Chapter 22 #2
The line stiffened and then began to rise. Kurt held on tight as it swung with the rocking motion of the ship. Back and forth he went, banging against the side of the hull several times. He no longer thought much of it, it was just another thing to endure.
Reaching the top, he would have liked to have stepped aboard the ship triumphantly, but he was hauled over the rail more like a prize bluefin.
Landing on the deck, he suddenly felt a great fondness for the heated track. He lay on it for a minute, pulling off the helmet, but retaining the headset so he could talk to Joe. “How’s the hookup going?”
Joe responded in his normal jovial tone. “If you mean my last date, terrible. If you’re talking about the lifting straps…they’re in place now.”
“Fantastic,” Kurt said. “Get to the deployment platform and get out of the water.”
“Roger that.”
Kurt unzipped the ruined drysuit, pulled himself out of it, and managed to stand up.
He grabbed instantly for the rail as the fifteen-degree pitch in the deck threatened to send him over the side and back in the water.
The sea looked much closer than it should have.
If his plan didn’t work, there would be very little time for boarding the lifeboats.
Adjusting the headset, Kurt informed the captain and crew that they were ready. “Lifting bags in place,” he announced. “Deck teams, begin lowering the bags on my mark. Crane operators, start pulling the straps tight as gently as you can.”
At eight stations along the deck, the Lyra’s crewmen went into action.
They’d been standing by, waiting and watching.
Now they had a chance to act. They released the tension on the lines and allowed the ropes to slide between their gloved hands a few inches at a time.
As they let out the slack, the crane operators nudged their controls in tiny increments, reeling in the hooks and pulling the straps out of the water.
Uninflated, the bales were heavy enough to sink through the swells, but they slid back and forth just as Kurt had predicted, and the men fought to control them.
“Keep your grip,” Kurt directed, “but let out more line. We have to get them beneath the swells.”
The crewmen followed orders, expediting the drop as the bales threatened to break loose or pull someone into the sea. One by one the rectangular yellow bales disappeared from view.
Kurt watched the lines; they were still sliding back and forth. “Five more feet.”
More rope was let out and the sideways motion was quickly reduced.
“Hold it there. Tie them off.”
The deck crew secured the nylon ropes, pulling them tight like guitar strings.
The crane operators reeled in more line with a deft touch, carefully watching the tension gauge on their panels.
The bales were now twelve feet down on the side of the hull, but held tight to the ship by the combination of the lines and the tightening straps.
The broad straps were tough and strong and would eventually bear all the weight, but the nylon cords were needed to keep them from slipping free.
As Kurt waited for the deck teams to complete their tasks, the ship’s bosun came over. He handed Kurt a square, weatherized device. “I figure you should do the honors.”
Kurt took the device, called an initiator, and armed the switches one by one.
“Starting inflation,” he called out as he pressed the red button.
In the water below a series of inaudible pops were triggered.
Cylinders attached to the lifting bags opened their valves and began pumping nitrogen into the folded bales.
Nearly simultaneously the bags flipped open, unfolding once, then twice, then two more times. The newfound buoyancy pushed them upward, a move that was resisted and prevented by the straps hooked to the cranes.
Kurt looked over the side. He saw bubbling, and a hint of yellow color as the downward-pointed lights reflected off the expanding bags below the surface.
At each station along the side of the ship, this same view was repeated and soon eight yellow blocks the size of shipping containers grew up around the ship. The upward force added to the ship was calculated at nearly eight hundred tons. The upward force on crew morale was immeasurable.
They could see it was working. They could feel it working.
As the bags filled with air, the ship rose in the water and leaned back to the right.
Because the port side was being lifted and the starboard side pulled down, the ship nearly reached an even keel.
The collective dread of spending a night in a lifeboat in the rough icy waters was replaced by a surge of hope.
On the bridge, the captain watched the inclinometer rise out of the danger zone and come back toward the center line. It moved slowly but steadily. The plan was working better than he’d even dared to hope.
“Hot damn,” he shouted. “It’s working.”
The crew around him cheered.
The damage-control specialist ran a new simulation. According to the computer they would remain afloat indefinitely as long as the bags stayed intact. He added another bit of good news. “Door fifteen is closed and locked. Compartment five is secure.”
“How long to pump it dry?”
“About an hour.”
“Find some portables,” the captain demanded. “I want that compartment dry in thirty minutes.”
As the specialist began relaying the commands, the captain turned to the next dilemma.
They couldn’t get underway with the bags attached to the sides.
They would have to get repair crews down into the damaged compartments to seal the breaches and pump the water out. That, his crew could do on their own.
He found an ensign and gave him a set of keys. “Go to my quarters,” he ordered. “Get my finest bottle of brandy and bring it to Austin and Zavala wherever they are on the ship. Tell them they’re off duty for the rest of the night. Captain’s orders.”