Part 19 (2/2)

”A survivor of the Starbuck's crew,” Pitt answered. ”We've got to get him topside. He needs medical attention in the worst way.”

If the seaman was surprised at meeting someone who should have been dead for months, he didn't show it. Instead, he simply nodded at Pitt's gashed and bleeding leg. ”Looks like you could use some of that yourself.”

The leg had lost all feeling. Pitt was thankful there was no telltale lump that betrayed a fracture. ”I'll survive.” He turned back to the helmsman. ”Flood this compartment!”

”You win,” the helmsman said mechanically. ”But only under protest ...”

”Protest it is,” Pitt said impatiently. ”Can you do it?”

”No matter what we did, a good salvage crew could blow her out inside of two days. The escape hatch in this compartment is the only way anyone could get in from the outside, so that's some help as long as the sub's power supply can't be reached. Best solution would be to jam the emergency valves closed to prevent blowing and jam the torpedo tubes open to keep the sea coming in. Then disconnect the extraction pumps in case whoever tries to clear the compartment plugs in an outside power source. Probably take them a day and a half to figure out what we've done, and then three or four hours to put everything back in order and pump out and pressurize the compartment.”

”Then I suggest you start by securing the door to the engine room.”

”There is another way to add a few extra hours,” the helmsman said slowly.

”Which is?”

”Shut down the reactors.”

”No,” Pitt said firmly. ”When we're ready, we won't be in a position to afford the luxury of reactor start-up time.”

The helmsman looked at Pitt without expression. ”G.o.d help us if you screw up.” He turried to the other seaman. ”Disconnect the pumps and tnrpw open the inner torpedo tube doors. I'll handle the vents and the exterior tube doors from the outside.” He faced Pitt. ”Okay, Pitt, the evil deed is about to be done. But if you're wrong, we'll be the oldest men in Uncle Sam's Navy before we're through paying for this.”

Pitt grinned. ”With a little luck, you may even get a medal.”

The helmsman offered a sour expression. 1 doubt that, sir. I'doubt that very much.”

Boland knew how to pick his men. The two salvage men went about their business as calmly and efficiently as if they were mechanics in the pits at the Indianapolis Speedway on Memorial Day. Everything went off smoothly. The helmsman went out through the escape hatch to open the outer torpedo tube doors and jam the exhaust vents, and it seemed to Pitt that he had barely wrapped his leg with a torn piece of blanket from an empty bunk when the helmsman was giving the prearranged all-finished tapping signal on the hatch. Then Pitt hauled Farris up into the escape tube while the other seaman began opening the valves to let the sea into the lower compartment. When the incoming water had reached equal pressure with only an air bubble two feet from the ceiling, he dove down and unclamped the torpedo tube doors. He was amusingly surprised to see a blue parrot fish swim nonchalantly out of the tube and into the compartment.

Pitt had to force Farris to don the air tank and regulator, and he slipped the face mask over the uncomprehending eyes.

Til see that he makes it, sir.” The seaman had squeezed next to Farris and held him in a vicelike grip around the waist.

Pitt, grateful to be rid of the responsibility, merely nodded a thanks and donned his own diving gear, subst.i.tuting a fresh air tank for the one he'd drained on the descent. Then the seaman tapped on the hatch with the b.u.t.t end of a knife and let the helmsman have the honor of cracking the cover from the outside.

In theory, they could have all ridden to the surface in the air bubble as it escaped from the submarine, but theory doesn't always allow for the unexpected, like Pitt's air valve getting hung up on the lip of the escape hatch and being left behind. For a minute he was poised there, watching helplessly as the others shot to the surface, never once noticing that Pitt had missed their bubblelike elevator.

Pus.h.i.+ng his weight downward until the valve came free was relatively easy, but when he swam out into the open sea, another unexpected threat came his way: a Sphyrna Levini, eighteen feet of hammerhead shark. For a moment Pitt thought the great gray two-thousand-pound bulk, one of the few species of sharks known to attack humans, was going to ignore him and pa.s.s overhead. But then in an unerased moment in time, he watched the broad, flattened head turn and approach, its mouth a ma.s.s of razor-sharp teeth curved into a vicious expression.

Pitt's Barf was lying useless, back on the submarine; his only weapon, and a pitifully inadequate one at that, was the small, glove-shaped gun that had killed March. As the shark was homing in on the blood clouded around his leg, Pitt stared spellbound at the shark as it swam effortlessly toward him, curving slightly in a circle staring at him from one great eye on the end of the hammer.

It cut its arc even smaller, narrowing the gap until it brushed by him only a few inches away; Pitt lashed out with his left hand and rammed his fist against the monster's gills. What a useless, almost comical gesture, he thought, but the unexpected contact surprised the shark, and Pitt felt the pressure of water as the shark spun and swam away. But then it made a U-turn and came back. Pitt kept facing it, kept kicking his fins frantically. He stole a look at the surface, no more than thirty feet away, but he wasn't going to make it; the man-eater was on its second pa.s.s and Pitt was down to his last ace.

Pitt held out the gun and carefully aimed; the shark had but to open its mouth and Pitt's hand would be clenched between its teeth. As the creature moved in, Pitt squeezed the b.u.t.ton trigger and shot it squarely in the cold, tranquil left eye.

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