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could work another ten minutes and still have a safe supply of breathable air to reach the surface.
    They turned off the valve on the airlift, stopping the suction, while they waited for the river current to carry away the cloud of disturbed silt. Except for the exhaust of their breathing regulators, it became very still. A little more of the wreck became visible. The deck timbers were crushed and broken inward. Coils of rope trailed into the murk like mud-encrusted snakes. The interior of the hull seemed bleak and forbidding. They could almost sense the restless ghosts of the men who had gone down with the ship.
    Suddenly they heard a strange humming—not the sound made by the outboard motor of a small boat, but heavier, like the distant drone of an aircraft engine. There was no way of telling its direction. They listened for a few moments as the sound grew louder, magnified by the density of the water. It was a surface sound and did not concern them, so they reactivated the airlift and turned back to their work.
    No more than a minute later the end of the suction pipe struck something hard. Quickly they closed off the air valve again and excitedly brushed away the mud with their hands. Soon they realized they were touching, not wood, but an object that was harder, much harder, and covered with rust.
     
    To the support crew on the barge over the wreck site time seemed to have reversed itself. They stood spellbound as an ancient PBY Catalina flying boat made a sweeping bank from the west, lined up on the river and kissed the water with the ungainly finesse of an inebriated goose. The sun glinted on the aquamarine paint covering the aluminum hull, and the letters NUMA grew larger as the lumbering seaplane taxied toward the barge. The engines shut down; the co-pilot emerged from a side hatch and threw a mooring line to one of the men on the barge.
    Then a woman appeared and jumped lightly onto the battered wooden deck. She was slim, her elegant body covered by a narrow-falling tan overshirt, worn long and loose, held low on the hip by a thin sash, over tapering pants in green cotton. She wore moccasin-style boater shoes on her feet. In her mid-forties, she was about five foot seven; her hair was the color of aspen gold and her skin a copper tan. Her face was handsome, with high cheekbones, the face of a woman who fits no mold but her own.
    She picked her way around a maze of cables and salvage equipment and stopped when she found herself surrounded by a gallery of male stares registering speculation mixed with undisguised fascination. She raised her sunglasses and stared back through plum-brown eyes.
    “Which one of you is Dirk Pitt?” she demanded without preamble.
    A rugged individual, shorter than she was, but with shoulders twice the width of his waist stepped forward and pointed into the river.
    “You’ll find him down there.”
    She turned and her eyes followed the protruding finger. A large orange buoy swayed in the rippling current, its cable angling into the dirty green depths. About thirty feet beyond, she could see the diver’s bubbles boil to the surface.
    “How soon before he comes up?”
    “Another five minutes.”
    “I see,” she said, pondering a moment. Then she asked, “Is Albert Giordino with him?”
    “He’s standing here talking to you.”
    Clad only in shabby sneakers, cutoff jeans and torn T-shirt, Giordino’s tacky outfit was matched by his black, curly windblown hair and a two-week beard. He definitely did not fit her picture of NUMA’s deputy director of special projects.
    She seemed more amused than taken aback. “My name is Julie Mendoza, Environmental Protection Agency. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the two of you, but perhaps I should wait until Mr. Pitt surfaces.”
    Giordino shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He broke into a friendly smile. “We don’t stock much in the way of creature comforts but we do have cold beer.”
    “Love one, thank you.”
    Giordino pulled a can