Raise the Titanic! (22 page)

“So much for
secrecy,” Seagram said, dropping a newspaper on Sandecker's desk. “That's this morning's paper. I picked it up from a newsstand not fifteen minutes ago.”

Sandecker turned it around and looked at the front page. He didn't have to look farther, it was all there.

“‘NUMA
TO
R
AISE
Titanic
,'” he read aloud. “Well, at least we don't have to pussyfoot around any more. ‘Multimillion-dollar effort to salvage ill-fated liner.' You have to admit, it makes for fascinating reading. ‘Informed sources said today that the National Underwater and Marine Agency is conducting an all-out salvage attempt to raise the R.M.S.
Titanic
, which struck an iceberg and sank in the mid-Atlantic on April 15, 1912, with a loss of over fifteen hundred lives. This tremendous undertaking heralds a new dawn in deep-sea salvage that is without parallel in the history of man's search for treasure.'”

“A multimillion-dollar treasure hunt,” Seagram frowned darkly. “The President will love that.”

“Even has a picture of me,” Sandecker said. “Not a good likeness. Must be a stock photo from their files, taken maybe five or six years ago.”

“It couldn't have come at a worse time,” Seagram said. “Three more weeks…Pitt said he would try to lift her in three more weeks.”

“Don't hold your breath. Pitt and his crew have been at it for nine months; nine grueling months of battling every winter storm the Atlantic could throw at them, tackling every setback and technical adversity as it came up. It's a miracle they've accomplished so much in so little time. And yet, a thousand and one things can still go wrong. There may be hidden structural cracks that might split the hull wide open when it breaks from the seafloor, or then again, the enormous suction between the keel and the bottom ooze might never release its grip. If I were you, Seagram, I wouldn't get a glow on until you see the
Titanic
being towed past the Statue of Liberty.”

Seagram looked wounded. The admiral grinned at his stricken expression and offered him a cigar. It was refused.

“On the other hand,” Sandecker said comfortingly, “she may rise to the surface as pretty as you please.”

“That's what I like about you, Admiral, your on-again, off-again optimism.”

“I like to prepare myself for disappointments. It helps to ease the pain.”

Seagram didn't reply. He was silent for a minute. Then he said, “So we worry about the
Titanic
when the time comes. But we still have the problem of the press to consider. How do we handle it?”

“Simple,” Sandecker said airily. “We do what any red-blooded, grassroots politician would do when his shady record is laid bare by scandal-hungry reporters.”

“And that is?” Seagram asked warily.

“We call a press conference.”

“That's madness. If Congress and the public ever got wind of the fact that we've poured over three-quarters of a billion dollars into this thing, they'll be on us like a Kansas tornado.”

“So we play liar's poker and slice the salvage costs in half for publication. Who's to know? There's no way the true figure can be uncovered.”

“I still don't like it,” Seagram said. “These Washington reporters are master surgeons when it comes to dissecting a speaker at a press conference. They'll carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

“I wasn't thinking of me,” Sandecker said slowly.

“Then who? Certainly not me. I'm the little man who isn't here, remember?”

“I had someone else in mind. Someone who is ignorant of our behind-the-scenes skulduggery. Someone who is an authority on sunken ships and whom the press would treat with the utmost courtesy and respect.”

“And where are you going to find this paragon of virtue?”

“I'm awfully glad you used the word virtue,” Sandecker said slyly. “You see, I was thinking of your wife.”

Dana Seagram stood
confidently at the lectern and deftly fielded the questions put to her by the eighty-odd reporters seated in the NUMA headquarters auditorium. She smiled continuously, with the happy look of a woman who is enjoying herself and who knows she would be approved of. She wore a terra-cotta color wrap skirt and a deeply V'd sweater, neatly accented by a small mahogany necklace. She was tall, appealing, and elegant; an image that immediately put her inquisitors at a disadvantage.

A white-haired woman on the left side of the room rose and waved her hand. “Dr. Seagram?”

Dana nodded gracefully.

“Dr. Seagram, the readers of my paper, the
Chicago Daily
, would like to know why the government is spending millions to salvage an old rusty ship. Why wouldn't the money be better spent elsewhere, say for welfare or badly needed urban renewal?”

“I'll be happy to clear the air for you,” Dana said. “To begin with, raising the
Titanic
is not a waste of money. Two hundred and ninety million dollars have been budgeted, and so far we are well below that figure; and, I might add, ahead of schedule.”

“Don't you consider that a lot of money?”

“Not when
you
consider the possible return. You see, the
Titanic
is a veritable storehouse of treasure. Estimates run over three hundred million dollars. There are many of the passengers' jewels and valuables still on board: a quarter of a million dollars' worth in one stateroom alone. Then there are the ship's fittings, as well as the furnishings and the precious décor, some of which may have survived. A collector would gladly pay anywhere from five hundred to a thousand dollars for one piece of china or a crystal goblet from the first-class dining room. No, ladies and gentlemen, this is one time when a federal project is not, if you'll pardon the expression, a tax-payer ripoff. We will show a profit in dollars and a profit in historical artifacts of a bygone era, not to mention the tremendous wealth of data for marine science and technology.”

“Dr. Seagram?” This from a tall, pinch-faced man in the rear of the auditorium. “We haven't had time to read the press release you passed out earlier, so could you please enlighten us as to the mechanics of the salvage?”

“I'm glad you asked me that.” Dana laughed. “Seriously, I apologize for the old cliché, but your question, sir, is the cue for a brief slide presentation that should help explain many of the mysteries regarding the project.” She turned to the wings of the stage. “Lights, please.”

The lighting dimmed and the first slide marched onto a wide screen above and behind the lectern.

“We begin with a composite of over eighty photographs pieced together to show the
Titanic
as she rests on the sea floor. Fortunately, she's sitting upright with a light list to port that conveniently puts the hundred-yard-long gash she received from the iceberg in an accessible position to seal.”

“How is it possible to seal an opening that size at that enormous depth?”

The next slide came on and showed a man holding what looked like a large blob of liquid plastic.

“In answer to that question,” Dana said, “this is Dr. Amos Stannford demonstrating a substance he developed called ‘Wetsteel.' As the name suggests, Wetsteel, though pliable in air, hardens to the rigidity of steel ninety seconds after coming in contact with water, and it can bond itself to a metal object as though it were welded.”

This last statement was followed by a wave of murmurs throughout the room.

“Ball-shaped aluminum tanks, ten feet in diameter, that contain Wetsteel have been dropped at strategic spots around the vessel,” Dana continued. “They are designed so that a submersible can attach itself to the tank, not unlike the docking procedure of a shuttle rocket with a space laboratory, and then proceed to the working area, where the crew can aim and expel the Wetsteel from a specially designed nozzle.”

“How is the Wetsteel pumped from the tank?”

“To illustrate with another comparison, the great pressure at that depth compresses the aluminum tank much like a tube of toothpaste, squeezing the sealant through the nozzle and into the opening to be covered.”

She signaled for a new slide.

“Now here we see a cut-away drawing of the sea, depicting the supply tenders on the surface and the submersibles clustered around the wreck on the bottom. There are four manned underwater vehicles involved in the salvage operation. The
Sappho I
, which you may recall was the craft used on the Lorelei Current Drift Expedition, is currently engaged in patching the damage caused by the iceberg along the starboard side of the hull and also the bow, where it was shattered by the
Titanic
's boilers. The
Sappho II
, a newer and more advanced sister ship, is sealing the smaller openings, such as the air vents and portholes. The Navy's submersible, the
Sea Slug
, has the job of cutting away unnecessary debris, including the masts, rigging, and the aft funnel, which fell across the After Boat Deck. And finally, the
Deep Fathom
, a submersible belonging to the Uranus Oil Corporation, is installing pressure relief valves on the
Titanic
's hull and superstructure.”

“Could you please explain the purpose of the valves, Dr. Seagram?”

“Certainly,” Dana replied. “When the hulk begins its journey to the surface, the air that has been pumped into her interior will begin to expand as the pressure of the sea lessens against her exterior. Unless this inside pressure is continuously bled, the
Titanic
could conceivably blow herself to pieces. The valves, of course, are there to prevent this disastrous occurrence.”

“Then NUMA intends to use compressed air to lift the derelict?”

“Yes, the support tender,
Capricorn
, has two compressor units capable of displacing the water in the
Titanic
's hull with enough air to raise her.”

“Dr. Seagram?” came another disembodied voice, “I represent
Science Today
, and I happen to know that the water pressure where the
Titanic
lies is upwards of six thousand pounds per square inch. I also know that the largest available air compressor can only put out four thousand pounds. How do you intend to overcome this differential?”

“The main unit on board the
Capricorn
pumps the air from the surface through a reinforced pipe to the secondary pump, which is stationed amidships of the wreck. In appearance, this secondary pump looks like a radial aircraft engine with a series of pistons spreading from a central hub. Again, we utilized the sea's great abyssal pressures to activate the pump, which is also assisted by electricity and the air pressure coming from above. I am sorry I can't give you an in-depth description, but I am a marine archaeologist, not a marine engineer. However, Admiral Sandecker will be available later in the day to answer your technical questions in greater detail.”

“What about suction?” the voice of
Science Today
persisted. “After sitting imbedded in the silt all these years, won't the
Titanic
be fairly well glued to the bottom?”

“She will indeed.” Dana gestured for the lights. They came on and she stood blinking in the glare for a few moments until she could distinguish her inquirer. He was a middle-aged man, with long brown hair and large wire-rimmed glasses.

“When it is calculated that the ship has enough air to lift her mass toward the surface, the air pipe will be disconnected from the hull and converted to inject an electrolyte chemical, processed by the Myers-Lentz Company, into the sediment surrounding the
Titanic
's keel. The resulting reaction will cause the molecules in the sediment to break down and form a cushion of bubbles that will erase the static friction and allow the great hulk to wrest herself free from the suction.”

Another man raised his hand.

“If the operation is successful and the
Titanic
begins floating toward the surface, isn't there a good chance she could capsize? Two and a half miles is a long way for an unbalanced object of forty-five thousand tons to remain upright.”

“You're right. There is the possibility she might capsize, but we plan to leave enough water in her lower holds to act as ballast and offset this problem.”

A young, mannish-looking woman rose and waved her hand.

“Dr. Seagram! I am Connie Sanchez of
Female Eminence Weekly
, and my readers would be interested in learning what defense mechanisms you have personally developed for competing on a day-to-day basis in a profession dominated by egotistic male pigheads.”

The audience of reporters greeted the question with uneasy silence. God, Dana thought to herself, it had to come sooner or later. She stepped alongside the lectern and leaned on it in a negligent, almost sexy attitude.

“My reply, Ms. Sanchez, is strictly off the record.”

“Then you're copping out,” said Connie Sanchez with a superior grin.

Dana ignored the jab. “First, I find that a defense mechanism is hardly necessary. My masculine colleagues respect my intelligence enough to accept my opinions. I don't have to go bra-less or spread my legs to get their attention. Second, I prefer standing on my own home ground and competing with members of my own sex, not a strange stance when you consider the fact that out of five hundred and forty scientists on the staff of NUMA, a hundred and fourteen are women. And third, Ms. Sanchez, the only pigheads it's been my misfortune to meet during my life have not been men, but rather the female of the species.”

For several moments, a stunned silence gripped the room. Then, suddenly, shattering the embarrassed quiet, a voice burst from the audience. “Atta girl, Doc,” yelled the little white-haired lady from the
Chicago Daily
. “That's putting her down.”

A sea of applause rippled and then roared, sweeping the auditorium in a storm of approval. The battle-hardened Washington correspondents offered her their respect with a standing ovation.

Connie Sanchez sat in her seat and stared coldly in flushed anger. Dana saw Connie's lips form the word “bitch” and she returned a smug, derisive kind of smile that only women do so well. Adulation, Dana thought, how sweet it is.