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“Marker?” Pitt questioned.
“A low frequency electronic beeper,” Boland answered. “In case we’re forced to leave the area, we have a waterproof transmitter sitting on the seabed giving out periodic signals. That way we can pinpoint the position without a search when we return.”
“Our bows have just cleared the wreck, Commander.” This from the sonar operator.
Boland bellowed into the intercom mike. “All engines stop. Away anchor.” He swung and faced Pitt. “Did you get a look at its number?”
“Nine-eight-nine,” Pitt said tersely.
“That’s her, the Starbuck,” Boland said reverently. “I never really thought I’d lay eyes on her.”
“Or what’s left of her,” Stanley added, his face suddenly pale. “Just thinking about those poor bastards entombed down there is enough to make your skin crawl.”
“It does give you a queer feeling deep down in your gut,” Boland agreed.
“Your gut feeling isn’t the only thing that’s queer,” Pitt said evenly. “Take a closer look.”
The Martha Ann was pivoting around the anchor now, and her stern, ur
ged by the diminishing momentum, slowly swung on an arc away from the sunken submarine. Boland waited a moment until the TV cameras were angled to keep the Starbuck in viewing range. When the subject centered in the middle of the frame, the lenses locked in place and automatically zoomed in for closer inspection.
“She’s lying there in the bottom sand as real and tangible as she can be,” Boland murmured slowly as he gazed into the screens. “The bow isn’t buried as suggested by Dupree’s report. But other than that, I see nothing unusual.”
Pitt said “A Sherlock Holmes you ain’t. Nothing unusual, you say?”
“No damage is evident on the bows,” Boland said slowly. “But she could have been holed beneath the hull which won’t show until she’s raised. Nothing odd about that.”
“It takes a pretty fair explosion to make a hole big enough to sink a ship the size of the Starbuck in only ninety feet of water,” Pitt said. “At a thousand feet in depth, a hairline crack would do it. But on the surface, she could handle anything less than a large gash. Add to that, an explosion would leave debris scattered around; nothing detonates cleanly without leaving a mess. As you can see, there isn’t so much as a rivet lying in the sand. Which brings us to the next startling conclusion. Where in hell did the sand come from? We roamed miles of this seamount and saw nothing except jagged rocks and vegetation. Yet there sits your submarine in the neatest little sand patch you ever saw.”
“Could be a coincidence,” Boland persisted quietly.
“That Dupree laid his dying submarine on the only soft landing spot within miles? Extremely doubtful. Now we come to the tough one. An observation that can’t be so easily explained.” Pitt leaned closer to the monitor screens. “The remains of sunken ships are most instructive. To a marine biologist they’re the perfect laboratory. If the date of the ship’s demise is recorded, it’s possible for the scientist to establish the growth rate of different types of sealife on the wreck. Please note that the exterior hull of the Starbuck is as clean and scrubbed as the day she was launched.”
Every man in the detection room turned again from his instruments and peered at the monitors. Boland and Stanley just stood there and peered at Pitt. They didn’t have to study the monitors to know he was right.
“It would seem,” Pitt said, “at least from outward appearances, that the Starbuck sank no more than yesterday.”
Boland wearily rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Let’s go topside,” he said, “and discuss this in the fresh air.”
Upon the port wing of the bridge Boland turned and gazed out over the sea. Another two hours and it would be sunset and already the blue of the water was beginning to darken as the sun struck the waves on an oblique angle. He was tired, and his words when he spoke, were low and spaced apart.
“Our orders were to find the Starbuck. We’ve accomplished the first step in our mission. Now comes the job of raising her to the surface. I want you to fly back to Honolulu for the salvage crew.”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Pitt said quietly. “We’re not out of the woods yet. It’ll be dark soon. And that was when the Starbuck vanished.”
“There’s no reason for panic. The Martha Ann has enough detection equipment to spot danger from any direction, from any distance.”
“You carry only hand guns,” Pitt came back. “What good is detection if you have no defense? You may have found the graveyard of the Vortex, but you don’t have the vaguest idea of who or what caused the wrecks.”
If the devil and his fleet of ghosts haven’t made an appearance by now,” Boland persisted, “they’re not going to.”
“You said it yourself, Paul. You’re responsible for this ship and its crew. Once I lift off, you can kiss your last avenue of escape good-bye.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” Boland said evenly. “What do you have in mind?”
“You’ve damned well guessed the answer to that,” Pitt said impatiently. “We dive on the submarine. Instruments and TV cameras can only tell us so much. A firsthand eyeball inspection is imperative. It’ll be dark soon and if there’s something rotten in Denmark, we’ve got to find out damned quick.”
Boland casually gazed at the lowering sun. “Not much time.”
