Trojan Odyssey (12 page)

Morton's worst fear was rapidly becoming a reality. “Will the others hold?”

“With one gone and the rest taking up excess stress, I doubt if they can anchor us for long.”

Each time a huge wave struck, the hotel shuddered, was buried in green raging waters and emerged like a fortress under siege, rock steady and immovable. Gradually, morale among the guests escalated as their confidence grew in the
Ocean Wanderer
when she emerged seemingly unscathed after every gigantic wave. The guests were mostly affluent and had reserved their holiday on the floating resort in search of adventure. They all became mentally attuned to the menace threatening them and appeared to take it all in stride. Even the children eventually shook off their initial fright and began to enjoy watching the colossal mass of water smash into and flow over the luxury hotel.

Rising to the occasion, the chefs and kitchen workers somehow managed to turn out meals, served by waiters with impeccable manners throughout the crowded theater and ballroom.

During the ordeal, Morton could feel a growing sickness inside him. He became convinced that disaster was only minutes away and there was nothing any mere human could achieve against the incredible onslaught nature had created.

One by one, the cables parted, the final two within less than a minute of one another. Unleashed, the hotel began her precipitous drift toward the rocks along the shore of the Dominican Republic, driven unmercifully by a sea turned cruel beyond any that had been recorded by man.

 

I
N TIMES PAST,
the helmsman, or in many cases the captain of the ship, stood with legs firmly planted on the deck, hands locked around the spokes of the wheel in a death grip, battling the sea by steering with every ounce of his strength for long hours on end.

No more.

Barnum had but to program the ship's course into the computer, then he strapped himself into his raised leather chair in the pilothouse and waited as the electronic brain took over the
Sea Sprite
's destiny.

Fed a constant stream of data from the vast array of meteorological instruments and systems on board, the computer instantly analyzed the most efficient method of attacking the storm. Then it took command of the automated control system and began maneuvering the ship, measuring and anticipating the towering crests and cavernous troughs while critically judging time and distance for the best angle and speed to plunge through the brutal chaos.

Visibility was measured in inches. Driven crazy by the wind, salt spray and foam lashed the pilothouse windows during the short interval the ship wasn't buried under incalculable tons of water. The horrendous wave and wind conditions were enough to daunt any man who was not bred to the sea. But Barnum sat there like a rock, his eyes seemingly penetrating the treacherous waves and locking on some maddened god of the oceans but totally preoccupied with the problem of survival. Though he placed his explicit trust in the ship's computerized automated control system to battle the storm, an emergency could very well come up when he would have to take command.

He studied the waves as they rolled over his ship, gazing at the crest far above the pilothouse, staring into the solid mass of water until the
Sea Sprite
struggled through to the other side and dipped down into the trough.

The hours passed with no relief. A few of the crew and most all the scientists were seasick, yet none complained. There was no thought of coming out on the decks that were continuously swept clean by the great seas. One look at the immense sea was enough to send them to their cabins where they tied themselves to their bunks and prayed they would be alive to see tomorrow.

Their only measure of comfort was the mild tropical temperature. Those who peered through the ports saw waves as high as ten-story buildings. They watched in awe as the crests were blown away by the frightful winds into great clouds of foaming spray before disappearing within the demented rain.

To those below in the crew's quarters and engine room, the motion was not quite as extreme as that experienced by Barnum and his officers up in the pilothouse. He began to get aptly concerned at the way the seas were throwing
Sea Sprite
around like a car on a roller coaster. As the research ship took a steep roll to starboard, he watched the digital numbers on the clinometer. They showed that she heeled and hung at thirty-four degrees before the numbers gradually drifted back between five and zero.

“Another roll like that,” he muttered to himself, “and we'll be living under the water permanently.”

How the ship could sustain such wild and savage seas, he could not imagine. Then, almost as if it was an ordained blessing, the numbers on the wind speed instrument began to drop with increasing swiftness until it indicated less than fifty miles an hour.

Sam Maverick shook his head in wonder. “Looks like we're about to enter the eye of the hurricane, and yet the water seems more berserk than ever.”

Barnum shrugged. “Who said it's darkest before the dawn?”

The communications officer, Mason Jar, a short dumpling of a man with bleached white hair and a large earring dangling from his left ear, approached Barnum and handed him a message.

Barnum scanned the wording and looked up. “This just come in?

“Less than two minutes ago,” answered Jar.

Barnum passed the message to Maverick, who read it aloud: “Hotel
Ocean Wanderer
suffering extreme sea conditions. Mooring cables have parted. Hotel is now adrift and being swept toward the rocks of the Dominican Republic shore. Any ships in the area please respond. Over a thousand souls on board.”

He handed the message back to Barnum. “Judging from the Mayday calls, we're the only ship still afloat that can attempt a rescue.”

“They didn't give a position,” said the communications officer.

Barnum looked grim. “They're not seamen, they're innkeepers.”

Maverick leaned over the chart table and manipulated a pair of dividers. “She was fifty miles south of our position when we pulled up anchor to tackle the storm. Won't be easy coming around inside Navidad Reef to effect a rescue.”

Jar reappeared with another message. This one read…

“Well, at least we now have official authorization,” said Maverick.

“We only have forty people on board
Sea Sprite,
” said Barnum. “The
Ocean Wanderer
has over a thousand. I can't in good conscience run away.”

“What about Dirk and Summer down in
Pisces
?”

“They should be able to tough out the storm underwater protected by the reef.”

“How's their air supply?” asked Maverick.

“Enough for four more days,” replied Barnum.

“If this bloody storm passes, we should be back on station in two.”

“Providing we can hook up with the
Ocean Wanderer
and tow her a safe distance from shore.”

Maverick looked out the windshield. “Once we enter the eye of the storm, we should be able to make good headway.”

“Program the hotel's last position and predicted drift into the computer,” ordered Barnum. “Then set a course for a rendezvous.”

Barnum started to rise from his chair to order his radio operator to report his decision to attempt a rescue of the
Ocean Wanderer
to Admiral Sandecker, when to his horror a monstrous wave, more towering than any before, rose nearly eighty feet above the pilothouse that was already nearly fifty feet above the waterline, and came crashing down with unimaginable force that hammered and engulfed the entire vessel. The
Sea Sprite
bravely surged through the watery mountain, plunging into what seemed a bottomless trough before rising again.

Barnum and Maverick looked into each other's eyes in stunned astonishment when another wave of even more staggering dimensions smashed and immersed the research ship, plunging her into its depths.

Crushed by millions of tons of water, the
Sea Sprite
's bow dove down, down, deeper and deeper, as if she never intended to stop.

O
CEAN
W
ANDERER
WAS
now totally helpless. Free of her moorings, the floating hotel was at the full mercy of the hurricane's assault. There was nothing left the men could do to save the guests and the hotel.

Morton was becoming more desperate by the minute. He faced one critical decision after another. He could either order the ballast tanks filled to higher levels, settling the hotel lower in the water to lessen the rate of drift under the vicious gale, or empty the tanks and allow the waves to toss the luxury structure and its passengers about like a house in a Kansas tornado.

On the face of it the first option seemed the most practical. But that meant a battering by an irresistible force against a nearly immovable object. Already, sections of the hotel were giving way, allowing flooding into the lower levels that pushed the pumps to their limits. The second option would mean extreme discomfort for everyone on board and speed up the inevitable impact on the Caribbean island's rocky coast.

He was about to opt for filling the tanks to the brim when the wind suddenly began to slacken. After half an hour it almost died away completely and the sun beamed down on the hotel. People in the ballroom and theater started to cheer, believing the worst of the storm was over.

Morton knew better. True gale winds had decreased but the sea was still rough. Looking through the salt-stained windows, he could see the gray inner walls of the hurricane soaring into the sky. The storm was moving directly over them and they were now in the hurricane's eye.

The worst was yet to come.

In the few short hours remaining before the eye passed, Morton called together all his maintenance people and every able male employee and passenger. Then he divided them up into work parties, assigning some to repair the damage and others to shore up the lower-level windows that were badly leaking and ready to give way. They labored heroically and soon their efforts paid off. The flooding decreased and the pumps began to gain on the leaks.

Morton realized they had merely gleaned a temporary reprieve as long as they remained in the eye, but it was vital to keep up morale and assure everyone they had a fighting chance of survival, even though he didn't believe it himself.

He returned to his office and began studying charts of the Dominican Republic shoreline, attempting to predict where the
Ocean Wanderer
might be driven ashore. With luck they could be forced onto one of the many beaches, but most were too small, some even blasted out of the rock to build hotel resorts. His best estimate was that they had a ninety percent chance of striking rocks created out of volcanic lava many millions of years ago.

In his worst nightmare Morton could not conceive how he could remove a thousand human beings from the battered hotel and transport them safely to land while it was being bashed by giant waves against unyielding rocks.

There seemed no way of avoiding a terrible fate.

He had never felt so vulnerable, so impotent. He was rubbing his tired and reddened eyes when his communications operator burst through the door.

“Mr. Morton, help has come!” he shouted.

Morton looked at him blankly. “A rescue ship?”

The operator shook his head. “No, sir, a helicopter.”

Morton's brief optimism sank. “What good is a single helicopter?”

“They radioed that they were going to lower two men onto the roof.”

“Impossible.” Then he realized that it
was
possible as long as they were in the hurricane's eye. He rushed past the operator and stepped into his private elevator, taking it to the roof of the hotel. As the doors opened and he walked out onto the roof, he was dismayed to find the entire sporting complex had been swept away, leaving nothing but the swimming pool. He was especially horrified to see that the life rafts had all vanished.

Now that he had a clear three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the inner hurricane, he stood awestruck at the sheer malevolent beauty of it all. Then he looked straight up and saw a turquoise-colored helicopter descending down on the hotel. He could see the word
NUMA
in bold letters painted on the fuselage. The aircraft paused and hovered twenty feet above the deck, as two men in turquoise jumpsuits and crash helmets were lowered by cables to the roof of the hotel. Once they disengaged, two large bundles wrapped in orange plastic came down on another cable. They quickly disconnected the hook and signaled an all clear.

A man inside the helicopter pulled up the cables on a winch and gave a thumbs-up sign as the pilot banked away from the hotel and ascended up through the hurricane's eye. Seeing Morton, the two visitors approached, easily carrying the bulky bundles.

The taller of the two removed his helmet, revealing a thick head of black hair, graying on the temples. His face was craggy from a life in the elements and his opaline green eyes, edged in mirth lines, seemed to bore into Morton's brain.

“Please take us to Mr. Hobson Morton,” he said in a voice strangely calm under the circumstances.

“I'm Morton. Who are you and why are you here?”

A glove was removed and a hand extended. “My name is Dirk Pitt. I'm special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency.” He turned to a short man with dark curly hair and heavy eyebrows who looked to be descended from a Roman gladiator. “This is my assistant director, Al Giordino. We came to effect a tow for the hotel.”

“I was told the company tugs could not leave port.”

“Not Odyssey tugs, but a NUMA research ship capable of towing a vessel the size of your hotel.”

Willing to snatch at any straw, Morton motioned Pitt and Giordino into his private elevator and escorted them down to his office.

“Forgive the cold reception,” he said, offering them a chair. “I was given no warning of your arrival.”

“We haven't had much time to prepare,” Pitt answered indifferently. “What is your current status?”

Morton shook his head bleakly. “Not good. Our pumps are barely staying ahead of the flooding, the structure is in danger of collapsing, and once we run onto the rocks surrounding the Dominican Republic”—he paused and shrugged—“then a thousand people, including yourselves, are going to die.”

Pitt's face became as hard as granite. “We're not running on any rocks.”

“We'll need the services of your maintenance personnel to assist us in hooking up with our ship,” said Giordino.

“Where is this ship?” Morton questioned, his voice suggesting doubt.

“Our helicopter's radar put her less than thirty miles away.”

Morton looked out the window at the ominous walls surrounding the hurricane's eye. “Your ship will never get here before the storm closes in again.”

“Our NUMA Hurricane Center measured the eye at sixty miles in diameter and her speed at twenty miles an hour. With a little luck, she'll get here in time.”

“Two hours to reach us and one to make the hookup,” said Giordino, glancing at his watch.

“There is, I believe,” said Morton in an official tone, “a matter of marine salvage to discuss.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” said Pitt, annoyed at being delayed. “NUMA is a United States government agency dedicated to ocean research. We are not a salvage company. This is not a no-cure, no-pay arrangement. If successful, our boss, Admiral James Sandecker, won't charge your boss, Mr. Specter, one thin dime.”

Giordino grinned. “I might mention, the admiral has a love of expensive cigars.”

Morton simply stared at Giordino. He was at a loss over how to deal with these men who had dropped from the sky unannounced and calmly informed him that they were going to save the hotel and everyone in it. They hardly looked like his salvation.

Finally, he acquiesced. “Please tell me what you gentlemen need.”

 

T
HE
S
EA
S
PRITE
refused to die.

She went deeper than anyone could have believed a ship would dive and live. Totally immersed, her bow and stern buried deeply in the water, no one thought she could come back. For agonizing seconds, she seemed to hang suspended in the gray-green void. Then slowly, laboriously, her bow began to rise fractionally as she struggled defiantly back toward the surface. Then her thrashing screws dug in and propelled her forward. At last she burst into the fury of the storm again, her bow thrusting above the water like a porpoise. Her keel crashed down, jolting every plate in her hull that was weighted down with tons of water that flowed across her decks and cascaded back into the sea.

The demonic gale had thrown her worst punch at the tough little ship and she had survived the boiling cauldron. Time and again she had suffered the great swirling mass of wind and water. It was almost as if
Sea Sprite
had a human determination about her, knowing without reservation that there was nothing left the sea could throw at her that she couldn't brush aside.

Maverick stared through the pilothouse windshield that had miraculously failed to shatter, his face white as a lily. “That was macabre,” he said in a classic understatement. “I had no idea I'd signed aboard a submarine.”

No other ship could have withstood such a freak occurrence and survived without sinking to the seabed. But
Sea Sprite
was no ordinary ship. She had been built tough to tolerate massive polar seas. The steel on her hull was far thicker than average to fight the solid mass of ice floes. But she did not escape unscathed. All but one boat had been swept away.

Gazing astern, Barnum was amazed that his communications gear had somehow survived. Those who suffered belowdecks had no inkling how close they came to ending up forever on the bottom of the sea.

Suddenly, sunlight beamed into the pilothouse.
Sea Sprite
had broken into Hurricane Lizzie's giant eye. It appeared paradoxical, with a blue sky above and maniacal sea below. To Barnum it seemed evil that a sight so tantalizing could still be so menacing.

Barnum glanced at his communications officer, Mason Jar, who was standing braced against the chart table, gripping the railing with ivory knuckles, looking like he'd seen an army of ghosts. “If you can come back on keel, Mason, contact the
Ocean Wanderer
and tell whoever is in charge that we're coming as quickly as possible through heavy seas.”

Still dazed by what he had experienced, Jar slowly emerged from shock, nodded without speaking and walked off toward the communications room as if he was in a trance.

Barnum scanned his radar system and studied the blip that he was certain was the hotel twenty-six miles to the east. Then he programmed his course into the computer and again turned over command to the computerized automated controls. When he finished, he wiped his forehead with an old red bandana and muttered, “Even if we reach her before they go on the rocks, what then? We have no boats to cross over, and if we had they'd be swamped by the heavy seas. Nor do we have a big tow winch with thick cable.”

“Not a pretty thought,” said Maverick. “Watching helplessly as the hotel crashes into the rocks with all those women and children on board.”

“No,” said Barnum heavily. “Not a pretty thought at all.”