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So much for the sea-cock theory, he thought.
An icy chill crept up the back of Pitts neck and spread throughout his body, and he realized the batteries operating the heater in his suit were nearly drained. He switched off the light for a moment. The pure blackness nearly smothered him. He flicked it on again and quickly swept the beam around as if he expected to see a specter of the crew reaching out for him. Only there were no specters. Nothing except the dank metal walls and the worn machinery.
He could have sworn he felt the grating shudder as if the engines looming above him were starting up.
Pitt shook his head to purge the phantoms in his mind and methodically began searching the sides of the hull, crawling between pumps and asbestos-covered pipes that led into the darkness and nowhere. He fell down a ladder into six feet of greasy water.
He struggled back up, out of the seeming clutches of the dead and evil [email protected] bilge, his suit now black with oil. Out of breath, he hung there a minute, making a conscious effort to relax.
It was then he noticed an object dimly outlined in the farthest reach of the light beam. A corroded aluminum canister about the size of a five-gallon gas can was wired to a beam welded on the inner hull plates. Pitt had set explosives on marine salvage projects and he quickly recognized the detonator unit attached to the bottom of the canister. An electrical wire trailed upward through the grating to the deck above.
Sweat was pouring from
his body but he was shivering from the cold. He left the explosive charge where he found it and climbed back up the ladder. Then he began inspecting the engines and boilers.
There were no markings anywhere, no manufacturer's name, no inspector's stamped date. Wherever there had been a metal in tag it was removed. Wherever there had been letters or numbers stamped into the metal, they were filed away. After probing endless nooks and crannies around the machinery, he got lucky when he felt a small protrusion through his gloved hand. It was a small metal plate partially hidden by grease under one of the boilers.
He rubbed away the grime and aimed the light on the indented surface. It read: PRESSURE 220 ' psi.
TEMPERATURE 4500 F.
HEATING SURFACE 5,017 se. it.
MANUFACTURED BY THE ALHAMBRA MON AND BOMER COMPANY CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA SER. #38874
Pitt memorized the serial number and then made his way back to where he started. He wearily sank to the deck and tried to rest while suffering from the cold.
Dover returned in a little under an hour, carrying an explosive canister under one arm, as indifferently as if it were a jumbo can of peaches. Cursing fluently and often as he slipped on the oily deck, he stopped and sat down heavily next to Pitt.
"There's four more between here and the forepeak," Dover said tiredly.
"I found another one about forty feet aft," Pitt replied.
"Wonder why they didn't go off."
"The timer must have screwed up."
"Timer?"
"The crew had to jump ship before the bottom was blown out.
Trace the wires leading from the canisters and you'll find they all meet at a timing device hidden somewhere on the deck above.
When the crew realized something was wrong, it must have been too late to reboard the ship."
"Or they were too scared it would go up in their faces."
"There's that," Pitt agreed.
"So the old Pilottown began her legendary drift. A deserted ship in an empty sea."
"How is a ship officially identified?"
"What's on your mind?"
"Just curious."
Dover accepted that and stared up at the shadows of the engines.
