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Pitt looked up at Boland. “Ask him for the color of the sea.”
“Bridge. Any change in the color of the sea?”
There was a brief hesitation. “It’s turning more of a green, sir, about five hundred yards off the port bow.”
“Eight hundred and still rising,” Stanley said.
“The plot thickens,” Pitt said. “I expected a lighter blue as the summit neared the surface. Green indicates underwater vegetation. Mighty strange for sea plants to grow around here.”
“Seaweed doesn’t take kindly to coral?” Boland said questioningly.
“That, and the warmer temperatures common to this part of the ocean,”
“I’ve got a solid reading on the magnetometer.” This from a blond, curly haired man. at a console.
“Where?” Boland demanded.
“Two hundred yards, bearing two hundred eighty degrees.”
“Might be paydirt,” Boland said elatedly.
“A second reading three hundred yards, bearing three hundred fifteen degrees. Another two contacts. God, they’re all around us.”
“Sounds like a bonanza,” Pitt grinned.
“Stop all engines,” Boland yelled into the intercom.
“The bottom contour is jumping off the readout sheet,” Stanley said excitedly. “Four hundred fifty feet and she hasn’t stopped yet.”
Pitt peered at the TV monitors. Nothing showed on the screens yet, and nothing would, with visibility limited to a hundred feet. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his neck and face. He found himself wondering why he was sweating. The detection room was fully air-conditioned. He shoved the now damp handkerchief carelessly back into his pocket and aimed his eyes at the monitors.
The microphone was still in Boland’s hand. He lifted it to his lips and Pitt could hear his voice echoing through the ship. “This is Boland. We’ve made a touchdown on the first pass. All indications are that we’re over the graveyard of the Pacific Vortex. I want every man on full alert. We have no picture of the danger here, so we don’t want to get caught with our defenses down. As a point of interest, we may well be the only ship on record ever to reach these waters in one piece.”
Pitt’s eyes never left the monitors. The bottom began showing as the momentum of the Martha Ann carried 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 f
ish 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.
