“Can it spot Clementine?” Jerry asked Dave Schoals, who was taking his own pictures of the helicopter.

“I don’t think so,” the recovery director answered, more calmly than Jerry had expected. “The decking and the superstructure hide it pretty well.” Eyeing things, Jerry decided he was right.

Some of the Glomar Explorer’s crewmen flipped off the Russians in the helicopter. Some spun around, dropped their pants, and turned the other cheek to them. Then Captain Gresham’s voice roared out of the PA system like an angry Jehovah’s: “Knock that shit off, you people! You hear me? Knock it off! We don’t want to piss anybody off!”

“That’d be great, wouldn’t it? Let’s give them an excuse for jumping us,” Dave said, as the sailors sheepishly pulled up their jeans.

The copter flew back to the Russian ship It made another pass at the Glomar Explorer later in the day. This time, a photographer with a really long lens on his camera took pictures while leaning out of the open doorway on the chopper’s port side. Jerry didn’t think he would have wanted to do that.

Then the PA system came to life again. “Mister Steinberg to the forward bridge!” it shouted. “Mister Steinberg to the forward bridge on the double!”

Jerry needed that repetition to remind himself that he was Mr. Steinberg here. He hurried forward and then up to the bridge from which Tom Gresham controlled the ship. “I’m Jerry Steinberg,” he said. “What do you need, uh, sir?”

“We have the Chazhma on the radio. Took some work, but we do,” Gresham answered. “I’m told you speak Russian. Can you talk to them, tell them we’re a private seafloor mining vessel operating in international waters?”

“I’m not real fluent, sir, but I’ll try.”

“Okay. Give it your best shot. They don’t admit to having anybody who savvies much English,” Gresham said.

Jerry soon found himself at a radio set. The regular radioman showed him how to use it.

“This Hughes Glomar Explorer. You hear, Chazhma?”

“I read you loud and clear,” a Russian voice answered in his headphones.

“Talk slow, pozhaluista. My Russian nye khorosho.”

“I understand.” The Chazhma’s radioman or skipper laughed. “Tell me what your ship is doing here.” Jack did his best to translate what Captain Gresham had said. The Russian asked, “How long will you stay here?”

After Jerry relayed the question, Gresham answered, “Two or three weeks—maybe a month.” Jerry passed that on to the Chazhma.

“Good luck with your work,” said the Russian on the other end of the circuit. A few minutes later, the Chazhma moved off to the northwest, toward Vladivostok or maybe Petropavlovsk.

“Nice job, kid,” Captain Gresham said.

“Thanks.” Jerry let out a long sigh of relief.