"Graham Farley's cornet," Sandecker repeated wistfully. "If that old horn is any indication, the Titanic may be sitting down there in the black abyss as pretty and preserved as the night she sank."
28
To a chance observer standing on the shore or to anyone out for a leisurely cruise up the Rappahannock River, the three men slouched in a dilapidated old rowboat looked like a trio of ordinary weekend fishermen. They were dressed in faded shirts and dungarees, and sported hats festooned with the usual variety of hooks and flies. It was a typical scene, down to the sixpack of beer trapped in a fishnet dangling in the water beside the boat.
The shortest of the three, a red-haired, pinched-faced man, lay against the stern and seemed to be dozing, his hands loosely gripped around a fishing pole that was attached to a red and white cork bobbing a bare two feet from the boat's waterline. The second man simply slouched over an open magazine, while the third fisherman sat upright and mechanically went through the motions of casting a silver lure. He was large; with a well-fed stomach that blossomed through his open shirt, and he gazed through lazy blue eyes set in a jovial round face. He was the perfect image of everyone's kindly old grandfather.
Admiral Joseph Kemper could afford to look kindly. When you wielded the almost incredible authority that he did, you didn't have to squint through hypnotic eyes or belch fire like a dragon. He looked down and offered a benevolent expression to the man who was dozing.
"It strikes me, Jim, that you're not deeply into the spirit of fishing."
"This has to be the most useless endeavor ever devised by man," Sandecker replied.
"And you, Mr. Seagram? You haven't dropped a hook since we anchored."
Seagram peered at Kemper over the magazine. "If a fish could survive the pollution down there, Admiral, he'd have to look like a mutant out of a low-budget horror movie, and taste twice as bad."
"Since it was you gentlemen
who invited me here," Kemper said, "I'm beginning to suspect a devious motive."
Sandecker neither agreed nor disagreed. "Just relax and enjoy the great outdoors, Joe. Forget for a few hours that you're the Navy's Chief of Staff."
"That's easy when you're around. You're the only one I know who talks down to me."
Sandecker grinned. "You can't go through life with the whole world kissing your ass. Simply look upon me as good therapy."
Kemper sighed. "I had hoped I'd gotten rid of you once and for all when you retired from the service. Now it seems you've come back to haunt me as a goddamned feather merchant."
"I understand they were dancing in the corridors of the Pentagon when I left."
"Let's just say there were no tears shed at your departure." Kemper slowly reeled his lure in. "Okay, Jim, I've known you too many years not to smell a squeeze play. What do you and Mr. Seagram have on your minds?"
"We're going after the Titanic, " Sandecker replied casually.
Kemper went on reeling. "Indeed?"
"Indeed."
Kemper cast again. "What for? To take a few photographs for publicity's sake?"
"No, to raise her to the surface."
Kemper stopped reeling. He turned and stared at Sandecker. "You did say the Titanic?"
"I did."
"Jim, my boy, you've really slipped your moorings this time. If you expect me to believe-"
"This isn't a fairy tale," Seagram interrupted. "The authority for the salvage operation comes straight from the White House."
Kemper's eyes studied Seagram's face. "Then am I to assume that you represent the President?"
"Yes, sir. That is correct."
Kemper said, "I must say you have a rather strange way of doing business, Mr. Seagram. If you will give me the courtesy of an explanation . . ."
"That's why we're here, Admiral, to explain."