“We lost buoyancy,” Suzanne reported.

“We suddenly got heavier or the water got lighter,” Donald said as he scanned the instrumentation.

“What does that mean?” Perry demanded.

“Since we obviously didn’t get heavier, the water indeed got lighter,” Donald said. He pointed to the temperature gauge. “We passed through the temperature gradient we suspected, and it was a lot more than we bargained for-in the opposite direction. The outside temperature rose almost a hundred degrees Fahrenheit!”

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Perry cried.

“We’re on our way,” Donald said tersely. He snapped the UQC mike from its housing and tried to raise the Benthic Explorer. When he had no luck, he returned the mike to its cradle. “Sound waves don’t come in here and they don’t go out either.”

“What is this, some sort of sonar black hole?” Perry asked irritably.

“The echo sounder is giving us a reading now,” Suzanne said. “But it can’t be true! It says this pit is over thirty thousand feet deep!”

“Now why would that be malfunctioning?” Donald asked himself. He gave the instrument an even harder rap with his knuckles. The digital readout stayed at 30,418.

“Let’s forget the echo sounder,” Perry said. “Can’t we get out of here faster?” The Oceanus was rising, but very slowly.

“I’ve never had trouble with this echo sounder before,” Donald said.

“Maybe this pit could have been some kind of magma pipe,” Suzanne said. “It’s obviously deep, even though we don’t know how deep, and the water is hot. That suggests contact with lava.” She bent forward to look out the view port.

“Could we at least turn off the music?” Perry said. It was reaching a crescendo that only added to his anxiety.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Look at the walls at this level! The basalt is oriented transversely. I’ve never heard of a transverse dike. And look! It has a greenish cast to it. Maybe it’s gabbro, not basalt.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to pull rank here,” Perry snapped with uncamouflaged exasperation. He’d had it with being ignored. “I want to be taken up to the surface, pronto!”

Suzanne swung around to respond but only managed to open her mouth. Before she could form any words a powerful, low-frequency vibration shook the submersible. She had to grab the side of her seat to keep from falling. The sudden quake sent loose objects flying to the floor. A coffee mug hit and shattered; the shards skittered across the floor along with pens that had fallen. At the same time, there was a low-pitched rumbling that sounded like distant thunder.

The rattling lasted for almost a minute. No one spoke although an involuntary squeak escaped from Perry’s lips as the blood drained from his face.

“What on earth was that?” Donald demanded. He rapidly scanned the instruments.

“I’m not sure,” Suzanne said, “but if I had to guess, I’d say it was an earthquake. There’s a lot of them up and down the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.”

“An earthquake!” Perry blurted.

“Maybe this old volcano is awakening,” Suzanne said. “Wouldn’t that be a trip if we got to witness it!”

“Uh-oh!” Donald said. “Something is wrong!”

“What’s the problem?” Suzanne asked. Like Donald her eyes made a quick circuit of the dials, gauges, and screens in her direct line of sight. These were the important instruments for operating the submersible. Nothing seemed amiss.

“The echo sounder!” Donald said with uncharacteristic urgency.

Suzanne’s eyes darted down to the digital readout located close to the floor between the two pilot seats. It was decreasing at an alarming rate.

“What’s happening?” she asked. “Do you think lava is rising in the shaft?”

“No!” Donald cried. “It’s us. We’re sinking, and I’ve jettisoned all the descent weights. We’ve lost our buoyancy!”

“But the pressure gauge!” Suzanne yelled. “It’s not rising. How can we be sinking?”

“It mustn’t be working,” Donald said frantically. “There’s no doubt we’re sinking. Just look out the damn view port!”

Suzanne’s eyes darted to the window. It was true. They were sinking. The smooth rock face was moving rapidly upward.

“I’m blowing the ballast tanks,” Donald barked. “At this depth there won’t be much effect, but there’s no choice.”

The sound of compressed air being released drowned out Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring but only for twenty seconds. At such a pressure the compressed air tanks were quickly exhausted. The descent was not affected.

“Do something!” Perry yelled when he could find his voice.

“I can’t,” Donald yelled. “There’s no response to the controls. There’s nothing left to try.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Mark Davidson was dying for a cigarette. His addiction was absolute, although he found giving them up was easy since he did it once a week. His craving was maximum when he was relaxing, working, or anxious, and at the moment, he was very anxious indeed. For him, deep diving operations were always a walk on the wild side; from experience he knew how quickly things could go horribly wrong.

He looked up at the large institutional clock on the wall of the diving van, with its monstrous sweep second hand. Its intimidating presence made the passage of time hard to disregard. It had now been twelve minutes since there had been any contact with the Oceanus. Although Donald had specifically warned that there might be a short communication break, this seemed longer than reasonable, especially since the submersible had not responded to Larry Nelson’s last message. That was when Larry had tried to tell them that the divers were passing through five hundred feet.

Mark’s eyes darted down to the pack of Marlboros he’d casually tossed onto the diving van’s countertop. It was an agony not to reach over, take one out, and light up. Unfortunately, there was a newly instituted prohibition about smoking in the ship’s common areas, and Captain Jameson was a stickler about rules and regulations.

With some difficulty Mark pulled his eyes away from the cigarettes and scanned the van’s interior. Everyone else present seemed calm, which only made Mark feel more tense. Larry Nelson was sitting perfectly still at the diving operations monitoring station along with the sonar operator, Peter Rosenthal. Just beyond them were the two watch standers, who were in front of the diving system’s operating console. Although their eyes were constantly scanning the pressure gauges of the two pressurized DDCs and the diving bell, the rest of their bodies were motionless.

Across from the watch standers was the winch operator. He was perched on a high stool in front of the window looking out on the central well. His hand rested on the gear shift for the winch. Outside, the cable attached to the shackle on top of the diving bell was being played out at the maximum permitted velocity. From a neighboring drum came a second, passive cable that contained the compressed gas line, hot water hose, and communications wires.

At the far end of the van was Captain Jameson, absently sucking on a toothpick. In front of him were the controls that formed an extension of the bridge. Even though the ship’s propellers and thrusters were being controlled by computer to keep it stationary over the well head, Captain Jameson could override the system if the need arose during diving operations.

“God damn it!” Mark spat. He slammed a pencil he’d been unconsciously torturing to the countertop and stood up. “What’s the divers’ depth?”

“Passing through six hundred ten feet, sir,” the winch operator reported.

“Try the Oceanus again!” Mark barked to Larry. He started to pace back and forth. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it was getting worse. He began to lambaste himself for encouraging Perry Bergman to go on the dive. Being personally aware of Dr. Newell’s interest in the seamount and her desire to make purely exploratory dives, he worried that she might try to impress the president to get her way. That might mean she’d pressure Donald to do things he might not normally do, and Mark was aware that Dr. Newell was the only person on the ship who potentially had that kind of influence over the normally strictly-by-the-book ex-naval line officer.