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“I might be hallucinating,” Stanley said, “but I’m sure I saw the remains of a farm tractor in the hold.”
Their attention was interrupted by the hum of the computer as the printout sheets began folding into the basket. The instant the machine stopped, Boland ripped out the paper and began reading aloud.
Data indicates ship probable Liberian freighter, Oceanic Star, 5,135 tons, cargo: rubber and farm machinery; reported missing June 14, 1949.
The men in the detection room stopped what they were doing and stared in mute silence at the paper in Commander Boland’s hand. No one spoke. No one had to.
They had discovered their first victim of the Pacific Vortex.
Boland was the first to react He snatched the mike from its cradle. “Radio room. This is Boland. Open maritime frequency. Send message code sixteen.”
Pitt said “A little premature concerning the bearing failure, aren’t you? We haven’t found the Starbuck yet.”
“True,” Boland admitted briefly. “I’m jumping the gun but I want Admiral Hunter to know exactly where we are, just in case.”
“Expecting trouble?”
“No sense in taking chances.”
“Next contact, bearing two hundred eighty-seven degrees,” the sonar operator droned conversationally.
They returned and waited at the monitors until the sloping deck of a steamer came into view, the stern rising high while the bows were lost in the blue green depths. The camera sled passed over a massive round smokestack and they were able to peer down into its black interior. The middle of the ship was laced with valves and piping, and carried no superstructure, but the stern section rose several decks, sprouting an ugly maze of ventilation tubes. Growth had claimed all the metal parts and even the cables trailing off the masts. Exotically hued fish of every variety were swimming among the rigging, as though the skeleton of the dead ship was their own personal playground.
Boland’s voice repeated the precise figures on the computer display.
Japanese oil tanker, Ishiyo Maru, 8,106 tons, reported missing with all hands, September 14, 1964.
“God,” Stanley murmured. “This place is a veritable cemetery. I’m beginning to feel like a damned grave digger.”
The roll call of the decayed and lifeless ships was repeated six more times in the next hour. Four merchantmen, a large schooner, and an ocean-going trawler were located and identified. The tenseness in the detection room heightened as each new find was scanned and analyzed. And when the final moment came, the moment they had geared their conscious minds for, it curiously caught them all by surprise.
The sonar operator suddenly pressed his earphones tighter against his ears and fixed an intense, unbelieving stare at his instrument panel. “I have a contact with a submarine bearing one hundred ninety degrees,” he said.
“Certain?” Boland demanded.
“Bet my dear mother’s virtue on it. I’ve read subs before, Commander, and this is a big one.”
Boland hit the mike. “Bridge? When I give the word, stop all engines and drop anchor. Fast! Get that?”
“Affirmative, sir,” came the rough-edged voice over the speaker.
“What is the depth?” Pitt asked.
Boland nodded. “Depth?” he ordered.
“Ninety feet.”
Pitt and Boland stared at one another. “Compounds the mystery, wouldn’t you say?” Pitt asked quietly.
“That it does,” Boland answered softly. “If Dupree’s message was fake, why include the correct depth level?”
“Our mastermind probably reasoned that nobody in their right mind would believe a reading of ninety feet. I’m seeing it with my own two eyes and I still don’t believe it.”
“She’s coming into camera range.” Stanley announced. “There . . . there, we have a submarine.”
They stared at the image of a massive black shape lying below the slow-moving keel of the Martha Ann. To Pitt it was like looking down at a model ship in a bathtub. Her length was at least twice that of the conventional nuclear submarine. Instead of the more familiar hemispherical bows, her fore end was formed with a more pointed design. The usual perfect cigar shape was also missing and had been replaced with a a hull that tapered smoothly into a classic swept-back symmetry. Gone too was the great dorsal finlike conning tower of other submarines. In its place sat a smaller rounded hump. Only the control planes on the stern remained the same, as did two bronze propellers rucked neatly under the sleek hull. The submarine looked comfortably serene, like some huge Mesozoic denizen on a late afternoon nap. It was not the way it should have looked, and Pitt could feel his skin start to gooseflesh.
“Away marker,” Boland snapped.
