"There is some doubt that the Carpathia actually traveled as far as her captain assumed," Pitt replied. "If so, the sighting of the wreckage and the lifeboats could have occurred several miles southeast of the Titanic's wirelessed position."
Sandecker idly tapped the pointer against the map railing. "This puts us between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak, gentlemen. Shall we conduct our search efforts in the exact area of 41°64'N-50°14'W? Or do we bet our money on Graham Farley's horn six miles to the southeast? If we lose, God only knows how many acres of Atlantic Ocean real estate we'll have to drag underwater television cameras over before we stumble on the wreck. What do you say, Rudi?"
Gunn did not hesitate. "Since our search pattern with the Sappho I failed in and around the Titanic's advertised position, I say we drop the TV cameras in the vicinity where we picked up Farley's cornet."
"And you, Dirk?"
Pitt was silent a few moments. Then he spoke, "My vote goes for a delay of forty-eight hours."
Sandecker stared across the map speculatively. "We can't afford one hour, much less forty-eight."
Pitt stared back at him. "I suggest that we skip the TV cameras and leapfrog to the next step."
"Which is?"
"We send down a manned submersible."
Sandecker shook his head. "No good. A TV camera sled towed by a surface vessel can cover five times the area in half the time it would take a slow-moving submersible."
"Not if we pinpoint the gravesite in advance."
Sandecker's expression darkened. "And how do you propose to pull off that minor miracle?"
"We gather every shred of knowledge concerning the Titanic's final hours-glean all records for speed, conflicting position reports, water currents, the angle she slid beneath the waves, throw in the cornet's resting place-- everything, and program it through NUMA's computers. With luck, the readout data should point directly to the Titanic's front yard."
"It's the logical approach," Gunn admitted.
"In the meantime," Sandecker said, "we lose two days."
"We lose nothing, sir. We gain," Pitt said earnestly. "Admiral Kemper has loaned us the Modoc. She's docked at Norfolk right now, fitted out and ready to sail."
"Of course!" Gunn blurted. "The Sea Slug. "
"Precisely," Pitt replied. "The Sea Slug is the Navy's latest-model submersible, designed and constructed especially for deep-water salvage and rescue, and she's sitting on the Modoc's afterdeck. In two days, Rudi and I can have both vessels over the general area of the wreck, ready to begin the search operation."
Sandecker rubbed the pointer across his chin. "And then, if the computers do their job, I feed you the corrected position of the wreck site. Is that the picture?"
"Yes, sir, that's the picture."
Sandecker moved away from the map and eased into a chair. Then he looked up into the determined faces of Pitt and Gunn. "Okay, gentlemen, it's your ball game."
31
Mel Donner leaned on the doorbell of Seagram's house in Chevy Chase and stifled a yawn.
Seagram opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. They nodded silently without the usual early morning pleasantries and walked to the curb and Donner's car.
Seagram sat and gazed dully out the side window, his eyes ringed with dark circles. Donner slipped the car into gear.
"You look like Frankenstein's monster before he came alive," Donner said. "How late did you work last night?"
"Actually came home early," Seagram replied. "Bad mistake; should have worked late. Simply gave Dana and me more time to fight. She's been so damned condescending lately, it drives me up the wall. I finally got pissed and locked myself in the study. Fell asleep at my desk. I ache in places I didn't know existed."
"Thank you," Donner said, smiling.
Seagram turned, puzzled. "Thank you for what?"
"For adding another brick under my determination to remain single."