Through the submersible’s ports they recognized a military armored tank standing on the bottom. Their mood quickly became one of shock and disbelief.

“It is not the Waratah—I repeat, not the Waratah,” came the voice of Slater over the radio to the stunned team above on the survey ship.

They moved alongside the hull and rose even with the main deck. Tanks, with their guns pointed into the gloom, and rubber tires could be seen still secured where they had been tied down when the ship left port. At first Emlyn naively wondered how Waratah could have been carrying tanks when World War I was still six years away when she sank. Surely this was not possible. It was difficult to accept the hard fact that this was not the 1909 British mail ship Waratah.

It proved the eye sees what it wants to see. The general characteristics and dimensions of the two ships were very similar. The diver accounts and sidescan sonar recordings had all been misinterpreted. What Emlyn had discovered after all this adversity was most likely a World War II cargo ship that had been torpedoed by a German U-boat. As it turned out, that is exactly what she was.

Eleven tanks were counted, and scattered dumps of small arms. Emlyn and Slater searched for a name or some identifying clue that would reveal the identity of the sunken cargo ship, but none was found.

Disheartened, Emlyn and his team returned to Cape Town. His later research showed that the name of the ship he had thought was Waratah was actually the 4,926-ton Nailsea Meadow. She was transporting a cargo of tanks and other military hardware for General Montgomery’s Eighth Army on a voyage north toward the Suez Canal to Egypt when she was torpedoed by the U-196 in 1942. Like so many ships found by NUMA, she was not where she was supposed to be. Documented records put her four miles north of her actual watery grave.

So where was Waratah? Why has all the evidence gathered over years of intense research pointed to this location? The thinking now is that the old liner lies much closer to shore, a theory I’ve always held because it seemed unlikely to me that Roos could have seen Waratah from the air through 350 feet of water—150 to 200 feet maybe, but not beyond the length of a football field, plus the yardage of the goalpost and then some.

There is little doubt that Joe Conquer witnessed a ship with a black hull and khaki-colored upper deck superstructure roll over and sink in a violent storm. If he and Roos are correct, then Waratah lies much closer to shore than where Emlyn found Nailsea Meadow.

Emlyn’s efforts have not been abandoned. He remains focused, and we are both more determined than ever to get to the bottom of the mystery. Early in 2001, Emlyn conducted a helicopter surveillance survey over the waters off the Xora River where we think Waratah is most likely to be found. His primary objective was to establish boundaries for an extensive sidescan sonar search to be held later in the year when the weather settled down.

I still have great confidence in Emlyn and his NUMA team. The search will continue, but, for now, Waratah retains her secrets, and the mystery lives on.

“Bridge!” wireless operator Harold Cottam shouted into the speaking tube.

A few seconds passed before the booming voice of Carpathia’s second in command, Miles Dean, answered.

“Bridge, go ahead,” Dean said.

“I have received a CQD,” the operator said.

“CQD,” Dean boomed, “from what vessel?”

“Let me adjust the radio,” Cottam said. “Hold one second, please.”

Straining to hear through the speaking tube, Dean could just make out the faint wavering sounds of the radio. The radio shack was less than a hundred yards aft, but as Dean waited, the source of the noise seemed miles distant. Keeping his ear close to the speaking tube, Dean scanned the water with a pair of binoculars. A full moon was reflecting off the water, which allowed night visibility, and Dean was concerned with ice floes. Twice already tonight, Dean had ordered course corrections, and he wanted to be alert in case another was necessary.

“Sir,” Cottam said, “I have a complete message now.”

“Go ahead, then,” Dean said.

“It’s Titanic, sir,” the operator said slowly.

“What about her?” Dean said.

“She’s struck an iceberg, sir,” the operator said, “and reports she’s sinking.”

“What’s her location?”

“Latitude 41 degrees, 46 minutes north,” the operator read from his pad, “50 degrees, 41 minutes west.”

“Stand by,” Dean said.

Racing over to the chart table, he plotted out the location on a chart.

“Telegraph Titanic that we are forty-eight miles distant,” Dean said. “Explain that with all the ice floes in the area, we cannot steam at full speed.”

“How long, sir?” the operator said quickly. “How long should I tell them?”

“Tell them we’re at most four hours away,” Dean said.

“Yes, sir,” the operator said.

Dean turned to the watch officer. “Awake Captain Rostron. Tell him we have received a distress call from Titanic and I’ve set a course north.”

The man sprinted from the wheelhouse and raced down the deck.

“Helmsman,” Dean said, “Starboard one-half, increase speed one-quarter.”

The helmsman repeated the commands while Dean once again scanned the surface of the water with his binoculars.

“God in heaven,” he muttered to himself, “take us through in safety and speed.”

As Titanic filled with water, First Operator John George Phillips continued transmitting as long as possible. CQD followed by MGY, the call sign for Titanic.

“Have you tried the new sign?” Second Operator Harold Bride asked.

“SOS?” Phillips asked, as the carpet under his feet became soaked.

“Yes,” Bride said.

“No,” Phillips said, “but I will now.”

Phillips began tapping the keys. It was the first SOS ever sent.

From the deck of Titanic, seamen began firing rockets into the air.

After streaking skyward, they exploded in a crescendo of white.

From a floating palace of heat and light to a dreary place of haze and cold — the shock must have been incredible for the passengers of Titanic.

In a lifeboat two hundred yards south of Titanic, Molly Brown watched the scene unfold in horror. The lights on the great liner remained burning as she groaned and creaked while the thousands of gallons of water filled her breached hull. From a distance, it seemed like a horrible joke, only the screams of the dying intruding.

Then, all at once, Titanic’s giant stern rose in the air as if to wave good-bye.

She slipped below the surface with one final burp.

Ten miles and a thousand lives from Titanic, the vessel Californian was dead in the water. Just to be safe, her captain was awaiting the light of dawn to try to pick her way through the ice field. Californian was an awkward six-thousand-ton vessel owned by the Leyland Lines and was designed more for cargo than passengers. Though she had cabin space for forty-seven passengers, tonight she carried none. Her route for this journey was London to Boston, but at this instant she was surrounded by an ice field that allowed for no safe movement.

Second Officer Harold Stone waited for morning in the bridge. He watched the ship in the distance through binoculars. Whatever vessel it was had also stopped. Stone did not know Titanic had struck an iceberg. Californian’s wireless operator had shut the set off for the night before the distress call had been sent, so those on watch just assumed the ship on the horizon was waiting for first light to continue on.