Nicholson nodded. "I will arrange the channels myself." The President seemed to wither and shrink into the chair. "I don't have to impress upon you gentlemen," he said wearily, "the sorry fact that if we're found out, we'll all be branded as traitors."

30

    Sandecker leaned over a large, contoured map of the North Atlantic Ocean floor, his hand toying with a small pointer. He looked at Gunn, then at Pitt standing on the other side of the miniaturized seascape. "I can't understand it," he said after a moment's silence. "If that horn is any indication, the Titanic doesn't lie where she's supposed to."

    Gunn took a felt-tipped pen and made a tiny mark on the map. "Her last reported position just before she sank was here, at 41°46'N-50°14'W."

    "And you found the horn where?"

    Gunn made another mark. "The exact position of the Sappho I's mother ship on the surface at the time we discovered Farley's cornet put us here, about six miles to the southeast."

    "A six-mile discrepancy. How is that possible?"

    "There was a conflict of evidence concerning the position of the Titanic when she went down," Pitt said. "The skipper of one of the rescue ships, the Mount Temple, put the liner much farther to the east, and his reading was based on a sun-sighting, far more accurate than the dead-reckoning position figured by the Titanic's fourth officer right after she struck the iceberg."

    "But the ship that picked up the survivors, the Carpathia, I believe it was," Sandecker said, "steamed on a course toward the position given by the Titanic's wireless operator and came in direct contact with the lifeboats within four hours."

    "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."

    They were both silent while Donner eased through Washington's rush-hour traffic.

    "Gene," Donner said at last, "I know this is a touchy subject; put me on your shit list if you will, but you're beginning to come across like a self-tortured cynic."

    There was no reaction from Seagram, so Donner forged ahead. "Why don't you take a week or two off and take Dana to a quiet, sunny beach somewhere. Get away from Washington for a while. The defense-installation construction is going off without a hitch, and there's nothing we can do about the byzanium except sit back and pray that Sandecker's boys at NUMA salvage it from the Titanic."

    "I'm needed now, more than ever," Seagram said flatly.

    "You're only kidding yourself into an ego trip. At the moment, everything is out of our hands."

    A grim smile touched Seagram's lips. "You're closer to the truth than you can imagine."

    Donner glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

    "It's out of our hands," Seagram repeated vacantly. "The President ordered me to leak the Sicilian Project to the Russians."

    Donner pulled over to the curb and looked at Seagram dumbfounded.

    "My God, why?"

    "Warren Nicholson over at CIA has convinced the President that by feeding bits of hard data on the project to the Russians, he can get control of one of their top intelligence networks."

    "I don't believe a word of it," Donner said.

    "It makes no difference what you believe," Seagram said brusquely.