The Salvagers Read online

  Unfortunately, I wasn't the only salvager in the solar system. If any of the others found out that I had located the Cape Hatteras, I'd have been dealing with ten ships pulling up next to me, all looking for a way in followed by a government vessel full of archeologists wanting to preserve it for posterity and finally a transport of lawyers to sort it all out—no doubt for a modest cut.

  I wanted to avoid that scenario at all costs. Captain Camden D. Hunter and lawyers do not mix.

  Chapter 2 Day 2

  One of the first things I learned decades ago as a novice 24-year-old adventurer is that it's always easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission. If you bog yourself down waiting for permits from Earth, all you do is hand your prize to someone else. Many an unwary salvager forgot that and spent more time and money in court fighting rival claims than the profits they gained from their haul—and that only happened if they won their case. To come out on top, you must go ahead without permission and have the job finished before anyone else finds out.

  The risk you take with that approach isn't very high. They've still never thrown anyone in jail for salvaging in space. But things can easily bog down in a quagmire of legal action, despite the unions' agreement that the ancient system of maritime law would apply in space. Even so, that finders, keepers system hadn't stopped legal battles in the 18th century, and it still doesn't stop them in 25th. Everyone wants a piece of what you've got, so they'll creatively interpret every law on the books to get you in court. With that in mind, my highest priority was to keep my discovery secret.

  It was a daunting task because in order to fund the project, I needed investors. Quiet ones. I'd never made enough off my salvages to fund my own expeditions and for something as big as the Cape Hatteras, I needed salaries for 30 specialized personnel, a large and fully equipped salvage ship and enough food, fuel, and supplies to last a year or more.

  I wasn't worried. Investment money was everywhere on Earth, and if anyone could entice an investor I was the man. I have a good track record. In my career I'd found eleven wrecks, and every one of them turned a tidy profit. But the Cape Hatteras was in a league of its own; Nothing I had done so far could compare. It was also the reason I had chosen this career. I had wanted to be a treasure hunter since the age of eight, when I read a book titled The Lost Ships of the Solar System by Netea Krahs—a relative of the previous owner of the Amaranth Sun. The first chapter was dedicated to the Cape Hatteras.

  In those days I used to daydream about the odd parallels between my life and the story of the Cape Hatteras. I was born 150 years to the day after the ship was declared lost in what was officially called Sononmaz Province in the UNAG, the bureaucrats’ name for what everyone else still called Arizona, Sonora, and New Mexico. The first officer's last name was Hunter, though I could never find out whether I was related to him. My mother was born not far from Cape Hatteras, where I'd been many times on family vacations. My young mind drew every kind of minor connection between myself and that ship.

  I'm wiser now in my old age, but I was still disappointed that I'd never found the wreck. I think the real blow to the dream came when I found myself fantasizing about going home to Flagstaff and retiring. I thought that maybe I could work for another decade and then hand the reins to my son. I didn't see much time left for the Cape Hatteras in those remaining years. But then everything changed.

  Before tackling the project, I had to come up with a game plan. I summoned my crew of three to the bridge for a meeting.

  "Whatever happened to 974-Bernhard?" Kurt asked.

  "It's still out there," I responded.

  "Why can't we mine it? If it's still loaded with gold, we wouldn't need investors."

  "About fifty years ago some prospectors staked a claim, even though there wasn't much left after the Cape Hatteras had stripmined the metallic half of the asteroid. I've been there. The camp is just a collection of prefab units and mining equipment. It's a very radioactive environment, and excavating deeper means drilling through nickel-iron as hard as steel, but they do manage to produce small amounts of gold from deep down. It's a hard life for little return."

  "You could probably convince Ed Iron if you turned on the charm," Stacey said.

  "I intend to try him first," I replied. "I'm sure he'd keep quiet about it, but he's not dumb. He'll want a full plan and methodology before we speak directly."

  "I wouldn't worry," Kurt commented. "This is going to be an easy salvage. You know what violent decompression usually does to a ship."

  "Yeah, the jet of escaping air spins it to hundreds of revolutions per minute. This one is barely turning at all. With a few strap-thrusters in the right places, we can stop it. Then we cut our way in," Stacey suggested.

  "We don't know whether it's decompressed," I said, worried that I might sound silly.

  "What are the chances that thing still has air in it? One in a million?"

  "Probably, but we should still find out. Do we have a drill and pressure sensor on hand?"

  "I can improvise a drill," Neil said, "but we don't have a pressure sensor. I didn't think we'd need one for the probe salvage, so I never bought one."

  "We could try the laser spectrograph," suggested Stacey. "It may be able to tell whether there's air behind those windows."

  "I never thought we'd use that thing. I'm glad I didn't have it removed during the last refit," I said.

  The Amaranth Sun had just been refurbished a year before. The job had cost me dearly, mainly because the ship was never intended to be a salvor but instead an exploration vessel. It still held the record for the second furthest manned expedition into the outer solar system. Its design gave it an important advantage: it had an enormous range, but alternatively it could sit in space for years if properly provisioned. That's a plus if you need to remain alongside a wreck for months at a stretch.

  The spectrometer was a relic left over from my ship's exploration days. I considered it useless, but it hadn't been worth removing. It didn't take Stacey long to configure it and get a result. The spectrometer detected no air at all. The salvage would have to be done using lunar-grade environment suits, also known as moon suits.

  With that in mind we drafted our game plan, which we finished in less than a day. There was no way Ed wouldn't want in on it. Still, sending the proposal is always the hardest part when you're asking for money. You always second-guess what you've written. We just had to wait for Ed to receive it, look it over, and initiate direct contact if he were interested or send a polite no if he weren't. It was a tense two days before we heard back from him.

  It took about 45 minutes for radio transmission to reach home from where we were. Pleasantries take hours with delays like that, so it's standard procedure to send a message in text detailing what you want to say beforehand, thereby avoiding lengthy conversations. You also learn to speak in paragraphs rather than sentences, and you never get used to seeing people's reactions long after you've finished speaking. Ed's text reply was simple. It read: "I'm in." His image appeared moments later on the communications screen.

  "Cam," said Ed, "it's good to see you. I got your report. It's an amazing find. Fantastic, I must say, absolutely fantastic." Although he was usually businesslike and always poker-faced, his excitement showed in the tone of his voice. I could safely predict that I'd snared one of the wealthiest men in the southwestern UNAG. "Imagine it!" he effused. "The Cape Hatteras found. I can't fathom what it might be worth today."

  That was no small statement for Ed, who knew real wealth. He had made his fortune by manufacturing airtight domes for the colonies. Now he was an old man resting on his laurels, spending his time funding treasure hunts and adventurers, living vicariously through them from his mansion complex in Roswell, New Mexico, and always turning a nice profit.

  "Sorry about the delay in getting back to you. It's a tall order for me right now, since I've got something big in the works that I'm not at liberty to discuss. I've had to involve a few others. You know them already: Ma
rty, Babe, Mrs. Li, Renier, and Volkov—the usual suspects. I got your list. You'll have everything you need and then some. We've already found a good salvage ship for you. It's called the Hyperion. We'll have her out to you in nine months. Nothing but the best. It's still hard for me to believe that someone finally found that wreck. How I wish I were a younger man; I'd love to be out there with you. Sorry I can't get that ship to you sooner. I understand the need to get this project going, but logistics are what they are."

  It's a reality of working in space that you can't do anything fast. Earth was millions of miles away, and we weren't equipped for a major salvage. We'd need the Hyperion to do the heavy work. The Amaranth Sun is a small vessel with little cargo space. It's just big enough to tie NASA's antique probe to the side and transport it home. It would not bear the immense treasure of the Cape Hatteras.

  "I see in your report," continued Ed, "that you're going to do a complete survey. Good call. We'll need to know what we're up against and keep the surprises down. Another thing, we'd also like to bring the ship itself back, a tow ship will meet you at the end of the the salvage. B.T. Hall is planning a new resort in lunar orbit. This would be just the thing to boost the draw. You know how big lunar tourism is. Leasing the Cape Hatteras could mean a nice secondary income stream for us. Maybe enough to send you out to look for something else. I've got my secret project in the works, and there's also the INS Elichpur. It's never been found, you know."

  Since I was going to be filthy rich, I wasn't certain I'd ever want to salvage again. But then I thought about the Elichpur. It had disappeared while on its way to deliver rare artwork bought by an eccentric billionaire who had lived in isolation on Mars almost a century ago. It was worth a fortune. I'd have to do it, and I was dying to know what his secret project was.

  "Sounds great, Ed. I'm ready," I replied. "I've got enough on the Amaranth Sun to stay here for a while, but be sure to send supplies and fuel. I also can't stress enough that you guys need to be low-key. Do everything you can to keep this quiet."

  I trusted Ed to be discreet, but he was just one of five investors. I knew all of them personally. When you're as rich as they are, bragging rights are more important than making more money, and I could easily imagine word of my discovery getting out at the country club over 100-year-old single-malt scotch.

  "Don't worry," Ed reassured me. "I've got it well in hand. I've had my lawyer draft a stiff confidentiality agreement. Anyone who leaks information will lose so much that they'll be broke. I'm also having the whole thing compartmentalized. Only the investors know the big picture. Everyone else won't know enough to put two and two together, and we're having the specialists on the Hyperion agree to isolation from the public for the duration of the project."

  "Thanks Ed. This is the big one! I'm glad to have you along."

  "Glad to be in on it, and thank you for coming to me first. There's one other thing. Do you have the full sensor logs for your ship? All the way back to when Van der Boort owned it? If you do, could you please send me a copy?"

  That seemed an odd question. The logs had nothing to do with the Cape Hatteras salvage, but I did have them.

  "I do, and I'll send them along immediately."

  I then sent a few other messages to keep our affairs in order back on Earth. Most important was the matter of the Smithsonian. They sent a nasty reply when they found out that their new exhibit would be delayed by at least a year, but I figured that if I refunded their money and still delivered their probe, they'd get over it. I could afford losses like that with the solar system's greatest treasure in my hands.

  Chapter 3 August

  Three months had passed since my conversation with Ed Iron. There had been little direct contact other than the reports I was sending every two weeks. I wrote them to sound adventurous, despite its being a simple survey, and his replies consisted of no more than two or three excited words about the mother lode. That hands-off approach was his biggest virtue. As long as he was kept regularly informed, he didn’t interfere.

  Ed's salvor was still months out, giving us plenty of time for the survey. We wanted to thoroughly understand the derelict. We photographed every weld and rivet and pored over each image for hours, thereby gaining confidence that when the time came we could get the job done safely and with a minimum of surprises. That did nothing, however, to relieve our feelings of anticipation. Those only grew worse until they finally gave way to outright impatience.

  Our first hands-on experience with the ship came when we tackled the problem of stopping it from spinning. That was something we could try to do before the salvor arrived, so I declared the survey finished on the morning of day 92. When on a long salvage mission, you seize any opportunity you can to break the humdrum routine and celebrate. Kurt and Stacey marked the event with a "feast" consisting of dehydrated turkey and all the trimmings we could approximate . . . and my last bottle of whiskey.

  The next day Stacey and I were discussing the specifics of just how we'd stop the ship from spinning when Kurt shot in to begin his bridge shift. He was smiling and energetic. He'd obviously had a good sleep after the whiskey the night before, but I think most of his energy was coming from coffee.

  "Good morning! Do we have a solution?" he asked.

  "We think so," I replied. "We'll have to deploy the pneumatic strap-thrusters first. Neil tells me that he can set them up inside of a week." Neil was the ship's engineer and my son, and also the best spacewalker among us. "We won't have to do any guesswork. The Amaranth Sun's computers will do all the calculating. When Neil says they're ready, Stacey will have the computer touch them off. It’ll be as easy as crashing into an asteroid."

  "You hope," Stacey said wryly. She had a penchant for being a logical foil to my optimism.

  "Always say it's easy. Then it has no chance of failure," I said, causing Stacey to roll her eyes.

  "What can go wrong?" Kurt asked, a little disconcerted by Stacey's tone.

  "Nothing," I said.

  "Everything," she retorted.

  She was right, of course. Things have a habit of never going as planned. The first snag we hit was the length of the straps. The Cape Hatteras was a huge ship, bigger than most vessels of our day. When Neil unrolled the straps, they didn't reach halfway around. He came up with a workaround by drilling holes in the outer hull plating and riveting the thrusters in place. He then put a spot weld around the edges for added strength, but the whole thing wasn't as sturdy as those braided nanolatch straps would have been. What started as a week's work grew to six, and when the time came to test the rig I was petrified.

  I hadn't said anything to anyone, mainly because there weren't any alternatives, but I was skeptical that the plan would work. Neil's workarounds were often ambitious to a fault, and I'd never heard of anyone riveting thrusters in place. I worried they might tear a section of hull plating off and put an end to any easy way of pumping an atmosphere back onboard.

  Stacey manned the thruster controls; Neil kept visual watch through a window; and Kurt and I monitored the data from the Amaranth Sun's displays.

  "Unless anyone has any objections, I think we're as ready as we can be," I said. No one objected.

  "Ready. Four, three, two, . . ." At one Stacey hit the button.

  A burst of white mist shot out of seven of the thrusters, but the eighth broke off and spiraled wildly into space.

  "Daughter of a Ganymede flagellant!" Stacey exclaimed. "We lost one. Nice workaround Neil."

  Neil and Stacey had a bad case of the usual rivalry between pilots and engineers.

  "I said it was a workaround! Have you ever tried welding in space? That ship was spinning, taking turns freezing and boiling once an hour. That's hell on a makeshift weld joint," Neil responded defensively.

  "Yeah, blah blah. Moon suits are clumsy. Don't forget to add that one too."

  "Pilots have no sense of mechanics. You wonder why your ships break down all the time," he said. "Did you tell the computer to give it a little extra?"<
br />
  That jibe hit home. Stacey had once burned out a reactor on a Roper Model 12 moon flyer during her training days. Those things are nearly impossible to break, and they're widely considered to be foolproof, but she managed to push it too hard and was left stranded on the Sea of Tranquility for a week until a crawler could pick her up. She lost five pounds living on crackers and mustard packets.

  "It's still spinning," I said. "Could you two hold the rivalry until after we've figured this out?"

  "We'll have to use some of the reserve air," said Stacey. "I'd rather we didn't have to because we can't refill the thrusters without bringing them back onboard. We lost that option when someone welded them on," she said, firing a parting shot at Neil as he returned to his window. "Still, we've got good reserves, and I don't think we'll use them up completely in a second try. I don't see any other choice."

  "Alright, do it," I responded, more than a little disheartened.

  Stacey had the computer recalculate the ship's spin rate. It came up with an answer faster than I felt comfortable with.

  "That's it?"

  "It's your computer. It says it's ready."

  That wasn't comforting. The Amaranth Sun's computers were usually reliable, but they were first and foremost navigational quantum computers. Using them for something else required the computer to write new software for itself. That usually meant glitches.

  "Well, let's try this again."

  This time Stacey didn't bother with a countdown. She just hit the button, and the thrusters fired almost too fast for the eye to see. I held my breath and hesitantly looked at my panel. I saw nothing but welcome, wonderful zeros.

  "I think it worked," I said.

  "Looks as though it’s stopped," Neil said as he checked the derelict visually.

  "I think we’ve done it," I said. It took a moment to sink in before we broke into cheers. It was beautiful. The Cape Hatteras was sitting motionless with a slight dip to port just off our starboard bow. Stacey moved the Amaranth Sun alongside, leaving a space of about 50 meters between the ships.