Abduction (6 page)
Authors: Robin Cook
Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Onbekend, #Unabridged Audio - Fiction, #Suspense & Thriller
Suzanne started to respond but changed her mind. She'd never been able to make a dent in Donald's
rigid opinions about fiction in particular and art in general. "I don't mean to be a pest," Perry said, "but I--" Perry never got out the last part of his sentence. All at once the submersible's descent accelerated markedly and Donald cried out, "Christ almighty!" Perry gripped the sides of his seat with white-knuckle intensity. The rapid increase in downward motion scared him, but not as much as Donald's uncharacteristic outburst. If the imperturbable Donald Fuller was upset, the situation must be critical. "Jettisoning weights!" Donald called out. The descent immediately slowed, then stopped. Donald released more weight and the sub began to rise. Then he used the port-side thruster to maintain orientation with the long axis of the pit. The last thing he wanted was to hit up against the walls. "What the hell happened?" Perry demanded when he could find his voice. "We lost buoyancy," Suzanne reported.
"We suddenly got heavier or the water got lighter," Donald said as he scanned the instrumentation. "What does that mean?" Perry demanded.
"Since we obviously didn't get heavier, the water indeed got lighter," Donald said. He pointed to the temperature gauge. "We passed through the temperature gradient we suspected, and it was a lot more than we bargained for--in the opposite direction. The outside temperature rose almost a hundred degrees Fahrenheit!"
"Let's get the hell out of here!" Perry cried. "We're on our way," Donald said tersely. He snapped the UQC mike from its housing and tried to raise the
Benthic Explorer.
When he had no luck, he returned the mike to its cradle. "Sound waves don't come in here and they don't go out either." "What is this, some sort of sonar black hole?" Perry asked irritably. "The echo sounder is giving us a reading now," Suzanne said. "But it can't be true! It says this pit is over thirty thousand feet deep!"
"Now why would that be malfunctioning?" Donald asked himself. He gave the instrument an even harder rap with his knuckles. The digital readout stayed at 30,418. "Let's forget the echo sounder," Perry said. "Can't we get out of here faster?" The
Oceanus
was rising, but very slowly.
"I've never had trouble with this echo sounder before," Donald said. "Maybe this pit could have been some kind of magma pipe," Suzanne said. "It's obviously deep, even though we don't know how deep, and the water is hot. That suggests contact with lava." She bent forward to look out the view port.
rigid opinions about fiction in particular and art in general. "I don't mean to be a pest," Perry said, "but I--" Perry never got out the last part of his sentence. All at once the submersible's descent accelerated markedly and Donald cried out, "Christ almighty!" Perry gripped the sides of his seat with white-knuckle intensity. The rapid increase in downward motion scared him, but not as much as Donald's uncharacteristic outburst. If the imperturbable Donald Fuller was upset, the situation must be critical. "Jettisoning weights!" Donald called out. The descent immediately slowed, then stopped. Donald released more weight and the sub began to rise. Then he used the port-side thruster to maintain orientation with the long axis of the pit. The last thing he wanted was to hit up against the walls. "What the hell happened?" Perry demanded when he could find his voice. "We lost buoyancy," Suzanne reported.
"We suddenly got heavier or the water got lighter," Donald said as he scanned the instrumentation. "What does that mean?" Perry demanded.
"Since we obviously didn't get heavier, the water indeed got lighter," Donald said. He pointed to the temperature gauge. "We passed through the temperature gradient we suspected, and it was a lot more than we bargained for--in the opposite direction. The outside temperature rose almost a hundred degrees Fahrenheit!"
"Let's get the hell out of here!" Perry cried. "We're on our way," Donald said tersely. He snapped the UQC mike from its housing and tried to raise the
Benthic Explorer.
When he had no luck, he returned the mike to its cradle. "Sound waves don't come in here and they don't go out either." "What is this, some sort of sonar black hole?" Perry asked irritably. "The echo sounder is giving us a reading now," Suzanne said. "But it can't be true! It says this pit is over thirty thousand feet deep!"
"Now why would that be malfunctioning?" Donald asked himself. He gave the instrument an even harder rap with his knuckles. The digital readout stayed at 30,418. "Let's forget the echo sounder," Perry said. "Can't we get out of here faster?" The
Oceanus
was rising, but very slowly.
"I've never had trouble with this echo sounder before," Donald said. "Maybe this pit could have been some kind of magma pipe," Suzanne said. "It's obviously deep, even though we don't know how deep, and the water is hot. That suggests contact with lava." She bent forward to look out the view port.
"Could we at least turn off the music?" Perry said. It was reaching a crescendo that only added to his
anxiety.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Suzanne exclaimed. "Look at the walls at this level! The basalt is oriented transversely. I've never heard of a transverse dike. And look! It has a greenish cast to it. Maybe it's gabbro, not basalt."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to pull rank here," Perry snapped with uncamouflaged exasperation. He'd had it with being ignored. "I want to be taken up to the surface,
pronto
!" Suzanne swung around to respond but only managed to open her mouth. Before she could form any words a powerful, low-frequency vibration shook the submersible. She had to grab the side of her seat to keep from falling. The sudden quake sent loose objects flying to the floor. A coffee mug hit and shattered; the shards skittered across the floor along with pens that had fallen. At the same time, there was a low-pitched rumbling that sounded like distant thunder. The rattling lasted for almost a minute. No one spoke although an involuntary squeak escaped from Perry's lips as the blood drained from his face. "What on earth was that?" Donald demanded. He rapidly scanned the instruments. "I'm not sure," Suzanne said, "but if I had to guess, I'd say it was an earthquake. There's a lot of them up and down the Mid-Atlantic Ridge."
"An earthquake!" Perry blurted.
"Maybe this old volcano is awakening," Suzanne said. "Wouldn't that be a trip if we got to witness it!" "Uh-oh!" Donald said. "Something is wrong!" "What's the problem?" Suzanne asked. Like Donald her eyes made a quick circuit of the dials, gauges, and screens in her direct line of sight. These were the important instruments for operating the submersible. Nothing seemed amiss.
"The echo sounder!" Donald said with uncharacteristic urgency. Suzanne's eyes darted down to the digital readout located close to the floor between the two pilot seats. It was decreasing at an alarming rate.
"What's happening?" she asked. "Do you think lava is rising in the shaft?" "No!" Donald cried. "It's us. We're sinking, and I've jettisoned all the descent weights. We've lost our buoyancy!"
"But the pressure gauge!" Suzanne yelled. "It's not rising. How can we be sinking?" "It mustn't be working," Donald said frantically. "There's no doubt we're sinking. Just look out the damn view port!"
Suzanne's eyes darted to the window. It was true. They were sinking. The smooth rock face was
anxiety.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Suzanne exclaimed. "Look at the walls at this level! The basalt is oriented transversely. I've never heard of a transverse dike. And look! It has a greenish cast to it. Maybe it's gabbro, not basalt."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to pull rank here," Perry snapped with uncamouflaged exasperation. He'd had it with being ignored. "I want to be taken up to the surface,
pronto
!" Suzanne swung around to respond but only managed to open her mouth. Before she could form any words a powerful, low-frequency vibration shook the submersible. She had to grab the side of her seat to keep from falling. The sudden quake sent loose objects flying to the floor. A coffee mug hit and shattered; the shards skittered across the floor along with pens that had fallen. At the same time, there was a low-pitched rumbling that sounded like distant thunder. The rattling lasted for almost a minute. No one spoke although an involuntary squeak escaped from Perry's lips as the blood drained from his face. "What on earth was that?" Donald demanded. He rapidly scanned the instruments. "I'm not sure," Suzanne said, "but if I had to guess, I'd say it was an earthquake. There's a lot of them up and down the Mid-Atlantic Ridge."
"An earthquake!" Perry blurted.
"Maybe this old volcano is awakening," Suzanne said. "Wouldn't that be a trip if we got to witness it!" "Uh-oh!" Donald said. "Something is wrong!" "What's the problem?" Suzanne asked. Like Donald her eyes made a quick circuit of the dials, gauges, and screens in her direct line of sight. These were the important instruments for operating the submersible. Nothing seemed amiss.
"The echo sounder!" Donald said with uncharacteristic urgency. Suzanne's eyes darted down to the digital readout located close to the floor between the two pilot seats. It was decreasing at an alarming rate.
"What's happening?" she asked. "Do you think lava is rising in the shaft?" "No!" Donald cried. "It's us. We're sinking, and I've jettisoned all the descent weights. We've lost our buoyancy!"
"But the pressure gauge!" Suzanne yelled. "It's not rising. How can we be sinking?" "It mustn't be working," Donald said frantically. "There's no doubt we're sinking. Just look out the damn view port!"
Suzanne's eyes darted to the window. It was true. They were sinking. The smooth rock face was
moving rapidly upward.
"I'm blowing the ballast tanks," Donald barked. "At this depth there won't be much effect, but there's no choice."
The sound of compressed air being released drowned out Stravinsky's
Rite of Spring
but only for twenty seconds. At such a pressure the compressed air tanks were quickly exhausted. The descent was not affected.
"Do something!" Perry yelled when he could find his voice. "I can't," Donald yelled. "There's no response to the controls. There's nothing left to try." CHAPTER FIVE
Mark Davidson was dying for a cigarette. His addiction was absolute, although he found giving them up was easy since he did it once a week. His craving was maximum when he was relaxing, working, or anxious, and at the moment, he was very anxious indeed. For him, deep diving operations were always a walk on the wild side; from experience he knew how quickly things could go horribly wrong. He looked up at the large institutional clock on the wall of the diving van, with its monstrous sweep second hand. Its intimidating presence made the passage of time hard to disregard. It had now been twelve minutes since there had been any contact with the
Oceanus.
Although Donald had specifically warned that there might be a short communication break, this seemed longer than reasonable, especially since the submersible had not responded to Larry Nelson's last message. That was when Larry had tried to tell them that the divers were passing through five hundred feet. Mark's eyes darted down to the pack of Marlboros he'd casually tossed onto the diving van's countertop. It was an agony not to reach over, take one out, and light up. Unfortunately, there was a newly instituted prohibition about smoking in the ship's common areas, and Captain Jameson was a stickler about rules and regulations.
With some difficulty Mark pulled his eyes away from the cigarettes and scanned the van's interior. Everyone else present seemed calm, which only made Mark feel more tense. Larry Nelson was sitting perfectly still at the diving operations monitoring station along with the sonar operator, Peter Rosenthal. Just beyond them were the two watch standers, who were in front of the diving system's operating console. Although their eyes were constantly scanning the pressure gauges of the two pressurized DDCs and the diving bell, the rest of their bodies were motionless. Across from the watch standers was the winch operator. He was perched on a high stool in front of the window looking out on the central well. His hand rested on the gear shift for the winch. Outside, the cable attached to the shackle on top of the diving bell was being played out at the maximum permitted velocity. From a neighboring drum came a second, passive cable that contained the compressed gas line, hot water hose, and communications wires. At the far end of the van was Captain Jameson, absently sucking on a toothpick. In front of him were the controls that formed an extension of the bridge. Even though the ship's propellers and thrusters were being controlled by computer to keep it stationary over the well head, Captain Jameson could override the system if the need arose during diving operations.
"I'm blowing the ballast tanks," Donald barked. "At this depth there won't be much effect, but there's no choice."
The sound of compressed air being released drowned out Stravinsky's
Rite of Spring
but only for twenty seconds. At such a pressure the compressed air tanks were quickly exhausted. The descent was not affected.
"Do something!" Perry yelled when he could find his voice. "I can't," Donald yelled. "There's no response to the controls. There's nothing left to try." CHAPTER FIVE
Mark Davidson was dying for a cigarette. His addiction was absolute, although he found giving them up was easy since he did it once a week. His craving was maximum when he was relaxing, working, or anxious, and at the moment, he was very anxious indeed. For him, deep diving operations were always a walk on the wild side; from experience he knew how quickly things could go horribly wrong. He looked up at the large institutional clock on the wall of the diving van, with its monstrous sweep second hand. Its intimidating presence made the passage of time hard to disregard. It had now been twelve minutes since there had been any contact with the
Oceanus.
Although Donald had specifically warned that there might be a short communication break, this seemed longer than reasonable, especially since the submersible had not responded to Larry Nelson's last message. That was when Larry had tried to tell them that the divers were passing through five hundred feet. Mark's eyes darted down to the pack of Marlboros he'd casually tossed onto the diving van's countertop. It was an agony not to reach over, take one out, and light up. Unfortunately, there was a newly instituted prohibition about smoking in the ship's common areas, and Captain Jameson was a stickler about rules and regulations.
With some difficulty Mark pulled his eyes away from the cigarettes and scanned the van's interior. Everyone else present seemed calm, which only made Mark feel more tense. Larry Nelson was sitting perfectly still at the diving operations monitoring station along with the sonar operator, Peter Rosenthal. Just beyond them were the two watch standers, who were in front of the diving system's operating console. Although their eyes were constantly scanning the pressure gauges of the two pressurized DDCs and the diving bell, the rest of their bodies were motionless. Across from the watch standers was the winch operator. He was perched on a high stool in front of the window looking out on the central well. His hand rested on the gear shift for the winch. Outside, the cable attached to the shackle on top of the diving bell was being played out at the maximum permitted velocity. From a neighboring drum came a second, passive cable that contained the compressed gas line, hot water hose, and communications wires. At the far end of the van was Captain Jameson, absently sucking on a toothpick. In front of him were the controls that formed an extension of the bridge. Even though the ship's propellers and thrusters were being controlled by computer to keep it stationary over the well head, Captain Jameson could override the system if the need arose during diving operations.
"God damn it!" Mark spat. He slammed a pencil he'd been unconsciously torturing to the countertop
and stood up. "What's the divers' depth?" "Passing through six hundred ten feet, sir," the winch operator reported. "Try the
Oceanus
again!" Mark barked to Larry. He started to pace back and forth. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it was getting worse. He began to lambaste himself for encouraging Perry Bergman to go on the dive. Being personally aware of Dr. Newell's interest in the seamount and her desire to make purely exploratory dives, he worried that she might try to impress the president to get her way. That might mean she'd pressure Donald to do things he might not normally do, and Mark was aware that Dr. Newell was the only person on the ship who potentially had that kind of influence over the normally strictly-by-the-book ex-naval line officer. Mark shuddered. It would be a disaster of the first order if the submersible got wedged in a fissure or a crevice where it may have descended to examine a particular geological feature up close. That had almost happened to the submersible
Alvin,
out of Woods Hole, and the near tragedy had been on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, not that far away from their present location. "Still no response," Larry said after several unsuccessful tries to raise the
Oceanus
on the UQC. "Any sign of the submersible on side-scan sonar?" Mark demanded from the sonar operator. "That's a negative," Peter said. "And bottom hydrophones have no contact with their tracking beacon. The thermocline they found must be impressive. It's like they dropped down into the ocean floor." Mark stopped his pacing and looked back at the clock. "How long has it been since that tremor?" he asked.
"That was more than a tremor," Larry said. "Tad Messenger measured it four point four on the Richter scale."
"I'm not surprised--it knocked over that pile of pipe on the deck," Mark said. "And as much as we felt it up here, it would have been a hell of a lot worse on the bottom. How long ago was it?" Larry looked down at his log. "It's been almost four minutes. You don't think that has anything to do with our not hearing from the
Oceanus,
do you?" Mark was reluctant to answer. He was not superstitious, yet he hated to voice his worries, as if articulating them made them that much more possible. But he was concerned that the 4.4 earthquake may have caused a rock slide that trapped the
Oceanus.
Such a catastrophe surely wasn't out of the question if Donald had indeed descended into a narrow depression at Suzanne's insistence. "Let me talk to the divers," Mark said. He walked over to Larry and took the mike. While he pondered what he wanted to say, he glanced up at the monitor where he could see the tops of the heads and the foreshortened bodies of the three men.
and stood up. "What's the divers' depth?" "Passing through six hundred ten feet, sir," the winch operator reported. "Try the
Oceanus
again!" Mark barked to Larry. He started to pace back and forth. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it was getting worse. He began to lambaste himself for encouraging Perry Bergman to go on the dive. Being personally aware of Dr. Newell's interest in the seamount and her desire to make purely exploratory dives, he worried that she might try to impress the president to get her way. That might mean she'd pressure Donald to do things he might not normally do, and Mark was aware that Dr. Newell was the only person on the ship who potentially had that kind of influence over the normally strictly-by-the-book ex-naval line officer. Mark shuddered. It would be a disaster of the first order if the submersible got wedged in a fissure or a crevice where it may have descended to examine a particular geological feature up close. That had almost happened to the submersible
Alvin,
out of Woods Hole, and the near tragedy had been on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, not that far away from their present location. "Still no response," Larry said after several unsuccessful tries to raise the
Oceanus
on the UQC. "Any sign of the submersible on side-scan sonar?" Mark demanded from the sonar operator. "That's a negative," Peter said. "And bottom hydrophones have no contact with their tracking beacon. The thermocline they found must be impressive. It's like they dropped down into the ocean floor." Mark stopped his pacing and looked back at the clock. "How long has it been since that tremor?" he asked.
"That was more than a tremor," Larry said. "Tad Messenger measured it four point four on the Richter scale."
"I'm not surprised--it knocked over that pile of pipe on the deck," Mark said. "And as much as we felt it up here, it would have been a hell of a lot worse on the bottom. How long ago was it?" Larry looked down at his log. "It's been almost four minutes. You don't think that has anything to do with our not hearing from the
Oceanus,
do you?" Mark was reluctant to answer. He was not superstitious, yet he hated to voice his worries, as if articulating them made them that much more possible. But he was concerned that the 4.4 earthquake may have caused a rock slide that trapped the
Oceanus.
Such a catastrophe surely wasn't out of the question if Donald had indeed descended into a narrow depression at Suzanne's insistence. "Let me talk to the divers," Mark said. He walked over to Larry and took the mike. While he pondered what he wanted to say, he glanced up at the monitor where he could see the tops of the heads and the foreshortened bodies of the three men.
"Shit, man!" Michael moaned. "You just kicked me in the balls!" His voice came out as a series of squeaks and squeals that would have been mostly unintelligible to normal humans. The distortion was a function of the helium he was breathing in place of nitrogen.
At the equivalent pressure of 980 feet of seawater, nitrogen acted as an anesthetic. Replacing the
nitrogen with helium solved the problem but caused marked changes in voice. The divers were used to it. Although they sounded like Walt Disney's Donald Duck, they could understand each other perfectly. "Then get your balls out of my way," Richard said. "I'm having trouble getting these freaking fins on." All three divers were wedged up inside the diving bell, whose pressure hull was a sphere a mere eight feet in diameter. Crammed in with them were all their diving equipment, many hundreds of feet of looped hose, and all the necessary instrumentation. "Get out of the way, he says," Michael jeered. "What do you want me to do, step outside?" A speaker crackled to life. It was mounted at the very apex of the sphere next to a tiny camcorder fitted with a fish-eye lens. Although the divers knew they were being constantly observed, they were totally indifferent to the surveillance.
"Let me have your attention, men!" Mark commanded. In contrast to the divers', his voice sounded relatively normal. "This is the operations commander." "Holy crap!" Richard complained as he eyed the swim fin that was giving him the problem. "No wonder I can't get this freaking thing on. It ain't mine. It's yours, Donaghue." Without warning Richard clobbered Michael over the head with the flipper. Michael was troubled by the blow only because it knocked off his prized Red Sox cap. The cap tumbled down into the trunk, coming to a rest on the sealed hatch. "Hey, nobody move!" Michael said. "Mazzola, get my hat for me! I don't want it to get wet." Michael was already fully outfitted for the dive in his neoprene dry suit complete with the buoyancy control vest and weights. The ability to bend over, as would be required to retrieve the hat, was out of the question. "Gentlemen!" Mark's voice was louder and more insistent. "Screw you," Louis said. "I might be bell diver, but I'm not your slave." "Hey, listen up, you animals!" Larry's voice yelled from the tiny speaker. The sound reverberated around the cramped sphere at a level just shy of pain. "Mr. Davidson wants a word with you, so shut up!"
Richard shoved the flipper and its mate into Michael's hands, then looked up at the camera. "All right already," he said. "We're listening."
"Stand by for a moment," Larry's voice said. "We didn't realize the helium unscrambler wasn't on line." "So let me have my fins," Richard said to Michael in the interim. "You mean the ones I have on aren't mine?" "Duh!" Richard voiced mockingly. "Since you're holding yours in your hands they can't be on your feet, birdbrain!"
Michael squatted awkwardly, clutching his fins under his arm, and stripped those from his feet. Richard snatched them away disdainfully. Then the two divers clumsily bumped into each other as they struggled
nitrogen with helium solved the problem but caused marked changes in voice. The divers were used to it. Although they sounded like Walt Disney's Donald Duck, they could understand each other perfectly. "Then get your balls out of my way," Richard said. "I'm having trouble getting these freaking fins on." All three divers were wedged up inside the diving bell, whose pressure hull was a sphere a mere eight feet in diameter. Crammed in with them were all their diving equipment, many hundreds of feet of looped hose, and all the necessary instrumentation. "Get out of the way, he says," Michael jeered. "What do you want me to do, step outside?" A speaker crackled to life. It was mounted at the very apex of the sphere next to a tiny camcorder fitted with a fish-eye lens. Although the divers knew they were being constantly observed, they were totally indifferent to the surveillance.
"Let me have your attention, men!" Mark commanded. In contrast to the divers', his voice sounded relatively normal. "This is the operations commander." "Holy crap!" Richard complained as he eyed the swim fin that was giving him the problem. "No wonder I can't get this freaking thing on. It ain't mine. It's yours, Donaghue." Without warning Richard clobbered Michael over the head with the flipper. Michael was troubled by the blow only because it knocked off his prized Red Sox cap. The cap tumbled down into the trunk, coming to a rest on the sealed hatch. "Hey, nobody move!" Michael said. "Mazzola, get my hat for me! I don't want it to get wet." Michael was already fully outfitted for the dive in his neoprene dry suit complete with the buoyancy control vest and weights. The ability to bend over, as would be required to retrieve the hat, was out of the question. "Gentlemen!" Mark's voice was louder and more insistent. "Screw you," Louis said. "I might be bell diver, but I'm not your slave." "Hey, listen up, you animals!" Larry's voice yelled from the tiny speaker. The sound reverberated around the cramped sphere at a level just shy of pain. "Mr. Davidson wants a word with you, so shut up!"
Richard shoved the flipper and its mate into Michael's hands, then looked up at the camera. "All right already," he said. "We're listening."
"Stand by for a moment," Larry's voice said. "We didn't realize the helium unscrambler wasn't on line." "So let me have my fins," Richard said to Michael in the interim. "You mean the ones I have on aren't mine?" "Duh!" Richard voiced mockingly. "Since you're holding yours in your hands they can't be on your feet, birdbrain!"
Michael squatted awkwardly, clutching his fins under his arm, and stripped those from his feet. Richard snatched them away disdainfully. Then the two divers clumsily bumped into each other as they struggled
to slip on their respective flippers at the same time.
"Okay, men," Larry's voice said. "We're on line with the scrambler so stop screwing around and listen up! Here's Mr. Davidson."
The diver's didn't bother to look up. They slouched against the sides of the PTC and assumed bored expressions.
"We haven't been able to raise the
Oceanus
on the UQC or track it on sonar," Mark's voice said. "We're anxious for you to make visual contact. If you don't see them when you arrive at the well head, let us know and we'll give you further instructions. Understand?" "That's affirmative," Richard said. "Now can we get back to getting ready to dive?" "That's affirmative," Mark said.
Richard and Michael stirred, and by giving each other an iota of leeway they managed to get their flippers on their feet. Michael even tried to reach his hat while Richard proceeded to don his buoyancy vest and weight belt, but it was beyond his grasp, as he'd feared. Five minutes later the winch operator's voice told them they were passing through nine hundred feet. With that announcement the descent slowed appreciably. While Richard and Michael tried to stay out of the way, Louis readied the hoses. As the bell diver it fell to him to handle the lines. "Powering the exterior lights," Larry announced. Richard and Michael twisted themselves enough to glance out the two tiny view ports opposite each other. Louis was too busy to look out either of the two remaining windows. "I see bottom," Richard said.
"Me, too," Michael said.
With a single main hoisting cable the diving bell was rotating slowly, although its rotation was restricted by the life-support lines. The bell would rotate in one direction for several revolutions and then turn and go the other way. As the bell settled down to the 980-foot mark and stopped, the rotation slowed to a stop as well, but not before each diver had been afforded a 360-degree view. Since the bell was suspended fourteen feet above the rock face at one of the higher sections of the seamount's summit, the divers could see a relatively wide area bounded by the illumination of the exterior halogen lights. Their view was somewhat restricted only to the west, where it was blocked by a ridge of rock. To Richard and Michael the ridge appeared like a series of connected columns whose crest was slightly higher than their line of sight. But even that formation was at the periphery of the sphere of light. "Do you see the sub?" Richard asked Michael. "Nope," Michael said. "But I can see the bits and the tools by the well head. They're all stacked up nice and neat."
Richard leaned away from the view port and tilted his face up toward the camcorder.
"Okay, men," Larry's voice said. "We're on line with the scrambler so stop screwing around and listen up! Here's Mr. Davidson."
The diver's didn't bother to look up. They slouched against the sides of the PTC and assumed bored expressions.
"We haven't been able to raise the
Oceanus
on the UQC or track it on sonar," Mark's voice said. "We're anxious for you to make visual contact. If you don't see them when you arrive at the well head, let us know and we'll give you further instructions. Understand?" "That's affirmative," Richard said. "Now can we get back to getting ready to dive?" "That's affirmative," Mark said.
Richard and Michael stirred, and by giving each other an iota of leeway they managed to get their flippers on their feet. Michael even tried to reach his hat while Richard proceeded to don his buoyancy vest and weight belt, but it was beyond his grasp, as he'd feared. Five minutes later the winch operator's voice told them they were passing through nine hundred feet. With that announcement the descent slowed appreciably. While Richard and Michael tried to stay out of the way, Louis readied the hoses. As the bell diver it fell to him to handle the lines. "Powering the exterior lights," Larry announced. Richard and Michael twisted themselves enough to glance out the two tiny view ports opposite each other. Louis was too busy to look out either of the two remaining windows. "I see bottom," Richard said.
"Me, too," Michael said.
With a single main hoisting cable the diving bell was rotating slowly, although its rotation was restricted by the life-support lines. The bell would rotate in one direction for several revolutions and then turn and go the other way. As the bell settled down to the 980-foot mark and stopped, the rotation slowed to a stop as well, but not before each diver had been afforded a 360-degree view. Since the bell was suspended fourteen feet above the rock face at one of the higher sections of the seamount's summit, the divers could see a relatively wide area bounded by the illumination of the exterior halogen lights. Their view was somewhat restricted only to the west, where it was blocked by a ridge of rock. To Richard and Michael the ridge appeared like a series of connected columns whose crest was slightly higher than their line of sight. But even that formation was at the periphery of the sphere of light. "Do you see the sub?" Richard asked Michael. "Nope," Michael said. "But I can see the bits and the tools by the well head. They're all stacked up nice and neat."
Richard leaned away from the view port and tilted his face up toward the camcorder.
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