The Dragon in the Sea

by Frank Herbert

  “Okay, Joe,” he said.

  Garcia remained motionless.

  “Come on, Joe, let’s go.”

  Still he remained motionless.

  “Something’s wrong with him, Skipper.”

  No answer.

  Ramsey motioned toward the hatch between their feet.

  Garcia nodded, stepped aside. Ramsey undogged the hatch. It swung back with an assist from outside and Ramsey saw Sparrow peering up at him. Sparrow motioned toward Ramsey’s throat.

  Then Ramsey recognized the silence. Dead mike switch. He fumbled for it with his suited hand, caught Sparrow in mid-roar. “ … sick bay on the double, Joe!”

  “Detergent spray turned off my mike,” explained Ramsey.

  “You’ve got to watch that,” said Sparrow. “Come down out of there.”

  Ramsey followed Garcia, helped Sparrow strip the suit from the engineering officer. The skipper helped Garcia up onto the catwalk mounting, peeled off the flipper sections. Ramsey stepped back, pulled off his headgear.

  “Tired,” said Garcia. “Knew somebody’d come for me. Coulda cut my way out in’mergency.” He slid off the catwalk mounting, led the way down the stairs.

  Ramsey stripped off his own suit, put both suits away, went down the stairs. Garcia and Sparrow had disappeared through the control-room door. The motors came to life as Ramsey dropped to the control room.

  Bonnett stood at the helm, alone in the maze of control arms and dials. He spoke without turning. “Get on the board and help me find that thermal.”

  Ramsey moved to his station, checked the outside temperature reading. The radiation counter caught his eye. “Who shut off the alarm?”

  “Skipper. He had his eyes glued to it.”

  “Were we in that?”

  “No. You had the hatch sealed before the count went up.”

  Ramsey shivered, stared at the dial: 42,000 milli-R. “That’s almost at a self-sustaining level. Would be if it weren’t for current diffusion.”

  “Where’s that thermal?” asked Bonnett.

  Ramsey tried a short-range pulse, checked the back wave. “Try two degrees starboard … right.”

  “My, we’re salty,” said Bonnett.

  “We’re in it,” said Ramsey. “Radiation dropped, too.” He looked at the big pressure gauge: 262 psi.

  The Ram’s deck remained tilted downward.

  “We’re in it,” repeated Ramsey. “Let’s level out.”

  “Buoyancy in the tow,” gritted Bonnett. He flicked the button on his chest mike: “Skipper, buoyancy in the tow.”

  Back came Sparrow’s voice: “What’s our depth?”

  “We’re in the thermal—about 600 feet.”

  “Bring us around to westward—make it 260 degrees even.”

  “What if we lose the thermal?”

  “Just see that we don’t.”

  “How’s Joe?” asked Ramsey.

  “Full of needle holes,” said Sparrow.

  Bonnett spun the helm, brought up the bow planes, dropped them, found the stabilizing point. The deck inclined forward at an uneasy three degrees.

  “She wants to coon dog on us,” said Ramsey.

  “Why couldn’t oil be a nice heavy substance like lead?” asked Bonnett. He changed the pitch on the rear planes, readjusted the bow planes, glanced at the pitlog. “The drag’s cutting our speed in half.”

  Sparrow ducked through the door into the control room, looked to the rear plane setting, swept his glance across the control reading dials.

  Ramsey abruptly realized that in the one sweeping glance Sparrow had familiarized himself with the facts of his vessel’s life.

  He’s part of the machine, thought Ramsey.

  “The tow’s riding stern-heavy,” said Bonnett. “We lost ballast from the bow. What we need is some nice nonradioactive bottom muck to replenish ballast.”

  Ramsey looked at the sonoran chart. The red dot on their position stood north of the blighted Scottish skerries, course line pointing toward Newfoundland. “Seamount Olga is right in our path,” he said. “It’s west slope would be scoured by clean currents and—”

  “It may be hotter than our damper rods,” said Sparrow. “But it’s a good chance. That’s why we changed course.”

  “Outside radiation’s up a few points, Skipper. The thermal’s thinner than our diameter here.”

  “Steady as she goes,” said Sparrow. “The tank hull took a near-limit dose back there. It’ll have to go through decon anyway. Our concern now is to get that oil home.”

  “It’s hot, too,” said Bonnett.

  “But usable,” Ramsey reminded him.

  Sparrow said, “The immediate problem is how to get that ballast off the bottom when we can’t go down to it. I think we’re going to have to waste another fish.” He turned to Ramsey. “Johnny, do you feel hot enough on the remotes to snag our ballast hose in the fin prongs of one of our Con-5 fish?”

  Ramsey remembered Teacher Reed at the torpedo base on Boca Raton. He had patted the agate smooth skin of a thin torpedo. “This is the Con-5. Those buttons in the nose are radar and TV eyes. Through them, you sit right in the nose of this baby while you guide her into the target.” And he had turned then to a black radio case with a stub antenna protruding from it. “Here are the controls. Let’s see what you can do. This one’s a dud, so you can make lots of errors.”

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Sparrow.

  “Once that baby’s out of her rack, she’s charged and ready to blow. If I smack the pin into something near the hull, we’ve had it.”

  “You don’t think you can handle it?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Ramsey looked at his hands. They were steady. “I can do it if anybody can but—”

  “Youth is what it takes,” said Sparrow. “Les and I are growing old.”

  “Howdy, Grandad,” said Bonnett.

  “I’m serious,” said Sparrow. “The end of that ballast hose sticks out only about a foot. The Con-5 will have to be moving better than fifteen knots to snag the hose tightly. That means—”

  “That means I’d better be right,” said Ramsey.

  “Right the first time,” said Bonnett.

  Ramsey shrugged. “Well, at Boca Raton they said I took to the Con-5 like it was—”

  “Boca Raton?” asked Sparrow. “What’s at Boca Raton?”

  And Ramsey realized he had made another error. Boca Raton was a torpedo school … for Security specialists.

  “Isn’t that a Security school?” asked Bonnett.

  “I missed out on my regular class because of illness,” said Ramsey. “So they sent me there.” He said a silent prayer that his lie would be believed.

  “We’ll be over Olga in twenty minutes,” said Bonnett.

  “I’m going back for another look at Joe,” said Sparrow. He turned, went out the aft door.

  “Garcia’s trying for homestead rights on the sick bay,” said Ramsey.

  “I hope he’s okay,” said Bonnett. “I don’t think the skipper should’ve let him make that slug repair. I could’ve done it.”

  “Even I could’ve done it,” said Ramsey. “But I guess the skipper had his reasons.” He frowned. “Only I’d like to know his reason for picking me to do this snag job.”

  “Did you ever get into a Con-5 game?” asked Bonnett.

  Ramsey suddenly grinned. “Sure. My instructor thought he was a hotshot. So he said we’d take these two Con-5s, him controlling one, me the other. It was a touch match in the bay, first nose-hit the winner. You know, I took—”

  “All right, all right,” said Bonnett. “I’m just trying to make a point. I don’t want a blow by blow. That’s a young man’s game, or at least a school game. We’ve been a long time out of school. You haven’t.”

  “Oh.”

  Bonnett chuckled. “I used to be pretty good at it, too. Tell you what: when we get back let’s hunt up a fish school and I’ll challenge you to a snag match. There’s the fun.”

>   Ramsey sobered. “The skipper doesn’t make mistakes, does he?”

  “Not about people,” said Bonnett. “Or about machines, either.” He stopped to correct the setting on the bow planes. “And when we get back home they’ll have him on the carpet for wasting too many fish. And what about all those spare parts?”

  Ramsey thought: A first-year psych man knows the leader of a group is the integrative force … the logos. Of course this crew has the top rating. Sparrow is—

  “It makes my blood boil when I think about it,” said Bonnett.

  Sparrow came through the doorway onto the control deck. “What makes your blood boil?”

  “All the stupid red tape back at base.”

  “It’s supposed to make your blood boil. That’s why it exists. How far to that seamount?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Okay, Johnny. Let’s see how good you are at Con-tag.” Sparrow gestured toward the torpedo board at Bonnett’s left.

  “How’s Joe?” asked Bonnett.

  “I just shot him full of de-carb. If that hot stuff settles in his bones, he’s a cooked engineer.”

  Ramsey approached the torpedo board slowly.

  Bonnett said, “We caught him in time. He’ll be as good as new in a couple of days. No calcium, no carbonate, no—”

  “Just call him rubber bones,” said Ramsey. “Now how about a little quiet?”

  “The maestro is about to perform,” said Bonnett.

  Ramsey stared up at the banks of red-handled switches, the guide screens, arming triggers. And there in front of him was the little blue stick that made a Con-5 perform. He chose one off the top of the rack, keyed it to the controls, said, “Standing by. How far is down?”

  “Twenty-two hundred feet,” said Bonnett. “You can go any time now. It’s directly under us.” He slowed the engines until they were barely moving.

  “We’ll have hose to spare,” said Sparrow.

  “Shall I make a recon down to that bottom to see if I can get some muck for our hull snooper?” asked Ramsey.

  “No. We have to make this one fast. An EP may pick up our control pulse. If the bottom’s hot, then we’ll have hot oil and they can use it to lube atomic engines.”

  “Now?” asked Ramsey.

  “Take her away,” said Sparrow. “Les, put the side lights on that hose reel.”

  “They’re already on,” said Bonnett.

  Ramsey turned the guide screen to the nose eye in his Con-5, activated the multi-wave projector beside the nose eye. The screen showed a pattern outline for the hull of the Ram, picked up in waves beyond the normally visible spectrum. Superimposed was the faint glow of the side light illuminating the hose reel. A second superimposition showed the relative positions of the Ram and the tiny Con-5.

  “A little more ship speed, please,” said Ramsey. “It’ll steady us.”

  Bonnett moved the throttle bar forward a fractional notch and the Ram picked up speed.

  Ramsey brought the deadly torpedo in closer. He could not see the fin prongs on his torpedo, but he knew where they were—forward projecting edges of the stabilizing fins, designed for hydrostatic balance and set just back of the needle curve of the torpedo’s nose.

  “Blink the side light,” said Ramsey.

  Bonnett winked the light switch off, on, off, on.

  The glow on Ramsey’s guide screen went on and off to the movement of the switch.

  “Wanted to make sure that was the correct light,” said Ramsey. He flashed the Con-5 in close and hovered it over the light. The hose projection was visible ahead, jutting at a forty-five-degree angle from the reel base.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here goes.” He dropped the Con-5 back ten feet, threw full power into the torpedo’s drive. It surged ahead, swooped down onto the hose, seemed to hesitate, then ranged away from the Ram.

  “You got it,” said Bonnett.

  “What else?” asked Ramsey. He slacked off the speed of his torpedo, looked at the counter dial which showed how fast the hose was unreeling. Abruptly, the dial showed a slowing down, slacked off to zero.

  “Lost it,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey brought the Con-5 around in a sweeping curve. The snaky line of the hose was the superimposed outline now. He brought the little torpedo in fast, tipped it at the last minute like a hungry shark and again had the hose in tow. “Got a better hold on it that time.”

  “I’m bringing us around on that seamount,” said Bonnett. “I have you on the search board. I’ll warn you one hundred feet from bottom. You can take it in visually from there.”

  “I picked up the hose about ten feet from the end that last time,” said Ramsey. “Get the pump going the minute I touch the nozzle into the muck; that’ll hold her there. I don’t want to hold that firing pin any closer to a target any longer than I have to.”

  “Pump ready,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey glanced sideways, saw Sparrow at the tow board. Sparrow’s hands moved over the controls. “Line checks clear to the ballast compartment,” he said.

  Ramsey visualized the ballast connections running aft, through the tow controls and into the web mesh which linked Ram and slug. If that linkage remained sound … if he could plug that hose end into ballast muck … if …

  “One hundred feet,” said Bonnett. “You’re bearing along the east face of the seamount.”

  “I have its outline,” said Ramsey, eyes on screen.

  He maneuvered the torpedo closer to the bottom.

  “Ledge,” he said. “That’ll have muck.”

  “Pray it’s cool,” said Sparrow.

  “Pray it’s ballast,” said Ramsey.

  He edged the torpedo and its hose end closer to the bottom, closer, closer …

  “She’s in!”

  “Pump on and … holding,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey tipped the Con-5, freed it from the hose, brought it up away from the bottom.

  “Stand by with that thing,” said Sparrow. “We may have to move the hose.”

  They waited.

  “The slug’s bow is coming down,” said Sparrow. He hit the switch of a ballast snooper. “It’s cool.”

  Slowly, as the Ram circled over the seamount, the slug came to hydrostatic balance. Presently, Sparrow said, “Okay, Johnny, find some deep bottom for that Con-5, set it down, disengage and leave it. Don’t let it blow.”

  “Aye.” Ramsey took the little torpedo down along the flank of the seamount, found a deep ledge and set the deadly metal fish down. He shut down the remote-control system, stepped back.

  “Hose coming in,” said Sparrow. “Take us down into that thermal, Les. Course 260. Johnny, how about looking in on Joe?”

  “Aye, Skipper.” He felt suddenly exhausted, but buoyed by an inner nervous exhilaration.

  “Then get some rest,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey turned aft, went to the door, stepped through, and went to the rec room—sick bay.

  Garcia lay on the sun-lamp cot clad only in a pair of shorts. He was on his back, one brown arm thrown across his eyes. Dots of perspiration glistened on his dark skin. As Ramsey entered the room, Garcia lifted the arm from his eyes, peered from under it.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Who’d you expect? The surgeon general?”

  “Aren’t we funny!”

  Ramsey put the back of his hand against Garcia’s forehead. “Fever?”

  Garcia cleared his throat. “Some. Those damned decalcification shots.”

  Ramsey glanced at the chart Sparrow had taped to the bulkhead above the cot. “You’re due for another shot right now. De-carb and de-phos. Another de-sulf in an hour.” He turned away, went to the pharmacy locker across the room, saw that Sparrow had set out the hypodermics in sterile seals, labeled them.

  “What have we been doing?” asked Garcia.

  Ramsey turned with the hypo for the shot, said, “Getting a new cargo of ballast for the slug. Turn over.”

  “This one in the left arm,” said Garcia. He
held out the arm, watched while Ramsey swabbed the area, administered the injection, returned the hypo to the pharmacy rack.

  Garcia spoke behind him. “Have you and your little black box finally got the skipper figured out?”

  Ramsey’s muscles locked. He took a deep breath to quiet his nerves, turned. “What do you mean?”

  Garcia’s face bore a twisted smile. “Don’t play it innocent, Johnny. Remember me? I’m the guy who’s capable of taking over the electronics shack if you crock out.”

  “But—”

  “My hobby is breaking and entering,” said Garcia. He put his hands under his head, winced as he moved his left arm. “You’ve heard about Pandora’s box?” He managed a shrug by lifting his eyebrows and making the slightest movement of shoulders. “You shouldn’t put temptation like that in front of a guy like me.”

  Ramsey wet his lips with his tongue. “You mean the test equipment for the long-range—”

  “Really, old boy, don’t you know when the jig’s up?” He stared at Ramsey, a calculating look. “The gear in that box is tied to the skipper someway. I don’t know how, but—”

  “Oh, come off that,” said Ramsey. “You—”

  “I put it to the acid test,” said Garcia.

  “Acid test?”

  “You’re a deuced reluctant type, Johnny. If I didn’t—”

  “Start at the beginning,” said Ramsey, tiredly. “I want to know what you think.”

  “Fair enough,” said Garcia. He wriggled into a more comfortable position on the cot.

  Ramsey brought up a stool, sat down.

  “In the first place,” said Garcia, “you didn’t offer to introduce me to the intricacies of your little black box. That was a mistake. Any normal E-man would’ve been all eager to share his gadget with another man aboard who could talk shop.” The smile tugged at the corners of Garcia’s mouth. “You, by the way, don’t talk shop.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s nobody else aboard who talks your particular brand of shop.”

  “Is that when you figured me for a spy?”

  Garcia shook his head. “I’ve never figured you for a spy.” He frowned. “Sorry about that. Maybe I could’ve saved you a bad time with Les. I’ve been certain all along that you weren’t a spy.”