That’s simply not true. I have several monomanias.”

There was no doubt, however, that Operation NEPTUNE was the dominant one, and after some months” exposure to Zwicker, Bradley had begun to share it—at least when he was not preoccupied with Titanic.

The result, after months of brainstorming and gigabytes of CADCAMing, was Experimental Long-Range Autonomous Surveyor Mark I. The official acronym ELRAS survived only about a week; then, overnight, it was superseded…

“He doesn’t look much like his father,” said Roy Emerson.

Bradley was getting rather tired of the joke, though for reasons which none of his colleagues—except the director-general—could have known. But he usually managed a sickly grin when displaying the lab’s latest wonder to VVIPs. Mere VIPs were handled by the deputy director, Public Relations.

“No one will believe he’s not named after me, but it’s true. By pure coincidence, the U.S. Navy robot that made the first reconnaissance inside Titanic was called Jason Junior. So I’m afraid the name’s stuck.

“But ISA’s J.J. is very much more sophisticated—and completely independent. It can operate by itself, for days—or weeks—without any human intervention. Not like the first J.J., which was controlled through a cable; someone described it as a puppy on a leash. Well, we’ve slipped the leash; this J.J. can go hunting over all the world’s ocean beds, sniffing at anything that looks interesting.”

Jason Junior was not much larger than a man, and was shaped like a fat torpedo, with forward- and downward-viewing cameras. Main propulsion was provided by a single multibladed fan, and several small swivel jets gave attitude control. There were various streamlined bulges housing instruments, but none of the external manipulators found on most ROVs.

“What, no hands?” said Emerson.

“Doesn’t need them—so we have a much cleaner design, with more speed and range. J.J.’s purely a surveyor; we can always go back later and look at anything interesting he finds on the seabed. Or under it, with his magnetometer and sonar.”

Emerson was impressed; this was the sort of machine that appealed to his gadgeteering instincts. The short-lived fame that the Wave Wiper had brought him had long ago evaporated—though not, fortunately, the wealth that came with it.

He was, it seemed, a one-idea man; later inventions had all proved failures, and his well-publicized experiment to drop microspheres down to the Titanic in a hollow, air-filled tube had been an embarrassing debacle. Emerson’s “hole in the sea” stubbornly refused to stay open; the descending spheres clogged it halfway, unless the flow was so small as to be useless.

The Parkinsons were quite upset, and had made poor Emerson feel uncomfortable at the last board meetings in ways that the English upper class had long perfected; for a few weeks, even his good friend Rupert had been distinctly cool.

But much worse was to come. A satirical Washington cartoonist had created a crazy “Thomas Alva Emerson” whose zany inventions would have put Rube Goldberg to shame. They had begun with the motorized zipper and proceeded via the digital toothbrush to the solar-powered pacemaker. By the time it had reached Braille speedometers for blind motorists, Roy Emerson had consulted his lawyer.

“Winning a libel action against a network,” said Joe Wickram, “is about as easy as writing the Lord’s Prayer on a rice grain with a felt pen. The defendant will plead fair comment, public interest, and quote at great length from the Bill of Rights. Of course,” he added hopefully, “I’ll be very happy to have a crack at it. I’ve always wanted to argue a case before the Supreme Court.”

Very sensibly, Emerson had declined the offer, and at least something good had come out of the attack. The Parkinsons, to a man—and woman—felt it was unfair, and had rallied around him. Though they no longer took his engineering suggestions very seriously, they encouraged him to go on fact-finding missions like this one.

The authority’s modest research and development center in Jamaica had no secrets, and was open to everybody. It was—in theory, at least—an impartial advisor to all who had dealings with the sea. The Parkinson and Nippon-Turner groups were now far and away the most publicly visible of these, and paid frequent visits to get advice on their own operations—and if possible, to check on the competition. They were careful to avoid scheduling conflicts, but sometimes there were slip-ups and polite “Fancy meeting you here!” exchanges. If Roy Emerson was not mistaken, he had noticed one of Kato’s people in the departure lounge of Kingston Airport, just as he was arriving.

ISA, of course, was perfectly well aware of these undercurrents, and did its best to exploit them. Franz Zwicker was particularly adept at plugging his own projects—and getting other people to pay for them. Bradley was glad to cooperate, especially where J.J. was concerned, and was equally adept at giving little pep talks and handing out glossy brochures on Operation NEPTUNE.

“…Once the software’s been perfected,” Bradley told Emerson, “so that he can avoid obstacles and deal with emergency situations, we’ll let him loose. He’ll be able to map the seabed in greater detail than anyone’s ever done before. When the job’s finished, he’ll surface and we’ll pick him up, recharge his batteries, and download his data. Then off he’ll go again.”

“Suppose he meets the great white shark?”

“We’ve even looked into that. Sharks seldom attack anything unfamiliar, and J.J. certainly doesn’t look very appetizing. And his sonar and electromagnetic emissions will scare away most predators.”

“Where do you plan to test him—and when?”

“Starting next month, on some well-mapped local sites. Then out to the Continental Shelf. And then—up to the Grand Banks.”

“I don’t think you’ll find much new around Titanic. Both sections have been photographed down to the square millimeter.”

“That’s true; we’re not really interested in them. But J.J. can probe at least twenty meters below the seabed—and no one’s ever done that for the debris field. God knows what’s still buried there. Even if we don’t find anything exciting, it will show J.J.’s capabilities—and give a big boost to the project. I’m going up to Explorer next week to make arrangements. It’s ages since I was aboard her—and Parky—Rupert—says he has something to show me.”

“He has indeed,” said Emerson with a grin. “I shouldn’t tell you this—but we’ve found the real treasure of the Titanic. Exactly where it was supposed to be.”

26. THE MEDICI GOBLET

“I wonder if you realize,” Bradley shouted, to make himself heard above the roar and rattle of machinery, “what a bargain you’ve got. She cost almost a quarter billion to build—and that was back when a billion dollars was real money.”

Rupert Parkinson was wearing an immaculate yachtsman’s outfit which, especially when crowned by a hard hat, seemed a little out of place down here beside Glomar Explorer’s moon pool. The oily rectangle of water—larger than a tennis court—was surrounded by heavy salvage and handling equipment, much of it showing its age. Everywhere there were signs of hasty repairs, dabs of anticorrosion paint, and ominous notices saying OUT OF ORDER. Yet enough seemed to be working; Parkinson claimed they were actually ahead of schedule.

It’s hard to believe, Bradley told himself, that it’s almost thirty-five years since I stood here, looking down into this same black rectangle of water. I don’t feel thirty-five years older… but I don’t remember much about the callow youngster who’d just signed up for his first big job. Certainly he could never have dreamed of the one I’m holding down now.

It had turned out better than he had expected. After decades of battling with U.N. lawyers and a whole alphabet stew of government departments and environmental authorities, Bradley was learning that they were a necessary evil.

The Wild West days of the sea were over. There had been a brief time when there was very little law below a hundred fathoms; now he was sheriff, and, rather to his surprise, he was beginning to enjoy it.

One sign of his new status—some of his old colleagues called it “conversion”—was the framed certificate from Bluepeace he now had hanging on the office wall. It was right beside the photo presented to him years ago by the famous extinguisher of oil-rig fires, “Red” Adair. That bore the inscription: “Jason—isn’t it great not to be bothered by life-insurance salesmen? Best wishes—Red.”

The Bluepeace citation was somewhat more dignified:

At least once a month Bradley would leave his office and fly to Newfoundland—a province that was once more living up to its name. Since operations had started, more and more of world attention had been turned toward the drama being played out on the Grand Banks. The countdown to 2012 had begun, and bets were already being placed on the winner of “The Race for the Titanic.”

And there was another focus of interest, this time a morbid one…

“What annoys me,” said Parkinson, as they left the noisy and clamorous chaos of the moon pool, “are the ghouls who keep asking: ‘Have you found any bodies yet?’ ”

“I’m always getting the same question. One day I’ll answer: ‘Yes—you’re the first.’ ”

Parkinson laughed.

“Must try that myself. But here’s the answer I give. You know that we’re still finding boots and shoes lying on the seabed—in pairs, a few centimeters apart? Usually they’re cheap and well worn, but last month we came across a beautiful example of the best English leatherwork. Looks as if they’re straight from the cobbler—you can still read the label that says ‘By Appointment to His Majesty.’ Obviously one of the first-class passengers…

“I’ve put them in a glass case in my office, and when I’m asked about bodies I point to them and say: ‘Look—not even a scrap of bone left inside. It’s a hungry world down there. The leather would have gone too, if it wasn’t for the tannic acid.’ That shuts them up very quickly.”

Glomar Explorer had not been designed for gracious living, but Rupert Parkinson had managed to transform one of the aft staterooms, just below the helipad, into a fair imitation of a luxury hotel suite. It reminded Bradley of their first meeting, back in Piccadilly—ages ago, it now seemed. The room contained one item, however, which was more than a little out of place in such surroundings.

It was a wooden chest, about a meter high, and it appeared almost new. But as he approached, Bradley recognized a familiar and unmistakable odor—the metallic tang of iodine, proof of long immersion in the sea. Some diver—was it Cousteau?—had once used the phrase “The scent of treasure.” Here it was, hanging in the air—and setting the blood pounding in his veins.

“Congratulations, Rupert. So you’ve got into Great Grandfather’s suite.”

“Yes. Two of the Deep ROVs entered a week ago and did a preliminary survey. This is the first item they brought out.”

The chest still displayed, in stenciled lettering unfaded after a century in the abyss, a somewhat baffling inscription:

Parkinson raised the lid, almost reverently, and then drew aside the sheet of metal foil beneath it.

“Standard eighty-pound Ceylon tea chest,” he said. “It happened to be the right size, so they simply repacked it. And I’d no idea they used aluminum foil, back in 1912! Of course, the B.O.P. wouldn’t fetch a very good price at Colombo auction now—but it did its job. Admirably.”

With a piece of stiff cardboard, Parkinson delicately cleared away the top layer of the soggy black mess; he looked, Bradley thought, exactly like an underwater archaeologist extracting a fragment of pottery from the seabed. This, however, was not twenty-five-century-old Greek amphora, but something far more sophisticated.

“The Medici Goblet,” Parkinson whispered almost reverently. “No one has seen it for a hundred years; no one ever expected to see it again.”

He exposed only the upper few inches, but that was enough to show a circle of glass inside which multicolored threads were embedded in a complex design.

“We won’t remove it until we’re on land,” said Parkinson, “but this is what it looks like.”

He opened a typical coffee-table art book, bearing the title Glories of Venetian Glass. The full-page photo showed what at first sight looked like a glittering fountain, frozen in midair.

“I don’t believe it,” said Bradley, after a few seconds of wide-eyed astonishment. “How could anyone actually drink from it? More to the point, how could anyone make it?”

“Good questions. First of all, it’s purely ornamental—intended to be looked at, not used. A perfect example of Wilde’s dictum: ‘All art is quite useless.’

“And I wish I could answer your second question. We just don’t know. Oh, of course we can guess at some of the techniques used—but how did the glassblower make those curlicues intertwine? And look at the way those little spheres are nested one inside the other! If I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes, I’d have sworn that some of these pieces could only have been assembled in zero gravity.”

“So that’s why Parkinson’s booked space on Skylab 3.”

“What a ridiculous rumor; not worth contradicting.”

“Roy Emerson told me he was looking forward to his first trip into space… and setting up a weightless lab.”

“I’ll fax Roy a polite note, telling him to keep his bloody mouth shut. But since you’ve raised the subject—yes, we think there are possibilities for zero-gee glassblowing. It may not start a revolution in the industry, like float glass back in the last century—but it’s worth a try.”

“This probably isn’t a polite question, but how much is this goblet worth?”

“I assume you’re not asking in your official capacity, so I won’t give a figure I’d care to put in a company report. Anyway, you know how crazy the art business is—more ups and downs than the stock market! Look at those late twentieth-century megadollar daubs you can’t give away now. And in this case there’s the history of the piece—how can you put a value on that?”

“Make a guess.”

“I’d be very disappointed at anything less than fifty M.”

Bradley whistled.

“And how much more is down there?”

“Lots. Here’s the complete listing, prepared for the exhibition the Smithsonian had planned. Is planning—just a hundred years late.”

There were more than forty items on the list, all with highly technical Italianate descriptions. About half had question marks beside them.

“Bit of a mystery here,” said Parkinson. “Twenty-two of the pieces are missing—but we know they were aboard, and we’re sure G.G. had them in his suite, because he complained about the space they were taking up—he couldn’t throw a party.”

“So—going to blame the French again?”

It was an old joke, and rather a bitter one. Some of the French expeditions to the wreck, in the years following its 1985 discovery, had done considerable damage while attempting to recover artifacts. Ballard and his associates had never forgiven them.

“No. I guess they’ve a pretty good alibi; we’re definitely the first inside. My theory is that G.G. had them moved out into an adjoining suite or corridor—I’m sure they’re not far away—we’ll find them sooner or later.”

“I hope so; if your estimate is right—and after all, you’re the expert—those boxes of glass will pay for this whole operation. And everything else will be a pure bonus. Nice work, Rupert.”

“Thank you. We hope Phase Two goes equally well.”

“The Mole? I noticed it down beside the moon pool. Anything since your last report—which was rather sketchy?”

“I know. We were in the middle of urgent mods when your office started making rude noises about schedules and deadlines. But now we’re on top of the problem—I hope.”

“Do you still plan to make a test first, on a stretch of open seabed?”

“No. We’re going to go for broke; we’re confident that all systems are okay, so why wait? Do you remember what happened in the Apollo Program, back in ’68? One of the most daring technological gambles in history… The big Saturn V had only flown twice—unmanned—and the second flight had been a partial failure. Yet NASA took a calculated risk; the next flight was not only manned—it went straight to the Moon!

“Of course, we’re not playing for such high stakes, but if the Mole doesn’t work—or we lose it—we’re in real trouble; our whole operation depends on it. The sooner we know about any real problems, the better.

“No one’s ever tried something quite like this before; but our first run will be the real thing—and we’d like you to watch.

“Now, Jason—how about a nice cup of tea?”

27. INJUNCTION

“We’re in deep trouble,” said Kato, from his Toyko office, “and that’s not meant to be funny.”

“What’s the problem?” asked Donald Craig, relaxing in the Castle garden. From time to time he liked to give his eyes a chance of focusing on something more than half a meter away, and this was an unusually warm and sunny afternoon for early spring.

“Bluepeace. They’ve lodged another protest with ISA—and this time I’m afraid they’ve got a case.”

“I thought we’d settled all this.”

“So did we; heads are rolling in our legal department. We can do everything we’d planned—except actually raise the wreck.”

“It’s a little late in the day to discover that, isn’t it? And you’ve never told me how you intended to get the extra lift. Of course, I never took that crack about rockets seriously.”

“Sorry about that—we’d been negotiating with Du Pont and Thiokol and Union Carbide and half a dozen others—didn’t want to talk until we were certain of our supplier.”

“Of what?”

“Hydrazine. Rocket monopropellant. So I wasn’t economizing too greatly with the truth.”

“Hydrazine? Now where—Of course! That’s how Cussler brought her up, in Raise the Titanic!”

“Yes, and it’s quite a good idea—it decomposes into pure nitrogen and hydrogen, plus lots of heat. But Cussler didn’t have to cope with Bluepeace. They got wind of what we were doing—wish I knew how—and claim that hydrazine is a dangerous poison, and some is bound to be spilled, however carefully we handle it, and so on and so forth.”

“Is it a poison?”

“Well, I’d hate to drink it. Smells like concentrated ammonia, and probably tastes worse.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Fight, of course. And think of alternatives. Parky will be laughing his head off.”

28. MOLE

The three-man deep-sea submersible Marvin had been intended as the successor of the famous Alvin, which had played such a key role in the first exploration of the wreck. Alvin, however, showed no intention of retiring, though almost every one of its original components had long since been replaced.

Marvin was also much more comfortable than its progenitor, and had greater reserves of power. No longer was it necessary to spend a boring two and a half hours in free-fall to the seabed; with the help of its motors, Marvin could reach the Titanic in less than an hour. And in an emergency, by jettisoning all external equipment, the titanium sphere holding the crew could get back to the surface in minutes—an incompressible air bubble ascending from the depths.

For Bradley, this was a double first. He had never yet seen the Titanic with his own eyes, and though he had handled Marvin on test and training runs down to a few hundred meters, he had never taken it right down to the bottom. Needless to say, he was carefully watched by the submersible’s usual pilot, who was doing his best not to be a backseat driver.

“Altitude two hundred meters. Wreck bearing one two zero.”

Altitude! That was a word that sounded strangely in a diver’s ear. But here inside Marvin’s life-support sphere, depth was almost irrelevant. What really concerned Bradley was his elevation above the seabed, and keeping enough clearance to avoid obstacles. He felt that he was piloting not a submarine but a low-flying aircraft—one searching for landmarks in a thick fog…

“Searching,” however, was hardly the right word, for he knew exactly where his target was. The brilliant echo on the sonar display was dead ahead, and now only a hundred meters away. In a moment the TV camera would pick it up, but Bradley wanted to use his own eyes. He was not a child of the video age, to whom nothing was quite real until it had appeared on a screen.

And there was the knife edge of the prow, looming up in the glare of Marvin’s lights. Bradley cut the motor, and let his little craft drift slowly toward the converging cliffs of steel.

Now he was separated from the Titanic by only a few centimeters of adamantine crystal, bearing a pressure that it was not wise to dwell upon. He was confronting the ghost that had haunted the Atlantic sea lanes for almost a century; it still seemed to be driving ahead under its own power, as if on a voyage that, even now, had only just begun.

The enormous anchor, half hidden by its drapery of weeds, was still patiently waiting to be lowered. It almost dwarfed Marvin, and its dangling tons of mass appeared so ominous that Bradley gave it a wide berth as he cruised slowly down the line of portholes, staring blankly into nothingness like the empty eye sockets of a skull.

He had almost forgotten the purpose of his mission, when the voice from the world above jolted him back to reality.

“Explorer to Marvin. We’re waiting.”

“Sorry—just admiring the view. She is impressive—cameras don’t do her justice. You’ve got to see her for yourself.”

This was an old argument, which as far as Bradley was concerned had been settled long ago. Though robots and their electronic sensors were invaluable—indeed, absolutely essential—both for reconnaissance and actual operations, they could never give the whole picture. “Telepresence” was marvelous, but it could sometimes be a dangerous illusion. You might believe you were experiencing a hundred percent of some remote reality but it was only ninety-five percent—and that remaining five percent could be vital: men had died because there was still no good way of transmitting those warning signals that only the sense of smell could detect. Although he had seen thousands of stills and videos of the wreck, only now did Bradley feel that he was beginning to understand it.

He was reluctant to tear himself away, and realized how frustrated Robert Ballard must have been when he had only seconds for his first sighting of the wreck. Then he actuated the bow thrusters, swung Marvin away from the towering metal cliff, and headed toward his real target.

The Mole was resting on a cradle about twenty meters from Titanic, pointing downward at a forty-five-degree angle. It looked rather like a spaceship headed in the wrong direction, and there had been many deplorable ethnic jokes about launchpads built by the engineers of certain small European countries.

The conical drilling head was already deeply buried in the sediment, and a few meters of the broad metal tape that was the Mole’s “payload” lay stretched out on the seabed behind it. Bradley moved Marvin into position to get a good view, and switched the video recorders to high speed.

“We’re ready,” he reported to topside. “Start the countdown.”

“We’re holding at T minus ten seconds. Inertial guidance running… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… liftoff! Sorry—I mean, dig in!”

The drill had started to spin, and almost at once the Mole was hidden by clouds of silt. However, Bradley could see that it was disappearing with surprising speed; in only a matter of seconds it had vanished into the seabed.

“You’ve cleared the tower,” he reported, keeping the spirit of the occasion. “Can’t see anything—the launchpad’s hidden by smoke. Well, mud…

“Now it’s settling. The Mole’s vanished. Just a little crater, slowly filling in. We’ll head around the other side to meet it.”

“Take your time. Quickest estimate is thirty minutes. Longest is fifty. Quite a few bets riding on this baby.”

And quite a few million dollars as well, thought Bradley, as he piloted Marvin toward Titanic’s prow. If the Mole gets stuck before it can complete its mission, Parky and company will have to go back to the drawing board.

He was waiting on the port side when the Mole resurfaced after forty-five minutes. It was not attempting any speed records; its maiden voyage had been a complete success.

Now the first of the planned thirty belts, each capable of lifting a thousand tons, had been safely emplaced. When the operation had been completed, Titanic could be lifted off the ocean floor, like a melon in a string bag.

That was the theory, and it seemed to be working. Florida was still a long way off, but now it had come just a little closer.

29. SARCOPHAGUS

“We’ve found it!”

Roy Emerson had never seen Rupert Parkinson in so exuberant a mood; it was positively un-English.

“Where?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“Ninety-nine—well, ninety-five percent. Just where I expected. There was an unoccupied suite—wasn’t ready in time for the voyage. On the same deck as G.G. and only a few yards away. Both doors are jammed so we’ll have to cut our way in. The ROV’s going down now to have a crack at it. You should have been here.”

Perhaps, thought Emerson. But this is a family affair, and he would feel an interloper. Besides, it might be a false alarm—like most rumors of sunken treasure.

“How long before you get inside?”

“Shouldn’t take more than an hour—it’s fairly thin steel, and we’ll be through it in no time.”

“Well, good luck. Keep me in the picture.”

Roy Emerson went back to what he pretended was work. He felt guilty when he was not inventing something, which was now most of the time. Trying to reduce the electronic chaos of his data banks by rearranging and reclassifying did give the illusion of useful employment.

And so he missed all the excitement.

The little group in Rupert’s suite aboard Glomar Explorer was so intent upon the monitor screen that their drinks were virtually ignored—no great hardship, because according to long tradition on such vessels, they were nonalcoholic.

A record number of Parkinsons—almost a quorum, someone had pointed out—had assembled for this occasion. Though few shared Rupert’s confidence, it had been a good excuse to visit the scene of operations. Only George had been here before; William, Arnold, and Gloria were all newcomers. The rest of the group watching ROV 3 gliding silently across Titanic’s deck were ship’s officers and senior engineers, recruited from half a dozen ocean-oriented firms.

“Have you noticed,” somebody whispered, “how the weeds have grown? Must be due to our lights—she wasn’t like this when we started ops—bridge looks like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon…”

There was very little other comment, still less any conversation, as ROV 3 dropped down into the yawning cavity of the grand staircase. A century ago, elegant ladies and their sleek escorts had strolled up and down the thick-piled carpet, never dreaming of their fate—or imagining that in little more than two years the guns of August would put an end to the gilded Edwardian Age they so perfectly epitomized.

ROV 3 turned into the main starboard corridor on the promenade deck, past the rows of first-class staterooms. It was moving very slowly in these confined quarters, and the TV image was now limited to freeze-frame black and white, with a new picture every two seconds.

All data and control signals were now being relayed over an ultrasonic link through a repeater placed on the deck. From time to time there were annoying holdups, when the screen went blank and the only indication of ROV 3’s continued existence was a high-pitched whistle. Some obstacle was absorbing the carrier wave, causing a momentary break in the connection. There would be a brief interval of electronic “handshaking” and error correction; then the picture would return and ROV 3’s pilot, four kilometers above, could resume progress. These interruptions did nothing to lessen the suspense; it had been several minutes before anyone in Parkinson’s suite had said a word.

There was a universal sigh of relief as the robot came to rest outside a plain, unmarked door, its white paint blindingly brilliant in ROV 3’s floodlights. The decorators might have left only yesterday; apart from a few flakes that had peeled away, almost all the paint was still intact.

Now ROV 3 began the tricky but essential task of anchoring itself to the job—a procedure just as important underwater as in space. First it blasted two explosive bolts through the door, and clamped itself on to them, so it was rigidly attached to the working area.

The glare of the oxy-arc thermal lance flooded the corridor, making ROV 3’s own lights seem feeble in comparison. The thin metal of the door offered no resistance as the incandescent knife—favorite tool of generations of safecrackers—sliced through it. In less than five minutes, a circle almost a meter wide had been carved out, and fell slowly forward, knocking up a small cloud of silt as it hit the floor.

ROV 3 unclamped itself, and rose a few centimeters so it could peer into the hole. The image flickered, then stabilized as the automatic exposure adjusted to the new situation.

Almost at once, Rupert Parkinson gave a hoot of delight.

“There they are!” he cried. “Just as I said—one… two… three-four-five… swing the camera over to the right—six… seven—a little higher… My God—what’s that? ”

No one ever remembered who screamed first.

30. PIETÀ

Jason Bradley had seen something like this before, in a space movie whose name he couldn’t recall. There had been a dead astronaut cradled in mechanical arms, being carried toward the stars… But this robot pietà was rising from the Atlantic depths, toward the circling inflatable boats waiting to receive it.

“That’s the last one,” said Parkinson somberly. “The girl. We still don’t know her name.”

Just like those Russian sailors, thought Bradley, who had been laid out on this very same deck, more than thirty years ago. He could not avoid it; the silly cliché flashed into his mind: “This is where I came in.”

And, like many of the sailors brought up in Operation JENNIFER, these dead also appeared to be only sleeping. That was the most amazing—indeed, uncanny—aspect of the whole matter, which had seized the imagination of the world. After all the trouble we went to, explaining why there couldn’t possibly be even a scrap of bone…

“I’m surprised,” he said to Parkinson, “that you were able to identify any of them, after all these years.”

“Contemporary newspapers—family albums—even poor Irish immigrants usually had at least one photo taken during their lifetime. Especially when they were leaving home forever. I don’t think there’s an attic in Ireland the media haven’t ransacked in the last couple of days.”

ROV 3 had handed over its burden to the rubber-suited divers circling in their inflatables. They lifted it carefully—tenderly—into the cradle suspended over the side from one of Explorer’s cranes. It was obviously very light; one man was able to handle it easily.

With a common, unspoken impulse both Parkinson and Bradley moved away from the rail; they had seen enough of this sad ritual. During the past forty-eight hours, five men and one woman had been brought out of the tomb in which they had been lying for almost a century—apparently beyond the reach of time.

When they were together in Parkinson’s suite, Bradley handed over a small computer module. “It’s all there,” he said. “The ISA lab’s been working overtime. There are still some puzzling details, but the general picture seems clear.

“I don’t know if you ever heard the story about Alvin—in the early days of its career, it was lost in deep water. The crew just managed to scramble out—leaving their lunch behind.

“When the sub was salvaged a couple of years later, the crew’s lunch was exactly as they’d left it. That was the first hint that in cold water, with low oxygen content, organic decay can be vanishingly slow.

“And they’ve recovered bodies from wrecks in the Great Lakes that look absolutely fresh after decades—you can still see the expressions of surprise on the sailors” faces!

“So,” continued Bradley, “the first requirement is that the corpse be in a sealed environment, where marine organisms can’t get at it. That’s what happened here; these people were trapped when they tried to find a way out—poor devils, they must have been lost in first-class territory! They’d broken the lock on the other door of the suite—but couldn’t open the other before the water reached them…

“But there’s more to it than cold, stagnant water—and this is the really fascinating part of the story. Have you ever heard of bog people?”

“No,” said Parkinson.

“Neither had I, until yesterday. But from time to time Danish archaeologists keep finding almost perfectly preserved corpses—victims of sacrifices, apparently—more than a thousand years old. Every wrinkle, every hair intact—they look like incredibly detailed sculptures. The reason? They were buried in peat bogs, and the tannin protected them from decay. Remember the boots and shoes found scattered around the wreck—all the leather untouched?”

Parkinson was no fool, though he sometimes pretended to be a character out of P. G. Wodehouse; it took him only seconds to make the connection.

“Tannin? But how? Of course—the tea chests!”

“Exactly; several of them had been breached by the impact. But our chemists say tannin may be only part of the story. The ship had been newly painted, of course—so the water samples we’ve analyzed show considerable amounts of arsenic and lead. A mighty unhealthy environment for any bacteria.”

“I’m sure that’s the answer,” said Parkinson. “What an extraordinary twist of fate! That tea did a lot better than anyone ever imagined—or could imagine… And I’m afraid G.G. has brought us some very bad luck. Just when things were going smoothly.”

Bradley knew exactly what he meant. To the old charge of desecrating a historic shrine had now been added that of grave robbing. And, by a strange paradox, an apparently fresh grave at that.

The long-forgotten Thomas Conlin, Patrick Dooley, Martin Gallagher, and their three as-yet-still-anonymous companions had transformed the whole situation.

It was a paradox which, surely, would delight any true Irishman. With the discovery of her dead, Titanic had suddenly come alive.

31. A MATTER OF MEGAWATTS

“We have the answer,” said a tired but triumphant Kato.

“I wonder if it matters now,” answered Donald Craig.

“Oh, all that hysteria isn’t going to last. Our P.R. boys are already hard at work—and so are Parky’s. We’ve had a couple of summit meetings to plan a joint strategy. We may even turn it to our mutual advantage.”

“I don’t see—”

“Obvious! Thanks to our—well, Parky’s—careful exploring, these poor folk will at last get a Christian burial, back in their own country. The Irish will love it. Don’t tell anyone, but we’re already talking to the Pope.”

Donald found Kato’s flippant approach more than a little offensive. It would certainly upset Edith, who seemed fascinated by the lovely child-woman the world had named Colleen.

“You’d better be careful. Some of them may be Protestant.”

“Not likely. They all boarded in the deep south, didn’t they?”

“Yes—at Queenstown. You won’t find it on the map, though—a name like that wasn’t popular after Independence. Now it’s called Cobh.”

“How do you spell that?”

“C-O-B-H.”

“Well, we’ll talk to the archbishops, or whoever, as well as the cardinals, just to cover all bases. But let me tell you what our engineers have cooked up. If it works, it will be a lot better than hydrazine. And it should even start Bluepeace shouting slogans for us.”

“That’ll be a nice change. In fact, a miracle.”

“Miracles are our business—didn’t you know?”

“What are the specs of this particular one?”

“First, we’re making our iceberg larger, to get more lift. As a result, we’ll only need about ten k-tons of extra buoyancy. We could go Parky’s route for that, and at first we were afraid we might have to. But there’s a neater—and cleaner—way of getting gas down there. Electrolysis. Splitting the water into oxygen and hydrogen.”

“That’s an old idea. Won’t it take enormous amounts of current? And what about the risk of an explosion?”

“Silly question, Donald. The gases will go to separate electrodes, and we’ll have a membrane to keep them apart. But you’re right about the current. Gigawatt-hours! But we’ve got them—when our nuclear subs have done their thing with the Peltier cooling elements, we’ll switch to electrolysis. May have to rent another boat, though—why are subs always called boats? I told you that the Brits and the French would like to get into the act, so that’s no problem.”

“Very elegant,” said Donald. “And I see what you mean about pleasing Bluepeace. Everyone’s in favor of oxygen.”

“Exactly—and when we vent the balloons on the way up, the whole world will breathe a little easier. At least, that’s what P.R. will be saying.”

“And the hydrogen will go straight up to the stratosphere without bothering anyone. Oh—what about the poor old ozone layer? Any danger of making more holes?”

“We’ve checked that, of course. Won’t be any worse off than it is now. Which, I admit, isn’t saying a great deal.”

“Would it make sense to bottle the gases on the way up? You’re starting with hundreds of tons of oxy-hydrogen, at four hundred atmospheres. That must be quite valuable; why throw it away?”

“Yes—we’ve even looked into that. It’s marginal—increased complexity, cost of shipping tanks, and so on. Might be worth a try on a test basis—and gives us a fall-back position if the environment lobby gets nasty again.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” said Donald with frank admiration.

Kato shook his head slowly.

“Our friend Bradley once told me: ‘When you’ve thought of everything—the sea will think of something else.’ Words of wisdom, and I’ve never forgotten them… Must hang up now—Oh—give my love to Edith.”