Dragon - Cussler Clive - Страница 27

“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.

“Only one mount and a frame brace to go,” Giordino informed them. “Be prepared to tear loose.”

“I read you,” replied Pitt. “Standing by to close down all power and electrical systems.”

Sandecker found it insufferable that he could plainly see the faces of the men across the thin gap separating the two vehicles and know there was every likelihood they might die. “How’s your current air supply?” he asked anxiously.

Pitt checked the monitor. “Enough to get us home if we don’t stop for pizza.”

There came a screech that set teeth on edge as the control compartment shuddered and tilted upward, nose first. Something gave then, and suddenly the structure acted as if it wanted to break free. Pitt quickly shut off the main generator power and switched over to the emergency batteries to keep the computer and speaker phone operating. But all movement abruptly stopped, and they hung frozen above the tractor’s huge frame.

“Hold on,” came Giordino’s reassuring voice. “I missed some hydraulic lines.” Then he added, “I’ll try to stay close if I can, but should we spread too far apart, the phone cable will snap and we’ll lose voice contact.”

“Make it quick. Water is gushing in through some of the severed lines and connections.”

“Acknowledged.”

“See to it you open your exit door and get the hell out fast when you hit the waves,” Sandecker ordered.

“Like geese with diarrhea,” Pitt assured him.

Pitt and Plunkett relaxed for a few seconds, listening to the sound of the cutting discs chewing through the tubing. Then came a heavy lurch followed by a ripping noise, and they began slowly rising from the top of the seamount, leaving the tractor chassis with Big John’s torn cables and melted debris dangling behind them like mechanical entrails.

“On our way!” Plunkett roared.

Pitt’s mouth tightened. “Too slow. The incoming water has lowered our positive buoyancy.”

“You’re in for a long haul,” said Giordino. “I judge your rate of ascent at only ten meters a minute.”

“We’re lugging the engine, reactor, and a ton of water with us. Our volume barely overcomes the excess weight.”

“You should rise a little faster as you near the surface.”

“No good. The water intake will offset the decrease in pressure.”

“No worry over losing the communication cable,” Giordino said happily. “I can easily match your ascent rate.”

“Small consolation,” Pitt muttered under his breath.

“Twenty meters up,” said Plunkett.

“Twenty meters,” Pitt echoed.

Both pairs of eyes locked on the depth reading that flashed on the display screen. Neither man spoke as the minutes crawled past. The twilight world was left behind and the indigo-blue of deep water paled slightly from the approaching filtered light from above. The color green made its first appearance, and then yellow. A small school of tuna greeted them before flashing away. At 150 meters Pitt could begin to make out the dial on his wristwatch.

“You’re slowing,” Giordino warned them. “Your rate of ascent has dropped to seven meters a minute.”

Pitt punched in the water leakage numbers. He didn’t like what he read. “Our flood level is redlined.”