Read Online Shadow Divers by Robert Kurson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Kurson
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
dive. Nagle agreed.
By now, the other divers had gathered on the deck below the wheelhouse, awaiting a verdict. Nagle slid the door open, stepped out, and leaned over the rail.
“Listen, ladies, this is what I see. Whatever is down there is at two hundred twenty, two hundred thirty feet, and it’s laying low. This is
Doria
diving, maybe tougher. John’s going to splash first and check it out. If it’s some crap garbage barge, we don’t touch it—this shit is too deep to be diving a barge. If it’s something decent and it’s not eat-you-alive deep, we go. Either way, we wait for John. Nobody goes until John gives the okay.”
Chatterton collected his gear from the rear deck and began to suit up while Nagle attempted to hook the wreck. When the anchor caught, Nagle cut the boat’s engines. The
Seeker
and the mass at the ocean’s bottom were now connected. Nagle climbed down to the back deck, where Chatterton was making a final check of his gauges. Before long, everyone on the boat had gathered around the dressing table. Chatterton gave some final instructions.
“Give me six minutes, then give me slack,” he told Nagle. “That’ll give me time to shoot down and look around. If the thing is no good or too deep, I’m gonna pop two cups. If you see two cups, that means I’m not tying in and you should take up the grapple and I’ll come up with it. But if I send up one cup, that means it’s worth diving and it’s not too deep. You see one cup, take in the slack because I’m already tied in.”
Chatterton turned to the rest of the divers.
“Just to be safe, just to make sure there’s no problem, nobody splashes until I finish my deco and come back on board and brief you guys. Everyone cool with that?”
The divers nodded. Chatterton walked to the edge of the boat, placed his regulator in his mouth, pulled his mask over his face, and checked his watch. Six minutes. Nagle checked his watch. Six minutes. Nagle went back to the wheelhouse, killed the power on the loran units, and hid the bottom finder’s thermal paper graphs in a drawer. He liked these guys; they were his customers and his friends. But he didn’t risk his numbers with anyone. Yurga, Brennan, and Hildemann returned to the bow. Chatterton knelt on the rail and fell sideways into the ocean.
Chatterton swam just below the surface to the anchor line, then grabbed hold of the line and purged a bit of air from his wings to reduce his buoyancy. The current began swirling and ripping, and not just in one direction, so that the anchor line bent in S shapes and Chatterton found himself white-knuckling the line and forcing himself down two-handed in a fight to keep from being blown from the rope.
In normal seas, such a descent might have taken two minutes. Five minutes after he splashed, Chatterton was still fighting. “I’m getting my ass kicked and they’re going to give me slack before I even get down there,” he mumbled to himself. As his watch clicked six minutes, he landed on a mass of metal near the sand. White particulate matter flew horizontally past his eyes in the swirling, dark green water, a sideways white Christmas in September. In the poor five-foot visibility, he could see only specks of rust on the metal and, above him, a rounded railing and a soft corner of some kind, an oddly streamlined shape, he thought, for what was probably just a barge. But at least this wasn’t a pile of rocks. Chatterton checked his depth gauge: 218 feet. The sand below him looked to be 230 feet, the outer limit diveable by the men topside. He scanned for a high point to tie into and noticed what looked to be a strut at about 210 feet. The slack arrived, lucky to reach him through the swirling waters above. Chatterton tripped loose the grapple, swam to the strut, and tied the grapple and its fifteen feet of chain until the hook was secure. He took one white foam cup from his goody bag and released it. This dive was a go.
Aboard the
Seeker,
the crew at
By now, the other divers had gathered on the deck below the wheelhouse, awaiting a verdict. Nagle slid the door open, stepped out, and leaned over the rail.
“Listen, ladies, this is what I see. Whatever is down there is at two hundred twenty, two hundred thirty feet, and it’s laying low. This is
Doria
diving, maybe tougher. John’s going to splash first and check it out. If it’s some crap garbage barge, we don’t touch it—this shit is too deep to be diving a barge. If it’s something decent and it’s not eat-you-alive deep, we go. Either way, we wait for John. Nobody goes until John gives the okay.”
Chatterton collected his gear from the rear deck and began to suit up while Nagle attempted to hook the wreck. When the anchor caught, Nagle cut the boat’s engines. The
Seeker
and the mass at the ocean’s bottom were now connected. Nagle climbed down to the back deck, where Chatterton was making a final check of his gauges. Before long, everyone on the boat had gathered around the dressing table. Chatterton gave some final instructions.
“Give me six minutes, then give me slack,” he told Nagle. “That’ll give me time to shoot down and look around. If the thing is no good or too deep, I’m gonna pop two cups. If you see two cups, that means I’m not tying in and you should take up the grapple and I’ll come up with it. But if I send up one cup, that means it’s worth diving and it’s not too deep. You see one cup, take in the slack because I’m already tied in.”
Chatterton turned to the rest of the divers.
“Just to be safe, just to make sure there’s no problem, nobody splashes until I finish my deco and come back on board and brief you guys. Everyone cool with that?”
The divers nodded. Chatterton walked to the edge of the boat, placed his regulator in his mouth, pulled his mask over his face, and checked his watch. Six minutes. Nagle checked his watch. Six minutes. Nagle went back to the wheelhouse, killed the power on the loran units, and hid the bottom finder’s thermal paper graphs in a drawer. He liked these guys; they were his customers and his friends. But he didn’t risk his numbers with anyone. Yurga, Brennan, and Hildemann returned to the bow. Chatterton knelt on the rail and fell sideways into the ocean.
Chatterton swam just below the surface to the anchor line, then grabbed hold of the line and purged a bit of air from his wings to reduce his buoyancy. The current began swirling and ripping, and not just in one direction, so that the anchor line bent in S shapes and Chatterton found himself white-knuckling the line and forcing himself down two-handed in a fight to keep from being blown from the rope.
In normal seas, such a descent might have taken two minutes. Five minutes after he splashed, Chatterton was still fighting. “I’m getting my ass kicked and they’re going to give me slack before I even get down there,” he mumbled to himself. As his watch clicked six minutes, he landed on a mass of metal near the sand. White particulate matter flew horizontally past his eyes in the swirling, dark green water, a sideways white Christmas in September. In the poor five-foot visibility, he could see only specks of rust on the metal and, above him, a rounded railing and a soft corner of some kind, an oddly streamlined shape, he thought, for what was probably just a barge. But at least this wasn’t a pile of rocks. Chatterton checked his depth gauge: 218 feet. The sand below him looked to be 230 feet, the outer limit diveable by the men topside. He scanned for a high point to tie into and noticed what looked to be a strut at about 210 feet. The slack arrived, lucky to reach him through the swirling waters above. Chatterton tripped loose the grapple, swam to the strut, and tied the grapple and its fifteen feet of chain until the hook was secure. He took one white foam cup from his goody bag and released it. This dive was a go.
Aboard the
Seeker,
the crew at
Similar Books
