Free Valhalla Rising by Clive Cussler Page A

the ruptures. A few feet away in the pilothouse, Leo Delgado computed weight and list factors as literally tons of survivors poured on the survey ship like an unending tidal wave. Already, the Plimsoll marks, indicating the maximum load level on the hull, were eighteen inches below the surface.
    Pitt took on the job of masterminding and directing the rescue operation. To those working frantically to save more than two thousand people, it seemed he was everywhere, giving orders over his portable radio, pulling survivors from the water, directing the boats to where those in the water had drifted away, helping work the cranes as the boats were brought on board and unloaded. He shepherded survivors descending down the lines into the waiting arms of the scientists who then guided or carried them below. He caught children in midair whose arms and hands had gone numb from the effort and let go of the last ten feet of line. With no small apprehension, he saw that the ship was becoming dangerously overloaded with another one thousand passengers yet to save.
    He ran up to the pilothouse to check with Delgado on the weight distribution. “How bad is it?”
    Delgado looked up from his computer and gave a gloomy shake of his head. “Not good. Add another three feet to our draft and we’ll become a submarine.”
    “We’ve still another thousand bodies to go.”
    “In this sea, the waves will start surging over the gunnels if we take on another five hundred. Tell your scientists they’ve got to spread more survivors toward the bow. We’re getting too heavy in the stern.”
    Absorbing the bad news, Pitt gazed up at the multitude of people sliding or being lowered on the lines. Then he looked down to the work deck as a rescue boat unloaded another sixty survivors. There was no way he could condemn hundreds of people to their deaths by refusing to save them aboard the little survey ship. A solution, although partial, formed in his mind. He hurried to the work deck and assembled several of the ship’s crew.
    “We’ve got to lighten the ship,” he said. “Cut the anchors and chain and drop free. Hoist the submersibles over the side and let them drift in the water. We can pick them up later. Every piece of equipment that weighs over ten pounds, toss it overboard.”
    After the submersibles were swung over and released to float away, the huge A-frame on the stern of the ship that was used to launch and recover oceanographic equipment was unmounted and dropped over the sides as well. Except that it didn’t float. It went straight to the bottom of the sea, followed by several winches and their miles of heavy cable. He was cheered to see that the hull rose out of the water by nearly six inches.
    Next, as another weight-saving measure, he instructed the men in the boats as they came alongside, “Our load problem has become critical. After you pick up your final haul of survivors, remain adrift next to the ship, but do not send anyone aboard.”
    The message was acknowledged by a wave of the hand as the helmsmen steered the boats back toward the mass of people struggling in the water.
    Pitt looked up as McFerrin hailed him from above. From his vantage point, the second officer could see that the survey ship, despite the equipment that was jettisoned, was still dangerously low in the water. “How many more can you take on board?”
    “How many people are still left up there?”
    “Four hundred, give or take. Mostly crew now that the passengers have fled.”
    “Send them down,” Pitt instructed him. “Is that the lot?”
    “No,” answered McFerrin. “Half the crew escaped to the bow.”
    “Can you give me a number?”
    “Another four hundred and fifty.” McFerrin looked at the big man on the Deep Encounter who seemed to be running the evacuation with incredible efficiency. “May I have your name, sir?”
    “Dirk Pitt, special projects director for NUMA. And you?”
    “Second Officer Charles McFerrin.”
    “Where is your