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The two seamen, young and old, stood in silent admiration of the machinery before them. They understood
its enormous power, that its express purpose was to lower and lift a massive platform on which thousands of
tons of sensing devices, search and salvage equipment, as well as recovered artifacts would rest. This equipment
would be made available two miles below the surface to the diving teams, men and women whose experiences
uniquely qualified them to participate in this historic dive into the very bowels of Titanic.
Ingles would be among the divers using the new underwater breathing apparatus that allowed divers to
explore the vast interiors of the sleeping giant below the North Atlantic.
He would be among two other divers set to dive the bow section of the shipwreck while another team of
three divers were planning to explore the aft section of the wreck. Swigart would pilot the sub carrying all the
divers below, while an eighth man, Kyle Fiske, almost Swigart’s age, would help monitor the dive teams from the
control room aboard Scorpio along with Dr. Entebbe and Captain Forbes. In essence, two teams of three divers,
two additional diver-ready backup men in the form of Fiske and Swigart manning controls—eight in all. Overall
Commander of Divers and making all the decisions at this point was Lou Swigart. Fiske was considered the man
to take over for Lou in the event something happened to Swigart. Fiske could also step in for any one of the
others in the event he was needed.
All of them had passed extensive tests utilizing the new technology that amounted to breathing oxygenated
liquid into their lungs. Essentially, they were going through an act of ‘de-evolution’—returning to a fish-like
existence in that their lungs would be filled with liquid, but liquid from which they could sustain life.
It was a technology developed by the US Navy, and Ingles had been among the first test subjects. It
essentially involved a moment of death before coming out on the other side, unless a diver panicked, in which
case, there was no other side. Having the liquid pumped from the lungs after mission accomplished was no
picnic either, but breathing from lungs filled with what scientist had finally come up with for deep ocean and
exotic diving, OPFC, a highly oxygen-enriched, lighter than typical liquid perfluorocarbon as clear as vodka
which allowed for breathing and safe pressures as deep as two and a half miles below the surface—the same
depth as where Titanic awaited.
In any event, there was no room for error.
“I can hardly imagine being able to withstand temperatures of minus 1,700 degrees,” muttered Alandale in
Ingles’ ear. The man’s large-faced, wide grin was infectious, and now Ingles placed his looks: Alandale had the
bearing and appearance of the actor Max Von Sydow in his later years.
“Our dive suits are made of the same material as the Cryo-Cable here,” David replied, giving a mock-squeeze
to the huge cable. Ingles had imagined this trip and the dives ahead of them many times over; he’d imagined the
giant four-sided, metal basket atop a huge platform at the bottom of the sea chockfull with treasures that
Neptune would cry for. Treasures that would find their way to public museums across the globe. Treasures
dredged up by human hands from Titanic’s secret interiors.
Sure I’m in it for the money, but I’m here for the adrenaline rush, too, he thought, being honest with
himself.
The press called them fortune hunters, mercenaries, but there was more to it than money—far more. Ingles
turned at the shouting of orders from below. From where he stood alongside Alandale, he could see that every
major media outlet had shown up, some with microphones milling about the pier. Others made moves to come
aboard the research vessel but were held in check by a pair of brawny crewmembers.
Reporters, Ingles thought. Most would kill their mothers for an inside story.
The last time Ingles had spoken to a reporter was on his return from Japan where he’d been branded a hero
for saving lives. No one said much about Wilcox. Hell, Wilcox had saved his life so that he could himself go on
to save others. But Wilcox had died in the tragedy—no story in that, he facetiously realized. And him…made
out the big hero. Twisted story indeed so far as David Ingles was concerned. No, he’d failed his best friend when
Terry most needed him.
Ingles’ dark glasses lightened when the sun slipped behind a cloud, relieving the scene of the blinding April
morning glare. He wore a sailor’s Navy Pea coat and matching watch cap, looking like any crewmember as he’d
hoped to get through the reporters without notice, without anyone recognizing him, and it’d worked. He just
wanted to blend in at this point; he could be himself and was seldom at ease any longer when not at sea.