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Cuttlefish

Page 24

by Dave Freer


  Captain Malkis tugged his beard. “We need to eliminate this, gentlemen, um and ladies. Find it and suppress it.”

  “We could do one better,” said Clara. “We could let them follow it.…”

  The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. “We're all out of tick-tocks, Captain.”

  “Let me talk to the chief engineer about that! Miss Calland, may I borrow your crystal radio? If this is correct, I may tell you, you've taken a weight off my mind.”

  Clara felt pleased with herself. And then she caught sight of the chronometer. “I've got to get back to Cookie! He's got first sitting in eighteen minutes.” She thrust her radio at the captain. “Excuse me, sir.”

  He smiled as he took it. “Dismissed…Cadet! Run. Tell the cook my apologies for having kept you.”

  Clara had time while she ran to feel guilty about not having told Tim.

  Tim was working in the engine room when the captain came down there. He recognized the crystal radio set in the captain's hand. What had she been up to now? He soon found out. “The aftermath of your radio hunting is still with us, Barnabas,” said the captain with smile. “Miss Calland has, I think, found an answer to how they're following us, Chief.” He explained. “I've brought Sparks down to see what can be done to hide it, or to change the output, at least. And to discuss making another decoy, Chief Engineer.”

  “Clockwork mechanism is a bit beyond our making in short order, sir,” said the chief.

  Captain Malkis looked thoughtful. “Yes. But how much calcium carbide do we have, Chief?”

  “Maybe twenty pounds, sir.”

  “Enough to turn a drogue into a torpedo?

  The chief beamed at the idea. “No sir. But if you wanted that, I suppose something could be devised. I've got a little thermite, and I've seen a fairly good rocket made with that and some water. Those mad Westralians do it with ice in their shore-defence rockets. Dangerous as hell, of course.”

  “So is living, Chief, so is living. Design me something that will move an empty drogue, putting out a nice radio transmission, and move it very fast.”

  The chief engineer enjoyed that sort of challenge. So did Tim. It was fun making a dangerous rocket-propelled decoy. And now that they knew what the Royal Navy were tracking, it was easy to give them some signals from forty miles away. That gave them some security to launch the small test decoy on the Cameron Lakes.

  The chief's little party were all stripped off to their breeches, standing in the water, holding ropes to the welded tubular device. “Right. She needs a little speed to get going. On the count of three, we run,” said the chief. “I'll shout when to let go.”

  They ran through the shallows hauling, Tim with the rest…and then suddenly the small torpedo took off with an express train roar. Tim, from hauling, found himself skiing along on his belly. He clung for dear life…and then realized maybe he shouldn't, and let go. The shore was a fair way back for Tim to swim. Fortunately most of the water was quite shallow and he could touch bottom for a rest.

  The chief was standing with his hands on his hips when he got to the shallows. “And how long is it, Barnabas, since I last told you you were an idiot?”

  “Um. Twenty minutes, sir,” said Tim. The chief sometimes let it go that long.

  “Right. You haven't changed in that time. Why didn't you let go, boy?”

  “Didn't hear you shout, sir.”

  The chief engineer rolled his eyes. “I'll make up for that now,” he bellowed. “You were supposed to tow it, not get towed by it.”

  Tim decided it was maybe not a good idea to tell the chief it had been a lot of fun, while it lasted.

  The test torpedo travelled three miles along the lake before bursting into flames and sinking. Tim was glad that he hadn't hung on till the very end.

  Shovelling the caliche out of one of the drogues was less fun. It smelled and burned his eyes and nose and throat. Tim also knew what this meant. The island idyll was over. So was his chance of sneaking a kiss on a walk.

  The next night the Straitsmen would launch the drogue-decoy for them from some miles away, and they would run.

  Tim was on the bridge, captain's messenger, and on periscope duty, when the Cuttlefish crept down the scoured channel to Stellar's Lagoon. “Your night-spotting has not passed unnoticed, Barnabas,” Captain Malkis had told him when he reported to the bridge for duty. “We note in the log what ships have been spotted at night, and at what range, and by whom. You and Submariner Gordon have the best records, and so you're on periscope duty for this section. It's a black night out there.”

  It was a heavy responsibility. As soon as the “all quiet” light came on Tim's stomach knotted itself with tension.

  He stared so hard into the blackness that he had a headache. But he saw no sign of a vessel out there. Taking a deep breath, and hoping he was not wrong, he signed “all clear” from the periscope.

  The captain waved Gordon to the periscope instead, and held a note for Tim to carry to the engine room. They were taking no chances at all. Tim ran as quietly as he could down to the engine room. And then back up to the bridge, as they eased over the bar in the cover of a wave, and out to sea.

  Running silent but not daring to run deeper than periscope depth, or too fast in these treacherous waters, they slipped south. Tim was again peering through the periscope into the dark when he saw something frightening enough to make him break silence. “Breakers! Waterspout!”

  Captain Malkis nodded, put a finger on his lips, and came to look.

  He adjusted course very slightly…and then, just as Tim had taken the periscope again, the submarine began to roll and shudder. In alarm Tim looked hastily back to the captain, who appeared completely calm even though the boat was now behaving like a restive horse.…The “all quiet” light was off.

  “Potboil Shoal tide-race, Barnabas. They couldn't hear us above the water noise. If we have it right, we'll be fine,” said the captain, as the submarine pitched and rolled. “If not, we're going to drown. Keep a good lookout, when possible. And hold tight. It will get worse.

  He was, Tim realized, not joking about any of it. It was a noisy, bucketing, wild ride that had Tim clinging to the periscope handles as the water slapped and raced around the submarine. There was a brief grating touch against the sand, and then they were no longer being thrown about.

  “Phew!” said Tim.

  The captain tapped his shoulder. Pointed. The “all quiet” light burned again.

  Slowly and silently, they crept west.

  Eventually he was relieved on periscope duty, and just had to stand there and watch…and think. The atmosphere on the bridge was tense and quiet as they navigated through shallow, dangerous waters in the dark.

  It was odd that he could be so scared and yet…so secure with his “family.” Because this was home, and this was his family now. He loved the submarine, and he hadn't realized that he really hadn't had anyone but his mam before. It struck him as he stood there, silent, thinking, waiting, that being sentenced to be marooned and exiled from it had done one thing for him—he knew just who his friends really were, now: some who had spoken up for him with the captain, some who had brought him things to help him survive. And one who had never stopped working on getting him free. She was a confusing girl for a boy to have in his life.

  Clara found it easiest to keep herself busy. She reported for duty every morning. After all, the captain had called her “cadet.” So, she'd be one. Busy was best right now. Her head was a mixed-up place. The crew let her work, but not all the jobs were good at keeping her head occupied, even if her hands were working. She ended up polishing, or working in the mess often enough. She saw how the constant vigilance and stress were wearing all of the crew down, especially the captain.

  He came into the mess days after they left Flinders, when he ought have been off for many hours.…Sat down, and yawned. “Pardon me, Miss Calland. We're just burning the candle at both ends at the moment. It is difficult managing—though I never thought
I'd say this after his treachery—without Werner. He may have been a spy and a traitor, but he was also good at his job and very knowledgeable about these waters. My lieutenants are good men, but neither are very experienced as yet. So we're relying on good fortune. That always runs out, eventually.”

  “We're relying on a good captain,” said Clara. It was meant to be encouraging. He was a good captain, after all.

  He sighed. Sipped his coffee. Gave her a crooked half-smile. “It's a heavy weight to carry, miss. I'm a captain who has made mistakes in the past, as you have proved.”

  It was a shock to realize that he was admitting his own frailty. He'd always seemed…well, superhuman, about controlling the boat. “Yes, but you've never made mistakes about the sea.”

  He shook his head. “I wish that were true. But there is a fair amount of luck involved in our survival. We are stretching it thin.”

  Duke Malcolm put the self-congratulation of Admiral Lesseps down firmly. “We destroyed something, Admiral. Something…from which we have found no bodies. I want a watch maintained for another two weeks, or until we get some confirmation.”

  The Cuttlefish's luck finally ran out just west of Cape Carnot.

  The worst part of it, for Tim, was that it was so completely unexpected. The whole boat's crew had been nervous and vigilant right across the Bass Strait, and onward across the Spencer Gulf. They'd run on coal and not sail, staying hidden almost all of the way. The water was clear and clean, so they'd spent the days lurking as deep as was safe, or camouflaged. They'd only moved during the short summer nights, creeping westward, just below the surface at periscope depth, with the engine snuiver up, but invisible otherwise.

  And Tim had found that he could only be terrified for just so long, and then…one got sort of used to it.

  The first they knew of the airship was the explosion.

  It actually rocked the submarine, and was deafening.

  Tim knew they'd dived by the tilt and that the engines were still running by the vibration…but he couldn't hear any orders. Or anything. He'd been working in the engine room, and in the aftermath of the explosion…he'd got sprayed in the face by cold salty water. The Stirling engine relied on outside water as a heat sink, and a thin jet of pressurized seawater was spraying in from the spot where the cooling pipe penetrated the hull.

  More drop-mine explosions shook and jarred the sub, and the spray had turned into a fire hose of water, as Tim's hearing recovered.

  He had his tasks for this drilled into him. It kept him calm…well, kept him coping, kept him working.

  The chief engineer, in the midst of the chaos, was already winding tape around the pipe. He was soaked to the skin, but he shouted, “Tell the bridge we need to reduce depth. Less pressure. The solder on the pipe has cracked.”

  The speaking tube brought the captain's voice. “Status report, engine room.”

  Thorne told the captain. In the meantime the chief engineer went on winding the tape wider and closer in, while being blasted by water, which was now being forced upwards.

  Someone grabbed Tim. “Help me get the bilge pumps running.”

  There was a terrible sharp tearing sound, and hissing and clouds of steam filled the room. “The Stirling heat casing!” yelled someone. “It's cracked!”

  The next few moments were pandemonium. The lights went out. Several more things went bang. The air was hot with steam, and thick with smoke, and there was water sloshing around underfoot. Tim didn't know what to do.

  And then the emergency lights came on. Orders were yelled.

  Tim found himself priming the standby bilge pump, as Thorne, bleeding from a nasty cut across his chest, cranked.

  Other submariners were changing fuses and helping the injured. The proper lights came on. Water was still running down the bulkhead from where it had been spraying in before, but now it was not bucketing in.

  “Damage report, engine room,” said the captain through the speaker tube.

  “The heat casing on three of the Stirlings have definitely gone,” said the chief. “We need to check the rest. We've still got water coming in the solder around the cooling pipe. That can be repaired, Captain, but only on the surface. At the moment the Stirling engines are unusable.”

  Tim saw bent brass rods—that he'd been greasing a few moments before—and a broken casing in the steamy smoky atmosphere, as oily water sloshed around his feet. “And we've lost at least one compressor.”

  “Can we run on the electric, Chief?”

  “I will check, Captain.”

  Clara had been in the mess, laying tables, when it had all happened. Now she was trying to clean up broken crockery. And Cookie, somehow, was making tea. She'd seen a couple of burned submariners helped up the passage. And Cookie was making tea. “If they're not dead, they'll want it. If they're dead, they won't mind. Mind you, we have no engines, by the sounds of it. And she feels very sluggish in the water.”

  Clara wondered how he could be so cool about it. But it calmed her too.

  So she carried trays of tea. The engine room looked as if a bomb had hit it. It was ankle deep in water, and people, including Tim, were working frantically. “Just put it there, luv,” said the chief—he had a rough bandage around his head and was soaked to the skin. “We'll get there, if and when we can.”

  Up on the bridge too they were replacing several gauges, and there was broken glass underfoot, but they at least had time to drink the tea, and take some heart from it. Clara was there to hear the chief say, “We're starting the electric motor, Skipper,” and then to have the lights go out again. The emergency light came on again.

  “Fuses,” said the chief. “We must have water in somewhere. It's awash down here, Captain. But the pumps are winning for now.”

  Light was restored, obviously the fuse changed.

  “Is there any hope of fixing it, Chief?” asked the captain, his voice carefully controlled.

  The chief didn't sound so controlled. “Possibly. If the seal we've got on the leak can hold the inflow to what it is now, the pumps can cope. If we start taking in more water, Captain, we'll have to either sink or surface.”

  “The airship is still up there, Chief,” said the captain. “We've got a wireless aerial up. They saw us in the moonlight. She's sending our position by wireless, and is playing searchlights on the water. They'll turn their Gatling gun on us if we surface. The oil from our bilges makes quite a trail,” said the captain.

  “It's pump or sink, Captain.”

  Clara would have liked to stay on the bridge and know what was happening, but the captain motioned her to go.

  So she went back to the galley.

  Scared.

  It was a huge relief when, a little later, just after the lights dipped again but did not go out, the sub began moving again. “That chief is a wonder,” said Cookie. “You nip down there and see if they want fresh tea now.”

  The scene in the engine room was less chaotic than earlier. There was, it was true, what looked like a small scrapyard along one wall. They were all still working furiously. But the level of water underfoot had gone down, and the smoke and steam had at least spread out into a general fug. The chief nodded at her. “Tell Cookie fifteen minutes, if nothing else goes wrong.”

  On the way back she bumped into Big Eddie the diver, plainly preparing to go out. He waved but looked very preoccupied, and didn't say anything.

  A little later the Cuttlefish stopped moving. Clara's heart sank. “Engines?”

  Cookie shook his head. “Probably sent the diver out to slap a glue-patch on it. The pressure will pull it into the leak and then it will set. It's not a permanent answer, but may stop it leaking so much. Then they can stop pumping, so the oil sheen won't be marking our trail. We can dive a bit deeper, then stop being followed and move away. Then later they can maybe silver-solder the pipe entry.”

  “Oh. I hope so. I really, really hope so. I thought we were going to die,” admitted Clara.

  “We've got a littl
e way to go before we're home and dry yet,” said Cookie. “But she's a good boat, with a good skipper and a good chief engineer.”

  Clara didn't remind him that he sometimes said that only the good died young.

  Tim's fingers were cut, and he had a row of blisters on his shoulder—that would have been much worse if someone hadn't doused the burning fabric—and he felt as if every bit of his body that wasn't wet was covered in oil and soot. He'd briefly seen Clara's scared white face when she had brought in the tea. It hadn't been until now that they'd had a chance to gulp the cold brew. The captain himself had come down to see how things were going. Tim sat on some scrap and eavesdropped, glad enough to stop working and sit down.

  “Yes, Captain. We can hold off on pumping, I think. It's a trickle now. If we go deeper and there is more pressure…I don't know,” said the chief.

  “They can see us underwater in the searchlights. There is a dreadnought and three destroyers en route to here. They should be here in three hours. Another two airships will be overhead with more drop-mines within forty minutes for the first, and an hour for the second. Before they get here we must be able to dive to at least beyond their visibility, and then run as fast as we can,” said the captain.

  “Give the glue ten more minutes, Captain,” said the chief with a sigh. “But I must warn you the batteries are not fully charged. If we have more than eight hours' life in them, I'll be surprised.

  “And we have a ten-hour run to the nearest Westralian port.” The captain tugged his beard. “Ten minutes, Chief. And let's cut all other power usage to a minimum.”

  “Yessir. I might be able to get three or four of the Stirling engine sequence going, sir, but the compressors…well. No,” said the Chief, grimacing. “So we just have to jury-rig a pipe direct to the snuiver, and settle for an old-fashioned coal fire. We can get it heated up with some naphtha…”

 

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