Cooper stares at the screen. "What's that"

"May I remind you of Article Four of the treaty?" says the Brit. "No establishment of permanent or temporary structures below a depth of one kilometer beneath mean sea level, on pain of termination. No removal of structures from the abyssal plain, on pain of ditto. We're trespassing: legally they can do as they please."

"But we're only picking up the trash — "

"They may not see it that way."

Fine fronds, a darker shade against the gray, are rising from the muddy haze not far from the last resting place of the K-129. The fronds ripple and waver like giant kelp, but are thicker and more purposeful. They bring to mind the blind, questing trunk of an elephant exploring the interior of a puzzle box. There's something disturbing about the way they squirt from vents in the sea floor, rising in pulses, as if they're more liquid than solid.

"Damn," Cooper says softly. He punches his open left hand. "Damn!"

"Language," chides Duke. "Barry, how fast can we crank this rig? Steve, see if you can get a fix on those things. I want to peg their ascent rate."

Barry shakes his head emphatically. "The drill platform can't take any more, boss. We're up to force four outside already, and we're carrying too much weight. We can maybe go up to ten feet per minute, but if we try to go much above that we risk shearing the string and losing Clementine."

Cooper shudders. The grab will still surface if the drill string breaks, but it could broach just about anywhere. And anywhere includes right under the ship's keel, which is not built to survive being rammed by 3,000 tons of metal hurtling out of the depths at twenty knots.

"We can't risk it," Duke decides. "Keep hauling at current ascent rate."

They watch in silence for the next hour as the grab rises toward the surface, its precious, stolen cargo still intact in its arms.