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Crowhaven’s eyes narrowed. “You’re putting me on. That’s a commercial frequency. I could get my tail in a sling with the Federal Communications Commission if I transmitted over twelve hundred fifty.”
“Very likely,” Pitt agreed wearily. “But Delphi’s got a monitoring system that won’t quit. He’s already invaded our preplanned frequency. Twelve-fifty is your only chance of getting through. Well worry about where the chips fall if we’re lucky enough to enjoy the next sunrise.”
Pitt pulled on his fins and checked his breathing regulator. Then he leaned out the open hatch and peered into the blackness. The swells were washing across the leading edge of the wings as the plane took on a slight nose downward attitude. He turned to Giordino.
“Ready with your magic box?”
Giordino held up the signal detector.
“Shall we?”
“Yes, let’s.”
“Go find us a submarine,” Pitt said, nodding out the hatch.
Giordino sat with his back facing the water for a moment while he adjusted his mouthpiece. Then he threw a jaunty wave to Pitt and disappeared backward into the sea.
Silently, one by one, five SEAL’s and Crowhaven followed by his men, splashed into the darkness outside the aircraft. Each went through the door grim-faced. Pitt glanced below him and observed the underwater dive lights blinking on and wavering into the distance as each man aimed his beam on the man ahead and began swimming downward into the depths.
Pitt was the last to leave. He took one last look around the interior of the aircraft, and, like a man leaving the house for a weekend vacation, he dutifully opened the cover to the cabin circuit box and switched off the lights.
The dark, tepid Pacific water closed over Pitt’s head; he momentarily allowed his body to go limp in the weightless dimension of the sea. The circular beam from his dive light illuminated the diver twenty feet below, who was looking over his shoulder to see if Pitt was trailing his kicking fins. It suddenly occurred to Pitt that being last man in line might be dangerous. The suffocating blackness plunged him into a profound sense of anxiety; he was certain that every type of predator imaginable was sneaking into position for a quick bite of his legs. Every few seconds he spun around, flashing the light in all directions, but met no monsters of the night. The only odd-looking creature in his field of vision was his fellow human swimming unconcerned below.
Pitt’s apprehension eased somewhat when the bottom loomed up through his face mask-for all he knew he might have been swimming upside down. The rocks took on morbid shapes with ghostlike faces, but they seemed like old friends when he reached down and touched their coarse, solid features. A nervous squid, the first sign of sealife, dashed across his narrow angle of sight and vanished. Then the rock formations tapered away and the seafloor became sandy; Pitt’s adrenaline surged through his body as a huge black shape rose up under the swaying concert of light beams.
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The Starbuck lay just as he’d left her, looking like a great spectral monster in the blackness. Kicking his fins, Pitt swam past the Navy men to the head of the line and, grasping Giordino by the arm, peered into his friend’s face mask. The face inside was softly distorted by the dive light but Giordino’s eyes were bright and, in spite of the mouthpiece, his grin was clear and distinct as he gave a “thumbs up” sign.
Pitt wrote some words on his message board, motioned to Crowhaven, and held it up.
THIS IS WHERE WE GET OFF. SHE’S ALL YOURS.
Crowhaven nodded, his blond hair drifting in loose strands. He quickly began distributing his men: four submariners and one SEAL were to enter through the flooded forward torpedo compartment and close the vents and valves left open by the Martha Anns divers. The rest of the men were to drop through the aft escape chamber into the dry section of the submarine and make their way to the control room.
The submariners’ fear had left them now. The time had come for them to rely on their own skills and experience. The men forward entered in one group, but the crew aft had to divide into three shifts due to the chamber’s compact interior. Pitt closed the hatch after the last five men dropped into the sub and waited until he felt the surge from the exhaust vents as the water was expelled from inside the escape compartment Then he pounded the butt of his knife against the hull three times. Almost immediately three muffled knocks came from inside, signaling no problems so far. Pitt swam along the narrow top deck to the bow where he repeated his poundings. The reply came back much slower this time with more of a muted sound due to the acoustics of the flooded torpedo room. Pitt wrote again on the board.
ENTRANCE AROUND SOMEWHERE. 18 MINUTES.
Giordino understood. Eighteen minutes of air; that’s all the time they would have to search for the entrance to the seamount. Pitt tapped him on the shoulder and darted off to the right. Giordino followed Pitt’s slithering form as they silently glided over the eerie seascape, bound together by the fragile glow of their lights. They didn’t bother memorizing landmarks; instead they placed their trust in the compass strapped to Pitt’s left wrist as the only means of rediscovering the Starbuck before their air ran out.
Their first encounter was with another victim of the Vortex, slowly materializing in the twin shafts of their lights. The plates on the side of the hull were smooth and clean, and there was no sign of weed growth; it was a fresh wreck. Pitt was at a loss; he had studied the list of missing ships and except for the Starbuck, no new disappearance had been reported in the last six months. How could a ship this size vanish without being reported overdue in port?
She was sitting upright as though she were still floating on the surface, refusing to concede her fate. They swam past the deserted decks and saw that she had once been a trawler, a large one. A pity, Pitt thought She was certainly a fine ship. The bulwarks gleamed and the superstructure fairly bristled with the latest design in electronic scanners and antennae.
So far, there was no sign of Delphi’s men, but just to be on the safe side, Pitt gestured for Giordino to stand watch while he searched the bridge. Giordino waved a hand in acknowledgment, stationing himself at a bulkhead below the starboard bridge wing where he switched off his light and instantly melted into the black depths.
Pitt snaked through the open door of the wheel-house and into its ominous, cryptlike interior. He shined his light about, rooted to the spot by the strange surroundings. His eye caught an ugly transparent snake that wiggled across the ceiling and dissolved into an open vent, then another long reptilian form that slithered into a ceiling corner and then slowly meandered into the vent. The snakes were streams of his own exhaust bubbles that had risen to the top of the cabin before discovering an escape route to the surface.
Pitt didn’t know what he expected to discover in the ship, but what he found gave him nightmares for many years to come. The charts, folding back and forth from the current, lay on the table, still firm to the touch as though they had been immersed just the day before. The spokes of the wheel were thrown out in a pathetic circle of despair, as if knowing that no hands would ever grip their contour again. The brass on the binnacle gleamed in the faint light and the compass needle still faithfully pointed toward some forgotten course, while the arrows on the telegraph were settled forever on the ALL STOP position. Pitt bent closer; something was out of order. The letters beneath the signal lever weren’t printed in English. He studied them intently for a moment and then swam back to the binnacle, aiming his light at the nameplate screwed flush above the compass opening. His knowledge of the Russian language consisted of less than twenty words, but he could make out enough of the backward alphabet to decipher the ship’s name: ANDREI VYBORG.
So the Russian spy trawler had found the Starbuck, Pitt reflected. Only to die and rest beside her, courtesy of Delphi and his pirates. Pitt didn’t have time to reflect further. Just then something touched him on the back of his shoulder. Pitt spun around, beaming his light into the face of a man.
It was a face that was frighteningly unnatural and twisted with an ungodly expression. The white blur of teeth shone through a mouth that was agape, and he stared unblinkingly out of one eye; the other eye was hidden by a small crab that had eaten itself halfway into the socket. The man swayed and motioned like a drunken scarecrow, his arms lifting and falling as if beckoning under the silent, unrelenting force of the current. The terrifying wraith hovered four feet from the deck and moved against Pitt who was rooted to the spot, frozen immobile at the sight Pitt savagely shoved the dead body away, watching it float toward the inner doorway of the wheelhouse where it dissolved into the curtain of black beyond.
There was nothing more to be seen or accomplished on the Soviet trawler. It was time to get the hell out; there were only a few minutes left before he and Giordino would be on their reserve air.
Giordino was still standing his vigil under the bridge wing when he heard the sound waves off in the distance. He swam up to the wheelhouse and motioned for Pitt, who was just exiting, to douse his light Pitt complied; they both crouched below the port window, listening to the approaching whirr of an electric motor several seconds before the dim glow of a light came into view.
