The Dragon in the Sea

by Frank Herbert

  Sparrow again moved to stand beside Ramsey. “That was a good thing you did for Les.”

  Ramsey stiffened.

  “I stood outside the door until he’d shed the load on his chest,” said Sparrow. “You’re a much deeper man than I’d suspected, Johnny.”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake!”

  “Yes, for Heaven’s sake,” said Sparrow. “You’re a devious one.”

  Ramsey closed his eyes in exasperation, opened them. I’m the father-confessor whether I like it or not, he thought. “Garcia is off his rocker,” he said.

  “I’ve shipped with Joe for quite a number of years,” said Sparrow. “I’ve seen him drunk before. Pressure drunkenness is no different. He’s not the kind to make false accusations. That would be bearing false witness against—”

  “He’s just talking to—”

  “He’s troubled in the spirit,” said Sparrow. “He needs someone like you—a confessor. Did you ever stop to think that you boys are like priests in the way—”

  “I’ve heard it mentioned,” said Ramsey, and realized he had made a confession of identity.

  Sparrow smiled. “Always have a way out the other side, Johnny. Have your safe line of retreat prepared. Joe hates you right now because he doesn’t want to admit he needs you.”

  Ramsey thought: Who’s the doctor and who’s the patient here? He said, “Are you suggesting I copper my bets in the religious gamble?”

  “No bet-coppering there,” said Sparrow.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” agreed Ramsey. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “That’s like telling your psychoanalyst, ‘I’m going to get married as soon as my analysis is finished.’ You’ll never finish.” And he thought: Well, the mask is off. Why do I feel relieved? That’s suspicious. I shouldn’t feel relieved.

  Sparrow studied the search board. “They’re almost out of range.” He began to hum, then in a low voice sang, “You’ll never get to heaven on roller skates! You’ll roll right past those pearly gates.”

  “‘I ain’ gonna grieve my Lord no more,’” said Ramsey.

  “What?” Sparrow turned away from the board.

  “That’s what you were singing: ‘I ain’ gonna grieve my Lord no more.’”

  “So I was.” Sparrow cocked his head toward the search board. “They’re going out of range in the northeast quadrant. Surface currents set northeast here. That means they’ve decided we floated up. Give them an hour out of range.”

  Ramsey checked the sonic pickup monitor on the board, said, “All accounted for in that quadrant, Skipper. No stakeouts.”

  “Certain?”

  Ramsey nodded toward the monitor tape.

  “They’re flustered and that means bad judgment every time,” said Sparrow. “Remember that, Johnny. Keep calm no matter what and you’ll—”

  “Skipper!” It was Bonnett at the door behind them.

  They whirled.

  “Joe’s blood pressure. It’s going up, then down, wider and wider. He acts like he’s in shock and—”

  Sparrow turned back to the board. “They’re beyond range. Slide off, Johnny. Take us to 6000 feet. Fast!” He hurried toward the door. “Les, come with me.”

  “What about the slug?” called Ramsey.

  Sparrow stopped in mid-stride, turned back to Ramsey. “I should listen to my own advice. Les, do what you can for Joe. Johnny, free the clutch on the tow cables.” Sparrow moved to the main controls. “We’ll have to lift the Ram and leave the slug on the bottom until we reach cable limit.”

  “Then try to jerk it off,” said Ramsey.

  “If we can get it started up, the compensator system will keep it coming,” said Sparrow.

  “If,” said Ramsey.

  “Drop two of our fish,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey depressed two of the red-banded torpedo switches.

  The subtug shifted, remained on the bottom.

  “Two more,” said Sparrow.

  Again Ramsey selected two matched torpedo switches, depressed them.

  The subtug’s nose lifted gently seemed to hesitate, resumed its rise. The tail came up. Ramsey fed power into the drive, raised the bow planes.

  The Ram slid upward. They could feel the faint rumbling of the giant cable reel into the outer hull.

  At 1700 feet, Sparrow said, “Try the brake.”

  Ramsey put pressure on the reel hub. The Ram strained against the lines.

  “Five hundred feet more cable,” said Ramsey.

  Sparrow threw full power into the drive. “Lock the reel.”

  Ramsey closed the switch on the magnetic brake.

  The subtug came almost to a full stop, then slowly resumed its climb. Ramsey watched the tow board. “That freed her, Skipper. Now, how much mud are we going to lose out of the compensator system?” He leaned to the right to adjust the atmosphere controls. “If we lose ballast, it’ll be—”

  “Skipper.” It was Bonnett at the aft door.

  Sparrow spoke without turning away from the controls. “How is he?”

  “Resting easier.” Bonnett looked at the big static pressure gauge. “It’s only 2790 pounds now. We got off okay.”

  “Not okay yet,” said Sparrow. “Take over the helm.” He turned the wheel over to Bonnett, moved across to Ramsey’s station.

  “What course?” asked Bonnett.

  “Steady on 197 degrees.”

  “Steady on 197 degrees,” acknowledged Bonnett.

  “We need some more luck,” said Ramsey.

  “St. Christopher is already getting overtime on this trip,” said Bonnett.

  “She seems to be maintaining hydrostatic balance,” said Ramsey.

  “Stay with that board,” said Sparrow. “It’s too soon to tell.”

  “Compartment twenty-seven is fluctuating a little,” said Ramsey.

  “How much?”

  “Maybe five percent.”

  “Keep an eye on it.” Sparrow went back to Bonnett’s station. He stared up at the sonoran chart. “That pack left us in the corner of the northeast quadrant.”

  “They made a bad guess,” said Bonnett.

  Sparrow said, “Are you sure Joe is all right?”

  “Everything was back to normal when I left him.”

  “Mmmm, hmmm.” Sparrow nodded. “Don’t sell that enemy commander short. He had inadequate information. The surface currents set that way.” Sparrow pointed to the lower portion of the chart. “That’s radioactive water to the south—contaminated by the British Isles. He knows we wouldn’t turn east into the range of their shore station. Ergo: We went with the current.”

  Bonnett pointed to the red-outlined radioactive area west of the British Isles. “There are deep cold currents setting south into that area, Skipper.”

  “You’re reading my mind,” said Sparrow.

  “They wouldn’t be as hot as the surface layers,” said Bonnett.

  “It depends on how well we’re able to follow the thermal layer,” said Sparrow.

  “It’d be like nosing into a one-way pipe,” said Ramsey. “We’d have to follow the thermal current of uncontaminated water. And what would happen if we had to come up through all that hot water? Uh, uh.”

  Sparrow said, “Let me figure this.” He took a sheet of paper from his pocket, scribbled on it, stared at it, scribbled some more, again examined his work. “Steady as she goes on 197 degrees,” he said. “It’s our best chance.”

  Bonnett said, “What about Joe?”

  “I’ll go back and check him now. Stay here with Johnny. Let me know if outside water goes above 1000 milli-R.”

  “Aye.”

  The Ram coursed southeast, moving closer and closer to the blighted Scottish coast, rising to shallower and shallower waters. The relatively radiation-free thermal current thinned until it was not quite twice the Ram’s hull diameter from top to bottom: about 120 feet.

  Sparrow returned from the rec room. “He’s okay now. No residual effects.” He stepped across to the tow board
. “Any more fluctuation in compartment twenty-seven?”

  “Negative. We haven’t been in one depth long enough for me to get a check on the pressure constant.” Ramsey looked at the search board, watched the green face of the ranging scope. “Not a pip out of those EP packs.” He turned to Sparrow. “Could we risk a slave pulse inside the slug? I’d like to get something positive on the relative densities.”

  Sparrow pulled at his lower lip, looked at the ranging scope. “Okay. Just one.”

  Ramsey set up the recording dials on the tow board, pushed the sonar-pulse button. Dial needles surged: the time-over-density counter buzzed.

  Sparrow said: “Ballast compartment’s slow forward.”

  Ramsey compared the outer and inner time recordings. “Oil in the ballast,” he said. “There’s a pressure break on the inside.”

  “And we’re painting an oily path on the surface!” barked Sparrow. “If the EPs have an air patrol over this area they’ll spot the slick. They might just as well have an engraved chart of our course.”

  Ramsey turned to the timelog. “Four hours to daylight topside. What’s the Security word on EP air patrols over these hot waters?”

  “Dunno. I wish they’d—”

  “What’s wrong?” Garcia stood in the aft door.

  Sparrow said, “You’re not supposed to be up. Get back to sick bay.”

  “I’m okay.” He stepped onto the control deck. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re leaking oil,” said Bonnett.

  Garcia’s gaze darted to the sonoran chart. “Holy Mother! What’re we doing down here?”

  Sparrow said, “Les, take us up. Johnny, monitor the outside radiation. Mark each 1000 milli-R increase. Let me know immediately if that ruptured oil compartment starts to blow.” He turned toward Garcia, studied him for a minute. “Joe, do you feel up to rigging us for slug repair?”

  Garcia shrugged. “Why not? I’ve just had a good rest. What’d I do this time?”

  “A cheap drunk,” said Bonnett. “Where’d you hide the bottle?” He bent to turn the wheel on the bow planes.

  “Two degrees! No more,” barked Sparrow.

  “Two degrees,” acknowledged Bonnett.

  Garcia moved forward, went through the door onto the engine-room catwalk.

  “Reading 2200 milli-R,” said Ramsey. “Pressure 690 pounds to the square inch.”

  Sparrow said, “Oil loss?”

  “Fifty-five gallons a minute. Constant.”

  Sparrow said, “I’ll take over here, Johnny. Go forward and help Joe.”

  “Aye.” Ramsey surrendered his position, went to the forward door, stepped through onto the catwalk. The electric engines were four droning hives around him, the gray metal of their casings gleaming dully in the standby lights. Through the webwork of girders, catwalks, and ladders, Ramsey could see Garcia high above him near the escape hatch unreeling a safety line, readying it for the outside spools.

  Ramsey mounted the ladders, came up behind Garcia. “Looks like I’m going swimming again, Joe.”

  Garcia glanced back, returned his attention to his work. “This one’s on me.”

  Ramsey bent over, steadied the spool. “Why?”

  “I’m the best swimmer aboard. It stands to—”

  “Somehow I got the idea you might be afraid of the water.”

  Garcia grinned, then frowned. “I was responsible for a man dying in a water-polo game. Broke his neck. That was supposed to be a game. This is business.”

  “But you just got up from pressure sickness.”

  “I’ve had a good rest.” He straightened. “Hand me down that patching kit from the bulkhead rack. That’s a good fellow.”

  Ramsey turned to the bulkhead, found the underwater patch kit, removed it. Behind him, he heard Garcia on the intercom.

  “Is it compartment twenty-seven?”

  “Yes. Why?” Sparrow’s voice impersonalized by the speaker system.

  “How’m I going to fix—”

  “I’m doing this one, Joe. That’s—”

  “I’m rested, Skipper, and I feel fine. Remember me? Swimming champ?”

  Silence. Then: “Are you sure you feel okay?”

  “Tiptop, Skipper. Never better.”

  “Ramsey.”

  Ramsey turned, then grinned at the reaction, pushed the button on his chest mike. “Here, Skipper.”

  “How’s Joe look?”

  Ramsey looked at Garcia. “Same as ever.”

  “Okay, Joe. But if you start feeling funny, come back in immediately. That’s an order.”

  “Righto, Skipper. How much oil we losing?”

  “It’s been going down as we climbed. Now it’s about thirty gallons a minute. Have Ramsey rig you in a detergent suit. That oil is mucky stuff to work in.”

  Garcia said, “Remember in refresher school when your suit system failed? You looked like a—”

  “All right, Joe. Some other time.”

  “How hot is it out there, Skipper?”

  “You can take it for about one hour, Joe. That means you would be starting back within forty minutes.”

  “That’s cutting it close, Skipper. Is there a margin?”

  “I don’t think so. Watch your suit counter. We’re stabilized now at 150 feet. We’ll slip down and balance on the pumps. Outside pressure is sixty-six pounds to the square inch. Milli-R … 9050. You’re on, Joe. Be careful.”

  Ramsey said, “Shouldn’t I go out with him, Skipper?”

  “I don’t want two of us on the radiation-limit list if I can help it,” said Sparrow. “Get yourself rigged and stand by for an emergency call.”

  “Aye.” Ramsey pulled a detergent suit from its locker, helped Garcia into it, tested the seals.

  Garcia spoke over his suit system. “Make sure I’m tight. The suit will give me a little margin.”

  Again Ramsey went over the seals. “You’re tight.”

  “Control deck, do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear, Joe.”

  “I’m going into the hatch now.”

  “We’ll follow you on the eyes. Be careful.”

  “Righto.” Garcia swung open the escape hatch, clambered through, closed the hatch behind him.

  Ramsey heard the water pouring into the locker chamber. He turned, pulled out another detergent suit, donned it. His own suit seals came in for a double check. He could hear Bonnett’s voice over the intercom: “Lock pressure equalized. Outer door open … closed.”

  Sparrow’s voice: “Johnny?”

  “Aye.”

  “Into the lock as soon as the water’s out of it. Seal the hatch and stand by to flood it.”

  High-pressure air roared and the green light beside the hatch flashed clear. “In I go,” said Ramsey. He worked the outside dog controls, breached the hatch, climbed inside the escape chamber, sealed the hatch behind him. The flood-valve release light blinked on. He leaned against the ring rail within reach of the valve, settled down to wait.

  “Keep an open talk switch,” said Sparrow.

  “You mean me?” asked Ramsey.

  “Yes. Joe’s out of range of the stern eyes now.”

  Ramsey watched the water dripping from the damp flood-valve control, glanced at his suit snooper. Some residual radiation: about twenty-three-hour dosage. He looked around the oval compartment, up to the egg dome of the outside hatch. Garcia was out there, probably through the stricture valve by now and into the viscous crude of compartment twenty-seven. Ramsey could imagine the patient search by feel in the black muck of oil. His eyes began to get heavy and he opened the oxy regulator on his lung suit a crack.

  The hands of the timelog swept around: fifty-five minutes.

  “Ramsey!”

  He snapped up, realized he had been dozing. “Aye, Skipper.”

  “We’ve given Joe all the time we’re able. Really too much. Go see what’s wrong … and be careful.”

  “Right.” Ramsey spun the big wheel of the flood valve, felt the gush of
water around his ankles. It surged up about him, tugging at his suit. The warning light and buzzer of his snooper came on simultaneously. The red needle swung into the seventy-minute zone.

  Compartment pressure equalized. Ramsey undogged the outside hatch, swung it clear and locked it in the open position. They could free the magna-lock inside if they had to and this would save time. He pulled a hand light from its wall rack, kicked his fin flippers, and drifted out the hatch opening. Immediately, he felt a wave of aloneness. No intercom out here where signals could be heard by the enemy.

  The hand light picked out Garcia’s safety line snaking away in the darkness. Ramsey hooked his suit ring to it, struck out along the line. The water had an inky quality that swallowed the glow of the light. He sensed the bulk of the slug ahead and above him before he could actually see it and was struck by the oddity of the feeling. The line ran aft along the plastic wall, looped upward onto an external knob.

  Ramsey tugged at the line. No response. He swam up to the knob. A coil of the line was caught in a half hitch around the projection, the end disappearing into a tiny hole through the slug’s surface.

  Fouled control on the stricture valve. Ramsey freed the half hitch, again tugged on the line. He grabbed the projection, felt the valve control through it, pulled downward and turned.

  A gush of oil shot out around the safety line as the hole expanded. The oil diffused upward, leaving a darker shape within its cloud. The darker shape moved toward Ramsey’s light trailing an oily smudge. Ramsey closed the stricture valve, reached out and touched the moving shape. A hand gripped his shoulder through the suit: once, twice, three times.

  All well.

  They turned together, swam back with the safety line. The hatch light glowed out of darkness and they followed it in. Ramsey unhooked the safety line while Garcia was entering the compartment, dragged the coil in behind him. Garcia brought the hatch down, dogged it. Ramsey cracked open the high-pressure air line, turned to face Garcia.

  “Are you okay in there?” Sparrow’s voice over the intercom.

  Ramsey said, “Apparently, Skipper.”

  “Joe’s had a twenty-five-minute overdose,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey looked at the oil-dripping shape across from him. The last water swept out of the compartment with a sucking roar. Ramsey opened the detergent nozzles, felt the hard thudding of the pressure streams. The oil swept off their suits, disappeared down the flush-out.