Free Deep Six by Clive Cussler

Giordino to take his place in front of the hydroscan as he rose and followed the Catawba’ s skipper into a small compartment stacked with cabinets containing nautical charts. Dover checked the label inserts, pulled open a drawer and rummaged inside. Finally he extracted a large chart marked “Satellite Survey Number 2430A, South Shore of Augustine Island.” Then he laid it on a table and spread it out.
    “Is this what you have in mind?”
    Pitt leaned over and studied the bird’s-eye view of the sea off the volcanic island’s coast. “Perfect. Got a magnifying glass?”
    “In the shelf under the table.”
    Pitt found the thick, square lens and peered through it at the tiny shadows on the photo survey. Dover left and returned shortly with two mugs of coffee.
    “Your chances are nil of spotting an anomaly in that geological nightmare on the seafloor. A ship could stay lost forever in there.”
    “I’m not looking at the seafloor.”
    Dover heard Pitt’s words all right, but the meaning didn’t register. Vague curiosity reflected in his eyes, but before he could ask the obvious question the speaker above the doorway crackled.
    “Skipper, we’ve got breakers ahead.” The watch officer’s voice was tense. “The Fathometer reads thirty feet of water under the hull—and rising damned fast.”
    “All stop!” Dover ordered. A pause, then: “No, reverse engines until speed is zero.”
    “Tell him to have the sonar sensor pulled in before it drags bottom,” Pitt said offhandedly. “Then I suggest we drop anchor.”
    Dover gave Pitt a strange look, but issued the command. The deck trembled beneath their feet as the twin screws reversed direction. After a few moments the vibration ceased.
    “Speed zero,” the watch officer notified them from the bridge. “Anchor away.”
    Dover acknowledged, then sat on a stool, cupped his hands around the coffee mug and looked directly at Pitt.
    “Okay, what do you see?”
    “I have the ship we’re looking for,” Pitt said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “There are no other possibilities. You were mistaken in one respect, Dover, but correct in another. Mother Nature seldom makes rock formations that run in a perfectly straight line for several hundred feet. Consequently, the outline of a ship can be detected against an irregular background. You were right, though, in saying our chances were nil of finding it on the seafloor.”
    “Get to the point,” Dover said impatiently.
    “The target is on shore.”
    “You mean grounded in the shallows?”
    “I mean on shore, as in high and dry.”
    “You can’t be serious?”
    Pitt ignored the question and handed Dover the magnifying glass. “See for yourself.” He took a pencil and circled a section of cliffs above the tideline.
    Dover bent over and put his eye to the glass. “All I see is rock.”
    “Look closer. The projection from the lower part of the slope into the sea.”
    Dover’s expression turned incredulous. “Oh, Jesus, it’s the stern of a ship!”
    “You can make out the fantail and the top half of the rudder.”
    “Yes, yes, and a piece of the after deckhouse.” Dover’s frustration was suddenly washed away by the mounting excitement of the discovery. “Incredible. She’s buried bow-on into the shore, as though she were covered by an avalanche. Judging from the cruiser stern and the balanced rudder, I’d say she’s an old Liberty ship.” He looked up, a deepening interest in his eyes. “I wonder if she might be the Pilottown ?”
    “Sounds vaguely familiar.”
    “One of the most stubborn mysteries of the northern seas. The Pilottown tramped back and forth between Tokyo and the West Coast until ten years ago, when her crew reported her sinking in a storm. A search was launched and no trace of the ship was found. Two years later an Eskimo stumbled on the Pilottown caught in the ice about ninety miles above Nome. He went aboard but found the ship deserted, no sign of the crew or cargo. A month