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Pitt nodded and pressed a button. The door slipped open into a hidden slot, and in less than a minute one of the articulated robotic arms on the submersible connected a cable.
"Am I coming through?" Giordino's voice burst clearly over the speakers.
"You don't know how good it is to hear your voice, pal," answered Pitt.
"Sorry we're late. The other submersible swamped and sank on the surface. This one shorted its batteries and we lost time in repairs."
"All is forgiven. Good to see you, Admiral. I didn't expect your honored presence down here."
"Cut the apple-polishing," Sandecker boomed. "What's your status?"
"We have a leak that will close down our power source within forty or fifty minutes. Beyond that we're in good shape."
"Then we'd better get busy."
With no more wasted conversation, Giordino maneuvered the submersible until its bow was on the same level and facing the lower broadside of the DSMV. Then he engaged the manipulator arms mounted on the front below the control sphere. They were much smaller than the arm system on Big John and more intricate.
The sub's modular arms were designed to accommodate several types of hand mechanisms and operate them hydraulically. The left hand was attached to the arm by a rotating wrist, which in turn was connected to three fingers with sensors in their tips that could identify any material from wood and steel to plastic, cotton, and silk. Under the operator's delicate touch, enhanced by a computer sensory system, the fingers could dexterously thread a small needle and tat lace or, if the occasion demanded, crush rock.
Smoothly the robotic arm unraveled a hose running from a small tank to a large rod with a hole running through its center core.
The right arm's wrist was fitted with a series of four circular metal-cutting discs. Each disc was serrated with a different edge and could be interchanged depending on the hardness of the material it was slicing.
Pitt peered at the left-hand assembly curiously. "I knew the discs were stored on board the submersible, but where did you find the oxygen cutting equipment?"
"I borrowed it from a passing submarine," Giordino answered without elaboration.
"Logical." There was a tired acceptance in Pitt's voice, unsure whether his friend was stroking him.
"Beginning separation," said Giordino.
"While you're cutting us free I'll pump up our air volume by a couple of atmospheres to compensate for the extra weight from the leakage flow."
"Sound idea," agreed Sandecker. "You'll need all the buoyancy you can build. But mind your pressure safety limits or you'll run into decompression problems."
"Decompression schedules will be monitored by our computer," Pitt assured him. "Neither Dr.
Plunkett nor I look forward to a case of the bends
As Pitt began pumping compressed air into the control and engine compartments, Giordino jockeyed the submersible so that both arm and hand manipulators could operate independently. The hand with the three articulated fingers positioned the fat welding rod against a bolt that ran through a mounting brace.
The rod held a positive charge while the DSMV was negative. A bright arc suddenly flared when contact was made between the rod and bolt. As the metal glowed and melted, oxygen spurted through the hole in the rod, dispersing the buildup.
"Arc gouging," Pitt explained to Plunkett. "They're going to sever all mounts, drive shafts, and electrical connections until the control housing breaks free of the main frame and track mechanism."
Plunkett nodded in understanding as Giordino extended the other arm until a spray of sparks signaled the cutting discs were attacking their target. "So that's the ticket. We float to the surface as pretty as an emptied bottle of Veuve Cliquot-Ponsardin Gold Label champagne."
"Or a drained bottle of Coors beer."
"First pub we hit, Mr. Pitt, the drinks are on me
"Thank you, Dr. Plunkett. I accept, providing we have enough buoyancy to take us up."
"Blow the guts out of her," Plunkett demanded recklessly. "I'd rather risk the bends than certain drowning."
Pitt did not agree. The excruciating agony divers had suffered over the centuries from the bends went far beyond man-inflicted torture. Death was a relief, and survival often left a deformed body racked with pain that never faded. He kept a steady eye on the digital reading as the red numbers crept up to three atmospheres, the pressure at roughly twenty meters. At that depth their bodies could safely endure the increased pressure squeeze, he estimated, in the short time remaining before nitrogen gas began forming in their blood.
Twenty-five minutes later, he was about to rethink his estimate when a growing creaking noise reverberated inside the compartment. Then came a deep grinding that was magnified by the density of the water.
