The moment the four-ton balance weight lifted clear of the granite doorstep, Tomas didn’t hesitate.
He lunged through the swirling cloud of mud and cut wire. He wrapped his arms around Sile Rook’s vulcanized canvas torso. With a violent heave of his shoulders, Tomas dragged Sile backward across the stone apron. He pulled his friend’s pinned leg out of the narrow recess. Just then, the balance weight settled into its true upright guides.
Sile’s left lead diving boot was mangled. The heavy lead sole was crushed into a concave oval. The thick cowhide leather of the upper was torn away to expose the oiled flannel lining. But the canvas was unbreached, and Sile’s ankle joint, though horribly bruised, was not cut.
Tomas reached for the brass messenger block on the signal line.
He grabbed the heavy hemp cord with both hands and gave five wild, rhythmic jerks—the universal emergency signal of the river salvage divers:
PULL. PULL. PULL. PULL. PULL.
Forty feet above, on the deck of the salvage barge, the response was instant.
The signal line snapped taut. Then the heavy four-inch braided manila hauling lines attached to their breastplate rings groaned as the barge’s steam-driven rope winch kicked into gear.
