Chapter 20
With the captain’s blessing in hand, Kurt and Joe raced to the midships cargo bay, where the salvage gear had been stowed. They discussed the plan as they ran the corridors. It came as no surprise to Kurt that Joe understood most of the idea instinctively.
“We secure the lifting bags on the port side, run the straps across the bottom of the hull, and then pull them tight with the onboard cranes,” Kurt said.
Joe nodded. “If we swing the cranes outboard, we’ll add some counterweight to the starboard side of the ship at the same time,” he said. “That will act like an outrigger and help us stay upright without taking on too much water.”
“Great idea,” Kurt said. “With the cranes extended it’ll be like trying to lift something with a long lever instead of a short one.”
“This might just work,” Joe said. “Let’s hope we have enough time.”
As they reached the storage hold, the captain’s voice sounded over the intercom, directing the crew to give full and immediate assistance to Austin and Zavala as they attempted to save the ship. Within seconds there were a dozen crewmen helping them haul the equipment topside.
The crewmen, knowing their ship’s survival depended on the scheme’s success, followed every one of Kurt’s instructions with speed and purpose.
In minutes, the bales containing the uninflated lifting bags were hauled into position beside the portside rail of the ship.
Sets of broad, flat straps—used to cradle sunken objects—were bundled up tight and attached to the hard points on the bags.
At the same time, common ropes and lines were attached to the bales so they could be lowered and held out of the water until they were ready to be inflated.
“Drop them down,” Kurt shouted, waving his arm forward in the first-down motion familiar to anyone who had ever watched American football.
The crewmen heaved the bales up onto the ship’s rail and then pushed them over, lowering them with ropes until they were just out of reach of the waves.
Kurt didn’t want them in the water yet, where the swells would push them back and forth, causing them to rub against the side of the ship, which might damage them.
Joe looked at a phone-sized screen strapped to his forearm; the waterproof dive computer was glowing brightly as a timer he’d set on it counted down. “Based on the last simulation, we have about twelve minutes before the ship goes wrong side up.”
Kurt grimaced at the number. He suspected they had a bit more time to play with.
“Unless the damage goes all the way up past the top of A-deck, there should be some trapped air in each compartment. That’ll give us a little wiggle room, but let’s try to get this done without tapping into it. Ready?”
Joe nodded. Both men pulled on harnesses holding air cylinders and small propulsion units, donned their gloves and helmets, and then stepped to separate gaps in the rail.
Kurt went first, grabbing the nylon rope from one of the crew, turning around backward, and then rappelling down the line with his feet on the side of the ship.
He didn’t have to go far. The ship had settled so that the lifting bag was only twenty feet below him.
Holding on to the rope, he planted his feet firmly.
In their folded and uninflated states, the bales were solid blocks about the size of a compact car.
The footing was respectable, which was a good thing, as the bale was swaying back and forth with the ship’s motion like a giant pendulum.
Thirty feet away, Joe landed on the second bag. He looked Kurt’s way and offered a thumbs-up.
Speaking into the tiny microphone in the radio-equipped helmet, Kurt gave a progress report. “We’re on the bags. Crane operators stand by. We’ll be on your side in no time.”
The plan from here on out was simple. He and Joe would connect the broad lifting straps to their dive harnesses and swim under the ship, towing the straps with them.
After surfacing on the far side, they’d attach the straps to the dangling hooks of the recently deployed cranes.
From there it would be rinse and repeat until all the bags were connected, at which point they would be inflated remotely by a crewman on the deck.
It was a simple plan, but that didn’t make it easy. A hundred things could go wrong.
Kurt hooked the lifting straps to his belt, released the binding that held them in a folded loop, and jumped into the water, pulling the straps with him.
He plunged downward for several feet and then felt a rapid reversal of direction as the buoyancy of the drysuit took over and pulled him up to the surface.
Being on the surface was a miserable experience. The waves knocked him about, slamming him into the side of the ship not once but twice.
Venting air from the suit, he sank once again, descending until he was far enough down that he was beyond the reach of the wave action.
The only issue now was the current. To protect the Lyra’s damaged side, the captain had swung the ship around, which meant Kurt and Joe were going into the current.
It made for slow going and a lot of exertion, even with the propulsion unit giving Kurt a boost.
He kicked long and hard, crossing under the ship with the lights on his helmet illuminating a small section of hull above him.
A quick glance to the side revealed Joe’s lights trailing him by only a few yards. So far so good.
The hull began to peel away from him, curving upward. Kurt rose with it and kept swimming as he cleared the side of the ship. When he’d put thirty feet between himself and the hull, he pumped some air into his suit and bobbed to the surface like a cork.
Looking up, he spied the dangling hook. The crewman had made it easy to spot by wrapping a reflective life jacket around the cable and shining several portable lights at it.
A brilliant touch, Kurt thought, considering how dark the crane’s parts were and how they otherwise blended in with the black water and the night sky.
Kurt swam to it, grabbing it as a passing wave lifted him, and quickly connected the straps. Joe arrived as he was finishing the job and hooked a second batch of straps on as well. It had all gone incredibly smoothly.
“Bags one and two are connected,” he called out over the radio. “We’re going back for numbers three and four.”
“Roger that,” the captain replied.
“That took two minutes,” Joe noted, checking the chronometer on his arm. “At this rate we’ll be done and sipping whiskey in no time.”
“Save that thought,” Kurt replied. “The easy part is over.”
Joe pushed away from the hook and vanished beneath the waves. Kurt followed him, diving back under and swimming beneath the ship. With the current pushing them, the return trip went quickly. It was only after they surfaced that the difficulties Kurt had foreseen revealed themselves.
Surfacing a few feet from the ship, Kurt watched as Joe swam toward inflation block three. He approached it with ease, reached for it, and was pushed away by the arrival of an oncoming swell.
Kurt had known getting back on the lifting bags from the sea would be harder than rappelling down to them in the first place, but he’d come up with a solution.
Attached to each bale was a length of knotted rope that hung from the edge and could be used to pull oneself into position. Divers called it a granny line.
It should have been easy to grasp, but each time Joe reached for it he was washed out of the way by the passing waves.
In one case he was slammed up against the side of the ship.
The next time, the wave lifted him close, but the following trough pulled him down before he could grab the line, causing him to drop a full six feet lower in the water.
From Joe’s perspective it seemed as if the bale had suddenly been pulled up out of his reach, as if the crewmen were playing some practical joke on him, yanking it upward just as he reached for it.
A fourth try ended in failure as well.
Kurt really should have been attacking his own bale, but he was concerned with Joe’s difficulties.
He’d seen men in lifeboats spend shocking amounts of time trying to grasp cargo nets dropped over the side of a rescue ship in similar conditions.
Those men were often suffering from hypothermia and injuries as they made the attempt, but they had the advantage of not wearing bulky suits and carrying heavy air tanks.
Kurt swam over to Joe. “I’ll give you a boost.”
He dropped down under the surface, grabbed Joe’s kicking feet, and pulled them to his chest. As the next swell came through, Joe’s legs flexed and then extended. Kurt pushed them upward and then watched as they vanished above him.
Popping up to the surface he spotted Joe climbing up onto the bale.
“Thanks for the help,” Joe’s voice crackled over the headset speaker. “Now who’s going to give you a boost?”
“I’m sure there’s a friendly mermaid around here somewhere,” Kurt replied.
“With your luck, two or three,” Joe said. “But in case they’re not interested in helping, let me hook the straps on and then I’ll come help you.”
“Negative,” Kurt said. “I don’t want us messing about with those straps floating in the water around us. Too easy to get tangled up. Get them hooked to your belt and get over to the other side. I’ll make this work somehow.”
Joe grunted a disappointed reply, but followed the order. As he jumped back into the water, Kurt reached the fourth bale.
Having watched Joe’s travails, he figured the best thing to do was to ride the swell up onto the side of the lifting bag and grab the line as he got there.
He positioned himself appropriately, kicking hard as the wave pushed in, but the churning eddies of water around the bale swung him sideways. What looked like an easy catch became hands scraping uselessly along the side of the folded bag.
Swept away and dropped down, he circled back under it and tried again.
This time he was slammed into the hull of the ship, and though he managed to get ahold of the rope, it was like trying to grab on to a car that had just run into you.
He was knocked back and then pulled under the bale.
His helmet banged into something and was jarred upward like he’d just been hit in the jaw with an uppercut from some invisible boxer.
It didn’t come off, but the blow briefly let a surge of water in past the neck seal.
The frigid blast shocked Kurt as it washed around his neck and face. He shook it off. “Well, at least I’m wide awake now,” he muttered, fixing his helmet and kicking away from the bag.
He tried again from a different angle, grabbing the line with both hands and balling himself up tight against the inevitable push and pull of the water.
His arms burned as the waves tried to pull him off, but he held on tight.
He knew that a moment of calm followed shortly after the maximum strain, and feeling the pull of the waves decrease just a bit, he began climbing.
He pulled himself up using the knots in the granny line like handholds.
Pulling himself over the top, he paused for only a second before scooping up the straps, linking them to his belt, and dropping back into the sea.
Kicking hard into the current, he raced for the other side of the ship, where he surfaced and swam to the waiting hook. After connecting the straps Kurt hung on to the hook for a moment.
A creeping sense of fatigue was building in his arms and legs.
It came from the constant exertion and the slowly deepening cold.
For a diver in a drysuit, activity was a double-edged sword.
It helped generate heat, but also increased respiration and blood flow to the extremities.
In Kurt’s case he was both sweating and freezing.
The sluggish way his muscles were responding told him that his body was fighting to keep its core temperature up.
Fighting and losing. The harder he and Joe worked, the worse this problem would become, but they had little choice in the matter.
He dropped away from the hook and swam back under the ship to the damaged side. They were halfway done. They needed to finish before the fatigue took over.
Up on the bridge, the captain stood with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.
The ship was wallowing now, the inclinometer swinging back and forth as the ship rocked side to side.
With each passing moment the list was getting worse.
He looked at the damage-control specialist, who had continued to run scenarios.
The specialist just shook his head. All their eggs were in one basket at this point.
Stepping away from the station, the captain opened a weatherproof door and walked out onto the bridge wing in the bitter cold.
He looked aft, along the side of the ship.
He could see the deployed cranes and the roiling waves and circles of illumination from the ship’s lights on the surface of the sea.
For a brief instant he thought he’d spied Austin and Zavala in a trough between the swells, but whatever it was vanished behind a passing wave and didn’t reappear.
He couldn’t imagine being in the water in these conditions, let alone trying to work in them. He marveled at the fortitude of the two men. “Keep going,” he whispered to them under his breath. “Finish this.”