the indented surface. It read:
PRESSURE 220 PSI.
TEMPERATURE 450° F.
HEATING SURFACE 5,017 SQ. FT.
MANUFACTURED BY THE
ALHAMBRA IRON AND BOILER COMPANY
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
SER. #38874
Pitt memorized the serial number and then made his way back to where he started. He wearily sank to the deck and tried to rest while suffering from the cold.
Dover returned in a little under an hour, carrying an explosive canister under one arm, as indifferently as if it were a jumbo can of peaches. Cursing fluently and often as he slipped on the oily deck, he stopped and sat down heavily next to Pitt.
“There’s four more between here and the forepeak,” Dover said tiredly.
“I found another one about forty feet aft,” Pitt replied.
“Wonder why they didn’t go off.”
“The timer must have screwed up.”
“Timer?”
“The crew had to jump ship before the bottom was blown out. Trace the wires leading from the canisters and you’ll find they all meet at a timing device hidden somewhere on the deck above. When the crew realized something was wrong, it must have been too late to re-board the ship.”
“Or they were too scared it would go up in their faces.”
“There’s that,” Pitt agreed.
“So the old Pilottown began her legendary drift. A deserted ship in an empty sea.”
“How is a ship officially identified?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Just curious.”
Dover accepted that and stared up at the shadows of the engines. “Well, ID can be found most anywhere. Life jackets, lifeboats, on the bow and stern the name is often bead welded, outlining the painted letters. Then you have the builder’s plates, one on the exterior of the superstructure, one in the engine room. And, oh, yeah, the ship’s official number is burned into a beam around the outer base of the hatch covers.”
“I’ll wager a month’s pay that if you could dig the ship from under the mountain you’d find the hatch number burned off and the builder’s plate gone.”
“That leaves one in the engine room.”
“Missing too. I checked, along with all the manufacturer’s markings.”
“Sounds devious,” said Dover quietly.
“You’re damn right,” Pitt replied abruptly. “There’s more to the Pilottown than a marine insurance rip-off.”
“I’m in no mood to solve mysteries now,” Dover said, rising awkwardly to his feet. “I’m freezing, starved and tired as hell. I vote we head back.”
Pitt looked and saw Dover was still clutching the canister of explosives. “Bringing that along?”
“Evidence.”
“Don’t drop it,” Pitt said with a sarcastic edge in his voice.
They climbed from the engine room and hurried through the ship’s storerooms, anxious to escape the damp blackness and reach daylight again. Suddenly Pitt stopped in his tracks. Dover, walking head down, bumped into him.
“Why’d you stop?”
“You feel it?”
Before Dover could answer, the deck beneath their feet trembled and the bulkheads creaked ominously. What sounded like the muffled roar of a distant explosion rumbled closer and closer, quickly followed by a tremendous shock wave. The Pilottown shuddered under the impact and her welded seams screeched as they split under enormous pressure. The shock flung the two men violently against the steel bulkheads. Pitt managed to remain on his feet, but Dover, unbalanced by his heavy burden, crashed like a tree to the deck, embracing the canister with his arms and cushioning its fall with his body. A grunt of pain passed his lips as he dislocated his shoulder and wrenched a knee. He dazedly struggled to a sitting position and looked up at Pitt.
“What in God’s name was that?” he gasped.
“Augustine Volcano,” Pitt said, almost clinically. “It must have erupted.”
“Jesus, what next?”
Pitt helped the big man to his feet.
PRESSURE 220 PSI.
TEMPERATURE 450° F.
HEATING SURFACE 5,017 SQ. FT.
MANUFACTURED BY THE
ALHAMBRA IRON AND BOILER COMPANY
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
SER. #38874
Pitt memorized the serial number and then made his way back to where he started. He wearily sank to the deck and tried to rest while suffering from the cold.
Dover returned in a little under an hour, carrying an explosive canister under one arm, as indifferently as if it were a jumbo can of peaches. Cursing fluently and often as he slipped on the oily deck, he stopped and sat down heavily next to Pitt.
“There’s four more between here and the forepeak,” Dover said tiredly.
“I found another one about forty feet aft,” Pitt replied.
“Wonder why they didn’t go off.”
“The timer must have screwed up.”
“Timer?”
“The crew had to jump ship before the bottom was blown out. Trace the wires leading from the canisters and you’ll find they all meet at a timing device hidden somewhere on the deck above. When the crew realized something was wrong, it must have been too late to re-board the ship.”
“Or they were too scared it would go up in their faces.”
“There’s that,” Pitt agreed.
“So the old Pilottown began her legendary drift. A deserted ship in an empty sea.”
“How is a ship officially identified?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Just curious.”
Dover accepted that and stared up at the shadows of the engines. “Well, ID can be found most anywhere. Life jackets, lifeboats, on the bow and stern the name is often bead welded, outlining the painted letters. Then you have the builder’s plates, one on the exterior of the superstructure, one in the engine room. And, oh, yeah, the ship’s official number is burned into a beam around the outer base of the hatch covers.”
“I’ll wager a month’s pay that if you could dig the ship from under the mountain you’d find the hatch number burned off and the builder’s plate gone.”
“That leaves one in the engine room.”
“Missing too. I checked, along with all the manufacturer’s markings.”
“Sounds devious,” said Dover quietly.
“You’re damn right,” Pitt replied abruptly. “There’s more to the Pilottown than a marine insurance rip-off.”
“I’m in no mood to solve mysteries now,” Dover said, rising awkwardly to his feet. “I’m freezing, starved and tired as hell. I vote we head back.”
Pitt looked and saw Dover was still clutching the canister of explosives. “Bringing that along?”
“Evidence.”
“Don’t drop it,” Pitt said with a sarcastic edge in his voice.
They climbed from the engine room and hurried through the ship’s storerooms, anxious to escape the damp blackness and reach daylight again. Suddenly Pitt stopped in his tracks. Dover, walking head down, bumped into him.
“Why’d you stop?”
“You feel it?”
Before Dover could answer, the deck beneath their feet trembled and the bulkheads creaked ominously. What sounded like the muffled roar of a distant explosion rumbled closer and closer, quickly followed by a tremendous shock wave. The Pilottown shuddered under the impact and her welded seams screeched as they split under enormous pressure. The shock flung the two men violently against the steel bulkheads. Pitt managed to remain on his feet, but Dover, unbalanced by his heavy burden, crashed like a tree to the deck, embracing the canister with his arms and cushioning its fall with his body. A grunt of pain passed his lips as he dislocated his shoulder and wrenched a knee. He dazedly struggled to a sitting position and looked up at Pitt.
“What in God’s name was that?” he gasped.
“Augustine Volcano,” Pitt said, almost clinically. “It must have erupted.”
“Jesus, what next?”
Pitt helped the big man to his feet.
Similar Books
