Attack From Atlantis, page 3
This time, they were not trying to maintain radio contact with the surface. The antenna was stowed away with its miles of thin, insulated wire—insulated with a plastic which held enough air to make it weigh the same as the water it displaced, so there would be no strain on it. It would be used only for emergencies now.
Haller's voice suddenly came over the annunciator. "Were on open orders now, gentlemen. We'll cruise in the neighborhood of the Milwaukee Deep, and take echo-soundings to maintain an accurate chart of our course. We will simulate certain maneuvers and return to port in forty-eight hours."
The Milwaukee Deep lay north of Puerto Rico, reaching a depth of five and a half miles in some places. Don wondered what would happen if a submarine got out of control there and sank all the way. But he knew the answer—even the Triton couldn't stand a pressure of thirteen thousand pounds per square inch; she'd be squashed flat before she reached bottom. Probably the area had been chosen as the least likely spot for the test of a new submarine—and hence the best place for secrecy.
They were down to four hundred fathoms now, nearly half a mile. Now and then, fish could be seen in the lights of the ship—strange fish, unlike those found at the surface or shallower waters. Don kept glancing at them, but they were somewhat familiar from numerous pictures that had been taken by remote control and from bathyspheres—the heavy, round, hollow steel balls barely big enough to hold a man which had gone down to greater depths than the Triton had yet reached, though not as comfortably.
Down here, the water stayed at a uniform temperature of 39° Fahrenheit, no matter what the surface conditions. No sunlight could reach such depths in any amount that could support plant life. The plankton that supported most of the upper life drifted down from above, however, along with bits of other life. Down here, plants and animals were scavengers.
Don kept careful track of their progress, reporting the information from the sonar screen and the echo-sound device regularly. But his interest still centered on the viewing panel. He was looking for the "man in the bubble." It was still a mystery to them all, particularly since the unexplained metal traces had turned up on the diving planes.
At five hundred fathoms, they leveled off and proceeded along an even course, ticking off a steady thirty knots an hour. Don began working with his listening devices, trying to determine how much noise was produced by the Triton. It seemed nearly undetectable. He released a listening device from a rear compartment and let it trail them for fifteen minutes before having it rewind. The jets of steam and water that drove the Triton were so well designed that they were practically noiseless, and the ship itself slipped through the water with no projections to cause trouble. The Triton would be almost undetectable, fortunately.
Normal practice called for four hours of watch, with eight hours off. But the Triton was only a test ship, and had been designed for océanographie surveys, rather than as a weapon. Most of her machinery was so automatic that a minimum crew of twelve was enough; on this run, observers had swelled the ranks, and made less room available for the crew. There were only ten aboard who could do the work that had to be done. Officers and crew would have to work most of the time on this run, catching barely time for sleep.
Upjohn came slouching in a couple of hours later. Haller had issued orders that he was to have complete freedom of the ship, so Don let him in.
"Go stretch your legs, kid," the reporter suggested.
"I asked the skipper, and he says I can take over here for a while. I used to be able to handle this stuff well enough. Anyhow, nothing much will be done until we fix the depth controls."
Don got up, glad to move around. But he frowned. "What's wrong?"
"I gather they've found that they can't blow their trim tanks again, and they're trying to find out why. No trouble now, but it could be, later. So we're idling along. Go on and see for yourself."
"No men in bubbles?" Don asked, grinning.
Upjohn stared at him thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. "As a matter of fact, I thought I saw one in the bow viewing panel just before they found the trouble. But it could have been anything, I guess. Heck, we were bound to have trouble. I figured out there are just thirteen of us aboard!"
"You don't believe that superstition, do you?" Don asked, but he was pretty sure of the answer.
Upjohn grinned, and then sobered. "No—but if anyone on board who is superstitious finds out the number, we'll have accidents; that's the way it goes —men who are afraid always create the situation they're afraid of. Scram, Don, while you can. I'll call you if anything comes up."
Don hurried along the little passage toward the bow, where he heard the sounds of men at work. Walrich and his uncle were busy going over the pumps and controls for the bow trim tanks.
"Just stuck again," his uncle said in answer to Don's questions. "Apparently the valves don't work when there is enough pressure outside, though I can't figure out why. We can take on water, but we can't eject it. Well, we'll have to change back to the older design, I guess, unless we can work the bugs out of this. Figure out how to get more torque from that motor, Walrich?"
The broad shoulders twitched slightly as the mechanic looked up. "Sure. Put in another motor and try to force the valve. I think it'll stand the extra power. But that valve should work! Well, I'll get one of the men and we'll get busy on it."
Simpson and Don went back toward the wardroom where a steaming pot of coffee stood. The older man looked worried, though there was no sign of panic. "We're already as deep as we intend to go," he said. "But I wish we were cruising higher up. I don't like the way that valve is acting. There's something funny about it. And we found some tarry stuff on it before; we put a screen over the valves this time, but it doesn't seem to help. Maybe there's something down here that we don't know about."
Drake came in and filled a cup. "There's something funny, Ed—no question about it. The main ballast tanks won't clear. Same as the trim tanks. And in testing them, we've taken on enough water to overload us already. If we stopped moving, we'd sink to the bottom right now. The diving planes are all that's holding us up."
He fished out a cigarette and stood playing with it, making no effort to light it. "Well," he said at last, "I've tried something. I suspected that tarry stuff before, and tested it. It seems to dissolve in a weak detergent solution, so I've had a few drums of the powder dumped into the tanks. Getting it in was a job, too! If it works, we're all right; there's plenty of detergent on board."
"I'd better tell Walrich to try the same, then," Simpson decided.
"Already saw him. He's working on an injector now, instead of the extra motor."
Don's uncle got up to go back, and Drake joined him. The boy started after them, and then gave up the idea. It was time he got back to the sonar controls. He picked up a sandwich and started back just as an annunciator barked out overhead. "Miller wanted in radar!"
There was a sliding panel between the main control room and the sonar room, and Don saw that it was thrown back now. Upjohn got up as he came in quickly and Don sank into the seat. Haller was watching intently from the other side of the panel.
Then he saw it on the sonar screen—a big pip that was traveling beside them, and apparently matching their course, since it stayed fixed on the screen. "Probably something wrong with the sonar," he said. It was ridiculous to think that there could be another submarine capable of operating at this depth.
He turned to his listening devices, but there was no sound beyond the noises the fish made. Men had been surprised, at first, at the idea of fish making sounds—they were too used to thinking of sound as something that traveled only in air; but by now, every man who worked with the equipment took the fish "talk" for granted.
Then the spot on the screen moved, indicating
the object was rising. It moved back again, almost at once, but it had proved that it wasn't merely a flaw in the instrument. Something was out there.
HaJler issued orders to change course by ten degrees. As the Triton swung, the pip moved aside for a few seconds. Then it drew nearer again. It was pacing them, deliberately matching their course.
Haller picked up his microphone and put through a call for Drake, who appeared almost at once. "How's the freeing of those valves going?" he asked. Then he added, almost as an afterthought: "You don't have to answer in person, Dr. Drake; you'll save time by using the engine-room phone."
"Too early to tell about the effect of the detergent —if it can reach the tar at all. And if it is tar. I've put Walrich back to doubling the motors on the trim tank." Drake ran a hand through his blond hair, and grinned weakly in an effort at apology. "I forgot about the phone—wasn't in the engine room, anyhow. I'm not used to Navy methods, I guess."
"I don't expect you to be," Haller told him. "When I was sent to skipper your ship, I expected to throw the rule book out of the window. Anyhow, do what you can about those valves. It looks as if there's another submarine pacing us. We have to figure it's an enemy, and to expect attack!"
Drake took a look at the sonar screen and whistled. He nodded curtly and went out at a run.
"Enemy still holding position," Don reported.
Haller nodded absently. "Take her up as fast as you can—and full power," he ordered the helmsman. The ship shuddered faintly as the tall Negro threw the power lever and moved the wheel. Here, there was a direct connection from control room to power, without the need to relay orders through the engine room. The ship began climbing painfully upward, fighting against the overload of water ballast in the tanks.
"A nice ship, except for a few little bugs," Haller said quietly, as he studied Don's screens. "Too bad in a way though that the government kept its hands off so much—otherwise, we'd have her fitted for a full crew, and there'd be auxiliary standard valves until these were thoroughly tested. That's one place where Navy experience is better than private enthusiasm. We're too small a crew here for any real cruising—even for survey work. But if we get back, I'm going to recommend that we build this general type exclusively from now on. . . . Isn't it drawing closer to us now?"
"Yes, sir," Don admitted. He could feel moisture on his palms, but Haller's casualness had helped to ease some of the tension—as the admiral had probably intended. The "enemy" was definitely closer, probably not more than a quarter of a mile away.
"Aren't you going to man the torpedoes?" he asked finally.
Haller laughed grimly. "The Navy can make mistakes, too, Mr. Miller. No, there's no use manning them. We intended them only for practice tests—never expected to meet another ship at this depth—so they're not armed. No explosive charge. We don't have any weapons at all, in fact. All we can do is hope we can outrun any torpedoes they send—if they attack."
Now Don's hands really began to sweat. The pip on the screen seemed to swell up to double its size, and to be leaping out of the screen at him. He swallowed and forced his eyes to focus on it. Then he saw that it was nearer, judging by the brightness.
"It's catching up with us, sir," he reported.
"Take her down, Mr. Cavanaugh," Haller ordered. "We can't outrun them when we're fighting our weight. But maybe we can stand more pressure than they can. And keep going down until I order you to stop."
On the screen, the pip showed that the "enemy" was heading for them still, and rapidly shortening the distance. They went roaring down into the darkness of the depths, but the pip on the screen grew brighter and brighter, as whatever was behind them rapidly caught up.
Chapter 4 Head-On Collision
I
hey passed the depth of five hundred fathoms and kept going down. Don jerked his eyes from the screen and got a quick reading on the depth from the echo-sound. Here, the ocean floor lay some fifteen hundred fathoms below the surface, where the pressure would be two tons per square inch. He shivered at the idea. His uncle claimed the Triton should stand a depth of two miles without any danger, but he didn't want to try it yet.
The pip on the screen slipped behind them completely, then showed that the pursuer was just off the stern.
Something hit them violently. The Triton seemed to slew around and to tilt sharply. There was a dull rumble of sound. Don waited for the fatal noise of water hissing in, but it did not come.
"No torpedo," Haller announced. His face had tensed, but his voice was still quiet and cool. "Steady as you go, Mr. Cavanaugh." He picked up the general call microphone. "We've just been hit, but not by a
torpedo. What you felt was only a deliberate collision, and we can stand a great deal of that safely, if not comfortably. In such a game, the risk is at least as great to the attacker as it is to us."
There was another heavy thump. This time, it turned the Triton part way over. Don grabbed at the radar desk to keep from falling. His stomach was sick, but he held onto himself somehow.
And again the thump came. This time there were excited shouts from somewhere on the ship, but no warning gongs sounded to indicate a rupture to the seams.
Kayne, the navigator, looked up from his concentration on the dials and indicators. "Why doesn't he use torps or something?"
"Pressure, maybe," Haller answered. "We're down to seven hundred fathoms—a ton of pressure per inch. If we get far enough down, an explosive can't even explode. The pressure—"
This time the ship threatened to turn over completely. Cavanaugh and the navigator went into frantic action, but they finally came back to level.
". . . pressure outside might be greater than the explosive pressure inside the torpedo," Haller finished. "Instead of exploding, it might collapse."
"Unless he uses an atomic war head," Don muttered under his breath.
Haller heard him, however. "Unless he uses atomics," he agreed quietly.
Then there was a shout from the helmsman, and he was pointing frantically to the bow viewing plate.
Don's view was blocked, but he switched his own plate rapidly over to the bow pickup.
There was no question about it. Outside, in the lights of the Triton, a great whale was swimming rapidly alongside and slightly ahead of them. Their "enemy" submarine was simply a huge whale.
It seemed incredible that any living thing could descend from the surface into this pressure, but he'd seen accounts that claimed the great cetaceans could descend for over a mile. The strange thing, really, was that such a large one should be in this part of the ocean. Usually they were found further north, as he remembered it.
The creature drew off to the side and suddenly came rushing at them. This time, Don switched the pickups to follow it all the way. It came charging up to the stern, striking with its great nose. Then it swung about and seemed to nuzzle against the ship.
He barely saw the last as it shook the Triton about, but Haller seemed to have seen the same.
"He's playing with us," the admiral said. He laughed, grimly. "Maybe he thinks we're another whale with our spouts on the wrong end! How long has he been with us?"
"About twenty minutes, sir," Don guessed.
"Good. He must be running out of air, with all the effort he's been putting out. Maybe he'll surface."
The whale wasn't surfacing yet. It turned for one last gesture of friendship to this strange invader of its home waters. But apparently it had grown tired of the stern, or the hot exhaust there had proved uncomfortable. This time its charge was straight for the bow. It met the Triton head on. The bow seemed to lift and twist. The whale slid under it, hitting it again with his great flukes as he passed.
That, apparently, was enough. With a sudden directness of purpose, he turned upward and began rising, until he was gone from the light of their lamps. The sonar screen showed him fading away quickly toward the surface.
But now the Triton had other worries. Cavanaugh was sweating and laboring at the helm, and Kayne had gotten up to assist him. The Triton was wobbling uncertainly, like a leaf drifting in the wind. It kept threatening to roll, and only the wild efforts on the helmsman's part were keeping it anywhere near level.
"The bow plane, sir," he gasped, nodding toward the screen. But there was only the ocean ahead showing there.
Don twisted his switch, until he found the pickup which would show the bow diving plane at the far edge. Haller bent down to study it. He gasped faintly.
"Bent," he reported. "Neutralize it and use your stern planes, Mr. Cavanaugh."
The bow plane was buckled into an odd curve, as if some giant had taken a sheet of wax and bent it in his hands. The whale must have struck it dead center.
Cavanaugh shook his head. "Can't, sir. Stern planes have been stuck since he first hit us. Been using only the bow ones."
Haller grunted as if someone had hit him in the stomach. "Cut speed. Dead slow ahead/* he ordered. Some of the shaking stopped then. The trim tanks were well enough balanced to hold them level. But now they had no way to control their ascent or descent. In fact, there was no way to keep from sinking slowly downward, unless they could free the tank valves and lighten themselves.
Haller was talking with Simpson over the engine phone, but the news obviously wasn't good. He put the phone back on its cradle and swung to stare at Don's screens. Then he pulled a diagram of the Tritons construction from one of the little lockers and began pouring over it.
"We'll have to eject everything we can to lighten weight, and do what trimming we have to by moving things about by hand," he decided. "We'll start with the torpedoes. Better do it two at a time, with time to trim between. There's probably a storm going on up there, but we'll have to risk it."
Don felt his confidence coming back, and now he was glad that they had a man with a lot of practical experience on subs for their skipper. His uncle was a fine designer, and Drake was a wizard with atomics —but neither could have sounded as confident as Haller did; and it seemed to be a confidence that grew from the man's knowledge that there was always another answer, if the first one didn't work.
