Raise the Titanic! (21 page)

The
Titanic
lay
cloaked by the eerie stillness of the black deep and bore the grim scars of her tragedy. The jagged wound from her collision with the iceberg stretched from the starboard forepeak to the No. 5 boiler room nearly three hundred feet down her hull, while the gaping holes in her bow below the waterline betrayed the shattering impact made by her boilers when they tore from her bowels and smashed their way through bulkhead after bulkhead until they plunged free into the sea.

She sat heavily in the ooze with a slight list to port, her forecastle set on a southerly course, as if she were still pathetically struggling to reach out and touch the waters of a port she had never known. The lights from the submersible danced over her ghostlike superstructure, casting long spectral shadows across her long teak decks. Her portholes, some open, some closed, marched in orderly rows along the broad expanse of her sides. She presented an almost modern, streamlined appearance now that her funnels were gone; the forward three were nonexistent, two probably having been carried away by her dive to the bottom, while number four lay fallen across the After Boat Deck. And, except for the scattered strands of rusty, disconnected funnel rigging that snaked over the railings, her Boat Deck showed only a few hulking air vents standing silent guard above the vacant Welin davits that had once held the great liner's lifeboats.

There was a morbid beauty about her. The men inside the submersible could almost see her dining saloons and staterooms flooded with lights and crowded with hundreds of lighthearted and laughing passengers. They could visualize her libraries stacked with books, her smoking rooms filled with the blue haze of gentlemen's cigars, and hear the music of her band playing turn-of-the-century ragtime. The passengers walked her decks: the wealthy, the famous, men in immaculate evening dress, women in colorful ankle-length gowns, nannies with children clutching favorite toys, the Astors, the Guggenheims, and the Strauses in first class; the middle-class, the school teachers, the clergymen, the students, and the writers in second; the immigrants, the Irish farmers and their families, the carpenters, the bakers, the dressmakers, and the miners from remote villages of Sweden, Russia, and Greece in steerage. Then there were the almost nine hundred crew members, from the ship's officers to the caterers, the stewards, the lift boys, and the engine-room men.

Great opulence lay in the darkness beyond the doors and portholes. What would the swimming pool, the squash court, and the Turkish baths look like? Was there a rotten remnant of the great tapestry still hanging in the reception room? What of the bronze clock on the grand staircase, or the crystal chandeliers in the elegant Café Parisien, or the delicately ornate ceiling above the first-class dining saloon? Would, perhaps, the bones of Captain Edward J. Smith remain somewhere within the shadows of the bridge? What mysteries were there to be discovered within this once colossal floating palace if and when she ever greeted the sun again?

The strobe light on the submersible's cameras seemed to flash endlessly as the tiny intruder circled the immense hulk. A large two-foot, rattailed fish with huge eyes and a heavy armored head skittered over the slanting decks, showing total unconcern for the exploding beams of light.

After what seemed like hours, the submersible, the faces of its crew still glued to the viewports, rose over the first-class lounge roof, hovered for a few moments, then deposited a small electronic-signal capsule. Its low-frequency impulses would now provide a traceable guideline for future dives to the wreck. Then the submersible made a gliding turn upward, her lights blinked out, and she melted back into the darkness from whence she had come.

Except for the few sparks of marine life that had somehow managed to adapt to survival in the black, bitter-cold environment, the
Titanic
was alone once more. But soon other submersibles would come and she would feel the tools of man working on her steel skin again, as she had so many years ago at the great slipways of the Harland and Wolff shipbuilding firm in Belfast.

Then, perhaps, just perhaps, she would make her first port after all.

MAY 1988

In a measured
and precise manner, the Soviet General Secretary, Georgi Antonov, lit his pipe and surveyed the other men seated around the long mahogany conference table.

To his right sat Admiral Boris Sloyuk, director of Soviet Naval Intelligence, and his aide, Captain Prevlov. Opposite them were Vladimir Polevoi, Chief of the Foreign Secrets Department of the KGB, and Vasily Tilevitch, Marshal of the Soviet Union and chief director of Soviet Security.

Antonov came straight to the point: “Well now, it seems the Americans are determined to raise the
Titanic
to the surface.” He studied the papers sitting before him a few moments before continuing. “An extensive effort by the look of it. Two supply ships, three tenders, four deep-sea submersibles.” He looked up at Admiral Sloyuk and Prevlov. “Do we have an observer in the area?”

Prevlov nodded. “The oceanographic research vessel
Mikhail Kurkov
, under the command of Captain Ivan Parotkin, is cruising the salvage perimeter.”

“I know Parotkin personally,” Sloyuk added. “He is a good seaman.”

“If the Americans are spending hundreds of millions of dollars in an attempt to salvage a seventy-six-year-old piece of scrap,” Antonov said, “there must be a logical motivation.”

“There is a motivation,” Admiral Sloyuk said gravely. “A motivation that threatens our very security.” He nodded to Prevlov, who began passing out a red folder marked “Sicilian Project” to Antonov and the men across the table. “That is why I requested this meeting. My people have discovered outline plans for a new secret American defense system. I think you will find it a shocking, if not terrifying, study.”

Antonov and the others opened the folders and began reading. For perhaps five minutes, the Soviet General Secretary read, occasionally glancing in Sloyuk's direction. Antonov's face went through a wide range of expressions, beginning with professional interest to frank bewilderment, to astonishment, and, finally, stunned realization.

“This is incredible, Admiral Sloyuk, absolutely incredible.”

“Is such a defense system possible?” Marshal Tilevitch asked.

“I have put the same question to five of our most respected scientists. They all agreed, theoretically, that such a system is feasible, provided a strong enough power source is available.”

“And you assume this source lies in the cargo holds of the
Titanic?”
Tilevitch put to him.

“We are certain of it, Comrade Marshal. As I mentioned in the report, the vital ingredient needed for the completion of the Sicilian Project is a little-known element called byzanium. We now know the Americans stole the world's only supply from Russian soil seventy-six years ago. Fortunately for us, they had the ill luck to transport it on a doomed ship.”

Antonov shook his head in utter incomprehension. “If what you say in your report is true, then the Americans have the potential to knock down our intercontinental missiles as effortlessly as a goatherd swats flies.”

Sloyuk nodded solemnly. “I am afraid that is the fearful truth.”

Polevoi leaned across the table, his face a mask of suspicious consternation. “You state here that your contact is a high-level aide in the United States Department of Defense.”

“That is correct.” Prevlov nodded respectfully. “He became disillusioned with the American government during the Watergate affair and has since sent me whatever material he deems important.”

Antonov stared piercingly into Prevlov's eyes. “Do you think they can do it, Captain Prevlov?”

“Raise the
Titanic?”

Antonov nodded.

Prevlov stared back. “If you will recall the Central Intelligence Agency's successful recovery of one of our Soviet nuclear submarines in seventeen thousand feet of water off Hawaii in 1974—I believe the CIA referred to it as Project Jennifer—there is little doubt that the Americans have the technical capability to put the
Titanic
in New York harbor. Yes, Comrade Antonov, I firmly believe they will do it.”

“I do not share your opinion,” said Polevoi. “A vessel the size of the
Titanic
is a far cry from a submarine.”

“I have to throw in my lot with Captain Prevlov,” Sloyuk argued. “The Americans have an annoying habit of accomplishing what they set out to do.”

“And what of this Sicilian Project?” Polevoi persisted. “The KGB has received no detailed data concerning its existence except the code name. How do we know the Americans have not created a mythical project to play a bluffing hand at the negotiations to limit strategic nuclear-delivery systems?”

Antonov rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “The Americans do not bluff. Comrade Khrushchev found that out twenty-five years ago during the Cuban missile crisis. We cannot ignore any possibility, however remote, that they are on the verge of making this defense system operational as soon as they salvage the byzanium from the hull of the
Titanic
.” He paused to suck on his pipe stem. “I suggest that our next thoughts be directed toward a course of action.”

“Quite obviously we must see to it that the byzanium never reaches the United States,” Marshal Tilevitch said.

Polevoi drummed his fingers on the Sicilian Project file. “Sabotage. We must sabotage the salvage operation. There is no other way.”

“There must be no incident with international repercussions,” Antonov said firmly. “There can be no suggestion of interference through overt military action. I do not want Soviet–United States relations jeopardized during yet another bad crop year. Is that clear?”

“We can do nothing unless we penetrate the salvage area,” Tilevitch persisted.

Polevoi stared across the table at Sloyuk. “What steps have the Americans taken to protect the operation?”

“The nuclear-powered guided-missile cruiser
Juneau
is patrolling within sight of the salvage ships on a twenty-four-hour basis.”

“May I speak?” Prevlov asked almost condescendingly. He did not wait for an answer. “With due consideration, comrades, the penetration has already taken place.”

Antonov looked up. “Please explain yourself, Captain.”

Prevlov took a side glance at his superior. Admiral Sloyuk acknowledged him with a faint nod.

“We have two undercover operatives working as members of the NUMA salvage crew,” Prevlov elucidated. “An exceptionally talented team. They have been relaying important American oceanographic data to us for two years.”

“Good, good. Your people have done well, Sloyuk,” Antonov said, but there was no warmth in his tone. His gaze came back to Prevlov. “Are we to assume, Captain, that you have devised a plan?”

“I have, comrade.”

 

Marganin was in Prevlov's office when he returned, casually sitting behind the captain's desk. There was a change about him. No longer did he seem like the common, bootlicking aide that Prevlov had left only a few hours ago. There was something about him that was more certain, more self-assured. It seemed to be in his eyes. Those insecure eyes now mirrored the confident look of a man who knew what he was about.

“How did the conference go, Captain?” Marganin asked without rising.

“I think I can safely say the day will soon come when you will be addressing me as Admiral.”

“I must confess,” Marganin said coolly, “your fertile mind is surpassed only by your ego.”

Prevlov was caught off guard. His face paled with controlled anger, and, when he spoke, it required no acute sense of hearing or imagination to detect the emotion in his voice. “You dare to insult me?”

“Why not. You undoubtedly sold Comrade Antonov on the fact that it was your genius that arrived at the purpose of the Sicilian Project and the
Titanic
salvage operation, when, in reality, it was
my
source who passed along the information. And you also most likely told them about your wonderful plan to wrest the byzanium from the Americans' hands. Again, stolen from me. In short, Prevlov, you are nothing but an untalented thief.”

“That will do!” Prevlov was pointing a finger at Marganin, his tone glacial. Suddenly, he stiffened and was completely under control again, intent, urbane, the true professional. “You will burn for your insubordination, Marganin,” he said pleasantly. “I will see to it that you burn a thousand deaths before this month is through.”

Marganin said nothing. He only smiled a smile that was as cold as a tomb.