Dragon by Clive Cussler Page A

sub and crammed the smallest and three ladies in the second. There should be enough space left over to squeeze in a little guy like you.”
    Without a thank-you, Salazar scrambled into the submersible as Pitt swung the hatch cover closed against his heels. Then Lowden dogged it tight from the inside.
    As the submersible rolled into the air lock and the door closed with a sickening finality, Plunkett slapped Pitt’s back with a great bear paw of a hand.
    “You’re a brave one, Mr. Pitt. No man could have played God better.”
    “Sorry I couldn’t find an extra seat for you.”
    “No matter. I consider it an honor to die in good company.”
    Pitt stared at Plunkett, mild surprise in his eyes. “Who said anything about dying?”
    “Come now, man. I know the sea. It doesn’t take a seismographic genius to know your project is about to collapse around our ears.”
    “Doc,” Pitt said conversationally through a heavy tremor, “trust me.”
    Plunkett gave Pitt a very skeptical look. “You know something I don’t?”
    “Let’s just say, we’re catching the last freight out of Soggy Acres.”
    Twelve minutes later, the shock waves came in an endless procession. Tons of rock cascaded down from the canyon walls, striking the rounded structures with shattering force.
    Finally the battered walls of the undersea habitat imploded and billions of liters of icy black water boiled down and swept away man’s creation as completely as though it had never been built.

10
     
     
     
    T HE FIRST SUBMERSIBLE burst through a trough between the swells, leaping like a whale before belly-flopping into the bluegreen sea. The waters had calmed considerably, the sky was crystal clear, and the waves were rolling at less than one meter.
    Giordino quickly reached up to the hatch cover, gripped the quadrant of the handwheel, and twisted. After two turns it began to spin more easily until it hit the stops and he could push the cover open. A thin stream of water spilled inside the sub, and the cramped passengers thankfully inhaled the pure, clean air. For some it was their first trip to the surface in months.
    Giordino climbed through the hatch and into the small ovalshaped tower that protected the opening from the waves. He’d expected to find an empty ocean, but as he scanned the horizons his mouth gaped in horror and astonishment.
    Less than fifty meters away a junk, the classic Foochow Chinese sailing ship, was bearing down on the floating submersible. Square projecting deck over the bow and high oval-like stern, it carried three masts with square matting sails stretched by bamboo strips and a modern type jib. The painted eyeballs on the bows seemed to rise up and peer down at Giordino.
    For a brief instant, Giordino could not believe the incredulity of the encounter. Of all the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, he’d surfaced at precisely the right spot to be rammed by a ship. He leaned over the sub’s tower and shouted inside.
    “Everybody out! Hurry!”
    Two of the junk’s crew spotted the turquoise submersible as it rose on a swell, and they began yelling at their helmsman to steer hard to starboard. But the gap was almost closed. Pushed by a brisk breeze, the gleaming teak hull bore down on the people spilling out of the sub and leaping into the water.
    Nearer it came, the spray flying from the bows, the massive rudder swinging hard against the current. The crew of the junk stood rooted at the railing, staring in amazement at the unexpected appearance of the submersible in their path, fearful of an impact that could shatter the junk’s bow and send it to the bottom.
    The surprise, the reaction time of the spotters before they shouted a warning, the delay of the helmsman before he understood and twisted a modern wheel that replaced the traditional tiller, all worked toward an inevitable collision. Too late the ungainly vessel went into an agonizingly slow turn.
    The shadow of the great projecting bow fell over Giordino as he