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Baldwin's shoulder sagged as he stared vacantly at the deck. "Then all we can do is survive as long as possible."
First Officer Conrad handed Pitt a phone. "Mr. Giordino is calling from the surface."
Pitt held the receiver to his ear. "Al?"
"I'm here on the Coast Guard cutter," the familiar voice crackled back.
"How was the ride to the surface?"
"I'm not used to an army of screaming infants. My eardrums are blasted out."
"Did it go well?" Pitt asked.
"All kids and mothers safe and sound. They were taken aboard a coastal cargo carrier that had better facilities than the cutter. They're on their way to the nearest port. I can tell you the women weren't happy about leaving their husbands behind. I got more dirty looks than a rattlesnake in an ice-cream parlor."
"Any word on when the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle will arrive?"
"The word here is thirty-six hours," replied Giordino. "How are things down where you are?"
"Not good. Our friend Kanai was on board and jammed the escape hatch shut before he left."
Giordino did not immediately reply. Then he asked, "How bad?"
"It's jammed solid. O'Malley says there is no way of forcing it open without flooding half the ship."
Giordino could not find it in his mind to believe all was lost for those souls still on the Golden Marlin. "You're quite certain?"
"Dead certain."
"We won't throw in the towel at this end," Giordino promised decisively. "I'll call Yaeger and have him put Max on the problem. There has to be a way to get you up here."
Pitt could sense the emotion building in Giordino. He thought it best to let it rest for the moment. "Keep in touch," he said facetiously, "but don't call collect."
The crew and passengers on board the dead submarine cruise liner had no knowledge of the hurricane that was brewing over their heads. After inundating newspaper and television networks with a weeklong barrage of stories on the Emerald Dolphin tragedy, they returned like a tidal wave to cover the sinking of the Golden Marlin and the race against time to save those trapped on board the submarine. Celebrities and politicians also put in appearances.
Boatloads of cameramen appeared as if by magic, along with a horde of reporters in light aircraft and helicopters. Less than two days after the submarine cruise liner had slipped onto the sea bottom, a fleet of ships and boats numbering close to a hundred drifted over the site. In time all but the ones holding accredited journalists were chased away by the Coast Guard.
The fire aboard the cruise liner had been in a remote area of the Pacific Ocean. Not so, this story. The sinking happened only ninety-seven miles off the coast of Florida. Every angle was hyped. Excitement built to a fever pitch as the hours passed and the end came closer for those deep below the surface. By the third day, the media circus went into high gear in readiness for the final chapter.
They tried every bit of ingenious scheming to make contact with anyone on the sunken boat. Some tried to tap into the phone line attached to the buoy, but the Coast Guard would have none of it. Shots were actually fired across the bows of the news media boats to keep them out of the way of those working frantically to save the 617 people left on board.
Wives and children who'd survived in the pod were interviewed relentlessly. Reporters tried to reach Giordino, but he'd gone on board the NUMA survey ship when it arrived and refused to have any contact with them. He immediately worked with the crew to send down an ROV named the Sea Scout that was a sister vehicle to the Sea Sleuth, to investigate and inspect the Golden Marlin from the exterior of the hull.
As he sat and guided the ROV with a remote control in his lap, the hopeless despair came home as he hovered over the escape hatch on the top of the hull. The images on the video monitor only confirmed what Pitt had told him. The hatch was irreparably jammed closed. Nothing short of explosives or a cutting torch could tear it off, and then only to allow the sea to pour through the opening before any survivors could pass through it. Making a seal with the rescue vehicle was impossible. There was no other way for those on the other side of the hull to escape.
The next morning the naval support ship carrying the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle arrived. Giordino moved his operation over to the Alfred Aultman, whose crew lost no time in readying the Rescue Vehicle for its descent to the sunken boat. The captain of the ship, Lieutenant Commander Mike Turner, greeted Giordino as he came aboard.
"Welcome to the Aultman" said Turner, shaking Giordino's hand. "The Navy is always happy to work with NUMA."
Most Navy ship commanders have a guarded look about them, as if they had bought and paid for their ship out of their own pocket and treated it as a haven for select guests. Turner wore a friendly expression, and his manner reflected deep intelligence. He gazed at the world through hazel eyes under a thinning head of blond hair with a widow's peak.
"I only wish it was under less tragic circumstances," replied Giordino.
"It is that," Turner admitted seriously. "I'll have one of my officers show you to your quarters. Would you like something to eat? We won't be launching the Mercury for another hour."
"I hope you'll give me permission to go along if I don't take up needed space."
Turner smiled. "We have room for twenty bodies. You won't be crowding us one bit."
