The Dragon in the Sea
Page 28The Ram bore southwest toward home waters, and the timelog reeled off the days. A monotonous succession of watches amidst the cold pipes, dials, wheels, levers, blinking lights, and telltale buzzers. The same faces and the same danger.
Even peril can grow boring.
A distant sound of propellers in an area where all such sounds mean hunter.
Wait and listen. Creep ahead a few knots. Wait and listen. Creep ahead a few knots. Wait and listen.
The distant sound is gone. The Ram picks up speed while red-rimmed eyes watch the ranging and sonar gear.
Garcia was up and about on the fourth day -- a man grown strangely morose and sullen when Ramsey was present.
Still the subtug moved steadily nearer to safety, towing the turgid slug: a prize wrested from death itself.
And a special tension -- a new pressure -- crept into the actions of the Ram's crew. It was a tension that said: "We're going to make it . . . We're going to make it . . . We're going to make it . . ."
"Aren't we?"
Ramsey, asleep in his bunk, wrestled with a silent nightmare in which Sparrow, Garcia, and Bonnett suddenly turned to face him -- all with the features of mad Heppner.
Slowly, the nightmare lifted and left him peaceful in the womblike stillness of the boat.
Stillness!
Ramsey sat bolt upright in his bunk, wide awake, every sense crying out against the strange new element:
quiet. He reached behind him and snapped on his bunk light. It was dim -- showing that they were on emergency batteries.
"Johnny!" It was Sparrow's voice over the wall speaker.
"Here, Skipper."
"Get up to your shack on the double. We're having pile trouble."
"I'm on my way!"
His feet hit the deck, fumbled into shoes. He snapped off his bunk light, ran out the door, up the ladder two steps at a time, down the companionway and into his shack station, talk switch open. "On station, Skipper. Is it serious?"
Bonnett's voice came back. "Full-scale flare-up."
"Where's the skipper?"
"Forward with Joe."
"Joe shouldn't be anywhere near that! He's still on the hot list!"
"It was Joe's watch. You know how --"
"Johnny!" Sparrow's voice over the intercom.
"Here."
"Secure the shack for minimum power drain and come forward."
"Right." Ramsey found that his hands knew automatically which switches to hit. He blessed the long hours of patience with the mock-up board. This was what Reed had meant: "There is no such thing as a minor emergency aboard a submarine." He made the conventional glance-around double check; stand-by light glowing amber, jacks out, main switch up, relay circuit to control room plugged in and green. He thumbed his chest mike: "Les, she's all yours."
"On your way."
Garcia stood beside the tunnel hatch down forward to the left, his hands fumbling with the zipper of an ABG suit.
Ramsey's first thought was: What's wrong with Sparrow? He can't let Joe go in there! Then he understood the significance of the scene.
The nozzle of a detergent hose was racked beside Garcia. Sparrow stood about twenty feet away on the lower catwalk. The space between them showed raw splashes of detergent spray. As Sparrow took a step forward, Garcia stopped working with the zipper, put a hand on the nozzle.
"Stay where you are, Skipper!"
Garcia's voice was metallic and seemed to echo in the engine room and Ramsey realized the man was talking into the open mike of his ABG suit.
Garcia lifted the hose nozzle, pointed it at Sparrow. "One step more and I'll let you have another taste of this."
Ramsey went to the left hand-ladder, dropped down to Sparrow's level. He saw that the front of Sparrow's uniform was dripping with detergent, and winced at the thought of what that high-pressure jet spray could do to a man.
"Shall we rush him, Skipper?" he asked. "I could drop down to --"
"Well, if it isn't the head thumper," said Garcia. The zipper on his suit suddenly unjammed and he pulled it closed, reached back and folded the hood forward over his head, sealed it. The quartz-plate front gleamed at them like a malignant Cyclops eye.
Sparrow glanced at Ramsey, turned back to Garcia. "We couldn't move an inch against that hose. We have to reason with him."
"Let the head thumper reason with me," said Garcia, his voice booming from the bulkhead speaker above them. "That's his department."
"He's only four days from a radiation overdose," said Ramsey.
"This is my show," said Garcia. "This is my big scene. I'm going to crawl that tunnel and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Besides, I know this end of the ship better than any of you."
Ramsey looked down at the open door to the tunnel, realized abruptly that it was the same tunnel in which they had found the dead Security officer.
Garcia half turned toward the door. "Joe, stop!" barked Sparrow. "That's an order!" He made a sudden dash forward, was bowled over backward by a hard stream of detergent spray.
Behind him, Ramsey caught part of the spray, slipped to his knees. By the time they had scrambled to their feet, Garcia had disappeared into the tunnel, closing the door behind him.
Sparrow said, "He took a wrecking bar with him. He's going to jam the hatch dogs inside so we can't follow him."
They heard metal banging on metal.
Garcia's voice came over the bulkhead speaker. "That's right, Skipper. Can't have you fellows trying to
steal my scene. You have front-row seats; enjoy the show."
"Has he gone off his rocker?" asked Ramsey.
Sparrow slipped down to the tunnel door, tested the dogs. "Jammed!"
"Has he gone psychotic?" asked Ramsey.
"Of course not!" barked Sparrow. "There's a full-scale flare-up in that pile room. He's gone in to do what he can."
Ramsey looked at the snooper above the tunnel door, saw that its needle was jammed in the red. "Skipper! It's hot here!"
Sparrow slapped the snooper with one hand and the needle swung back into the seven-hour-limit zone. "Jammed when he opened the door." He turned to the tool rack beside the door. "Joe! Do you hear me?"
"Sure, Skipper. No need to shout. I'm almost at the tunnel curve."
"Joe, defiance of orders is a serious offense."
"What happened in the pile room?" asked Ramsey.
Sparrow began pulling tools from the rack. "Our repairs didn't hold. Tie bolts sheared. The whole reactor slipped to the left, jammed the remote-control bank." He glanced at his wrist watch. "The batteries will give us steerage control for about another thirty minutes. When we lose steerage, the planes
won't be able to hold us level and over we go. Over goes the pile. If we're lucky it'll reach critical mass. If we're unlucky, the whole boat will be contaminated and us with it. That'll be the slow way out."
"And if Joe lives through this, you'll have his hide," said Ramsey. "Even though he's risking --"
"You blasted idiot!" shouted Sparrow. "What do you mean if he lives? Don't you know there's only one way to get that pile back onto its base?"
All Ramsey could think was: I did it! I cracked through that iron control! Now his emotions can take a normal -
"Skipper!" It was Bonnett's voice over the intercom.
Sparrow spoke into his chest mike. "Yes?"
"I'm tuned to the portside pile-room eye over the tunnel plates. They're moving toward --Good God! Joe! Get out of there! Skipper! He's in the pile room!"
"That's what I meant," murmured Sparrow. "Our Father, protect him." He stared at the tunnel door. "'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no --'"
"Now hear this!" It was Garcia's voice from the bulkhead speaker. "I can last maybe fifteen minutes. When I get the remote-control bank cleared, be ready to take over."
"Sure, Joe." whispered Sparrow. He swung open a panel on the forward bulkhead, revealing the direct controls to the left-side bank. The telltale lights glowed red when he threw in the switch.
"He's a dead man already," said Ramsey.
"Quiet!" barked Sparrow. "Tune that bulkhead screen above us to that pile-room eye."
Ramsey jumped to obey. The screen came to life. It showed Garcia's figure bulky in an ABG suit. He was bent over, rigging jacks to force the reactor onto its foundation. As they watched, Garcia began to turn the screws. Slowly, the deadly block inched toward its proper position. They could feel Bonnett adjusting the planes to accommodate for the shifting weight.
Sparrow bent over the tools he had removed from the bulkhead rack, hefted a big Stillson wrench. "Let's try one of those dogs," he said.
"The only way he could've jammed it is from the bottom," said Ramsey. "If we force it down, break it off and --"
Sparrow fitted the wrench to the upper dog, said, "They drilled you well for your little job."
Now, what's he mean by that? thought Ramsey.
"Here, give me a hand," said Sparrow.
Ramsey took hold of the wrench.
Together, they bore down on the handle. Abruptly, the dog twisted, snapped off. Ramsey took a punch and hammer from the stack of tools, knocked the fitting through the door into the tunnel.
Sparrow had the wrench fitted to the other dog.
Ramsey glanced up at the screen. The reactor was back on its foundation, and Garcia was securing it with new lag bolts.
"Let's go," said Sparrow.
They snapped off the other dog, heard a clatter of metal in the tunnel as Garcia's wrecking bar fell away. Sparrow pried the door open, swung it wide.
The snooper's needle jammed in the red.
"Suits," said Sparrow. He motioned toward the locker.
"Sure, Joe."
"Tell her to go someplace and change her name."
"Why?"
Ramsey passed him an ABG suit, began scrambling into his own. "Johnny'll understand."
Sparrow slipped into the suit, looked at Ramsey. "Well?"
Ramsey shook his head, unable to speak.
Sparrow spoke into his mike as he sealed the hood in place. "Joe, we've forced the door. I'm bringing in the detergent hose and a cool suit. Come out of there."
"I'm too hot," said Garcia. "Leave me here."
"Come out or I'll come in after you," said Sparrow.
Ramsey handed Sparrow a fresh ABG suit, glanced up at the bulkhead screen. It showed Garcia's squat-suited figure, standing beside the tunnel plates. Above him, one of the giant remote-control manuals swung outward. At the same time, Bonnett's voice came over the intercom. "The control bank's free, Skipper. I can take it from here. Get that damned fool out of there. He may still have a chance." Bonnett was almost sobbing.
"I'm coming in after you," said Sparrow.
"You don't understand," shouted Garcia. "Stay out of here, Skipper!"
"I'm coming," repeated Sparrow. He freed the detergent hose from its reel clip.
Garcia's voice rose almost to a scream. "Skipper! I'm your spy! Don't be a fool!"
"You're my engineering officer," said Sparrow. He bent for the tunnel, slid into it, dragging hose and ABG suit behind him.
Garcia's voice came to them: "You can't --" He fell silent, choked, coughed, collapsed onto the reactor-room floor.
Around Ramsey in the engine room, lights brightened, the four motors resumed their normal humming. He could feel the Ram's response through his feet as though it were a report from someone outside himself. He was unable to tear his gaze from the screen. The giant manual arm swung out over Garcia's prone figure, clasped him gently, lifted him into the tunnel, replaced the cover plates.
"I've got him," said Sparrow. A gush of detergent washed out the mouth of the tunnel.
He was afraid to look back at the snooper above the tunnel door. Jammed in the red. We've had it, but good, he thought.
Bonnett was still at the helm as Ramsey entered the control room. "Wouldn't let me help," he said. He motioned toward the door aft.
Ramsey continued after the line of wet footprints. Naked of soul, naked of body, he thought. Now we're down to the simplest essentials.
Ramsey jumped to the bulkhead console, started a pump removing the hot fluid.
"Johnny!" Sparrow's voice.
He spoke into his suit mike. "Here, Skipper."
Sparrow's voice lowered. "You don't have to help in this, Johnny. Get away from the tunnel mouth if you value your virility. Joe's hot. Very hot."
"I've already got two kids," said Ramsey. "Bring him out."
"Here he is."