by Philip Wylie
The Tiger Shark's skipper had drawn the shortest of four matches, held by Vice-Admiral Sydnor. He would, consequently, be last rearmed, and last away for attack, saving only the carrier herself.
The voyage, even though made shorthanded, could have been accomplished far more quickly, had that been desired. Dingo Denton had at first worried that his crew, spending all their days and many nights submerged, would grow restive--for the Tiger Shark, being last in line, would not reach the carrier, providing she would be there to reach, until the ninety days had passed for weapons refabrication and twenty more had been allowed for the scheduled rearming of the other three submarines.
Dingo had worried for nothing. His crew, to a man, was single-mindedly devoted to the now-hopeful chance of action against an incredibly ruthless foe--a satanic foe, they felt. So they bore the long watches without complaint.
On the second of the major legs of the vast journey, however, there came a period of great strain and fear, then near-panic, shattering all plans.
The Tiger Shark was some hundreds of miles clear of the Aleutian Islands when a Chief came to her skipper's cabin, knocked, and stated, "We've made a distant contact that could be an enemy sub."
Dingo hit the deck and, shoeless, shot up the ladders to the conning tower. The Tiger Shark already had shifted to its slow but far more silent propulsion system, moving a hundred fathoms down and sliding deeper, with every man on board tense and speechless, save for whispering, and every man at his battle station, straining to collect information or carry out soundlessly signaled commands.
Even the first problem was great:
Was it a whale they could now dimly sense? Or a mere unusual echo from a convection current? Some unknown shape and sound of sea-life that merely suggested another sub?
When they finally knew a submarine lay ahead, at about their depth, the problem changed: enemy? Or some American submarine, not part of the "Last Ditch" program, but still in service?
During the next hours of chase and retreat, of loss and recovery, those questions were resolved, one by one, through the patient analysis of incoming data. The answer was as appalling as it was challenging: they had come upon a Soviet nuclear submarine. But by the time that was certain, other data made Dingo whisper, from sweat-bordered lips, to his sweat-drenched Exec. "She's stalking us, too!"
Then, blindman's buff in the depths became a game in which the fastest-reasoning skipper of the more-maneuverable (or the luckier) boat had, at best, a minutely better chance to survive.
Only that.
For if either ship fired, the other would reply. Both carried torpedoes with multi-kiloton warheads that would home on the enemy vessel, however she twisted, plunged upward, dived. With such weapons loosed by the vessels, neither could expect to escape sudden destruction amid a sea-compressed, nuclear fireball.
The Soviet boat suddenly went dead.
Bunch Cunningham whispered in horror, "They're going to shoot!" Sweat then dripped from his forehead to the chart beneath his eyes.
The skipper unconsciously watched its falling drop as he answered, "Looks like it."
Then his eyes fixed on the sweat-pinked chart. Far below them the irregular sea floor rose in hummocks with sharp cliffs. At the moment the Tiger Shark lay above a deep vale in that subsea cordillera. Dingo perceived as much, and acted. His orders were whispered to the death-pale Chief "talker" and went, electrically, to men in the control room and in both the forward and aft torpedo compartments.
The Tiger Shark burst into life, heedless, then, of noise, her men aware of an appalling fact: the enemy had fired.
From the Tiger's bow tubes, two homing nuclear torpedoes surged toward the soundless, motionless foe, miles away. From her stern tubes a torpedo-shaped object was ejected. Upon clearing the boat it expanded, as mechanical arms swiftly opened a vast, tight-packed bundle of steel wiring that became a submarine-shaped, sub-sized framework of wire. Self-propelled, it at once began to back slowly away from the diving Tiger Shark. By then, hydrophones and computers had reported the course and speed of the torpedoes fired from the enemy boat. But by then the Tiger Shark, decks sloping beyond any regulation-allowed level, was plunging under full thrust of all power, toward the walled valley below.
What then happened was reconstructed later. The cliff-like sides of the submarine mountains did, in time, shield the Tiger Shark from the homing enemy torpedoes so that their pursuit devices, momentarily losing track of their metal target, in the next instant received informative pulses from the great, wire, shadow sub. The torpedoes made an error, "built" into them by engineers who had anticipated that the enemy might try to dodge behind a rock mass on bottom, but not that an enemy sub could or would produce, so swiftly, so large-sized a moving steel "dummy" in its stead. The pair of torpedoes therefore veered on a course that would strike the heart of the wire mock-up, and, as American engineers had hopefully foreseen, one grim weapon ran slightly ahead of the other. The wire sides were encountered; they gave upon impact of the leading weapon; but the framework lacked rigidity enough to set off its detonating mechanism. However, the torpedo running parallel, but a length behind, now cut in to hit the most massive metal it could "discern," its own fellow weapon. This second torpedo exploded.
But by that time the tremendous shocks of the Tiger Shark's two hits were felt. In spite of the protection of the cliff, they hammered the deep-running submarine as a maul might bash a steel pipe. The Tiger's lights went out. One nuclear reactor ceased supplying power. And before any command could be given by the shaken skipper, a second blow, from the single Soviet torpedo to detonate, wrenched the Tiger Shark anew, and from a nearer region.
In the chaotic dark, shouted reports poured in to Dingo. His boat was leaking in a hundred places. There was a rise of radiation in the chambers nearest one reactor. The helm gave only sluggish response. His command to bring the boat up was answered with volleys of, "Aye aye, sir!" But the Tiger Shark did not soon surface. . . .
In a late, clear afternoon, after forty minutes of ponderous surge, of valiant human struggle and violent brain-and-hand work done in the gleam of flashlights, she finally wallowed into daylight.
On the surface, pumps began pouring out water that by then had the lowest decks awash. Taking a risk of exposure that was now essential, the officers studied the damage.
One reactor was out of commission and leaking; they had no immediate knowledge of the reason. Many plates had been sprung. The other reactors, and three still-operable motors, should still keep the boat moving, but only on the surface. Lead-brick walls soon were raised. They blocked the radiation so the men not at once affected were safe. Other men, in suitable gear, could enter the nuclear engine room, learn, and perhaps repair, the damage--or at least stop the leak providing, always, the core hadn't been smashed up in such a manner that it would "run away" before they could act, and drown them in radioactive death. There was nothing to do but remain surfaced and try.
A week later, with two dead and three still critically ill from radiation sickness, the Tiger Shark had dumped overboard the ultrahot (but shielded and unrepairable) core of plutonium that had done the radiation harm. The boat, although one reactor short, was still adequately powered. Her plates were being repaired by men in diving suits and men above the water line.
Day and night the undersea and atmospheric glow of welding torches winked on and off in blue dazzle around the submarine. Had a ship or plane come that way, the Tiger Shark would have been easily sighted from far off--a vessel smoke-shrouded by day, and at night set about, above and below, with electric sparklers. So it would seem, even to a distant plane or vessel.
But none came that way.
As more time passed, the surviving officers and men became certain the Soviet submarine they had destroyed, at such cost and with such appalling risk, had not dared to signal her contact with the enemy to the active Red bases, the nearest of which, behind Kamchatka, was not distant, considering a submarine's signal range.
&nbs
p; It had not occurred to Dingo, either, to make any attempt in that deep-sea hide-and-seek eternity, or during repairs, to send a message to the presumably-hidden Conner.
Signaling the carrier or a sister sub would be tantamount to announcing to the U.S.S.R.
the existence not only of the Tiger Shark, but of some other vessel. Even if you were to be atomized, moments later, in this final dueling, you said nothing.
The cold, foggy seas--when good visibility did sometimes occur--were empty.
Time passed. In due course Dingo determined his boat was fit for the rest of its voyage and for the planned effort after that. He ordered the sub down, still with comfortable time to complete the cruise to the lonely Pacific isle where, it was fervently hoped, the hidden aircraft carrier would be found, safe and ready.
CHAPTER 14
Vance Farr came into the communications room and watched George and Ben, who were trying, on various frequencies, to send word of their situation to somebody, or anybody, who might reply.
Ben's now practiced hand worked at complicated controls after George set humming a new and far-more-powerful transmitter, one that hurled the human voice from a tall antenna above the air intake, with power enough to carry around the globe.
Idly, Farr leaned over Ben's shoulder to read the typed words being dispatched:
"This message is coming from fourteen persons, alive and well, in an air-raid shelter built before the war five hundred feet down in a limestone mountain in Connecticut, U.S.A."
Exact latitude and longitude followed. Then came details of the "shelter" and its equipment, a description of the outdoor radiation levels, and a listing of the people in the shelter with their ages, sexes, and where it was appropriate, "Japanese," "Chinese," or (twice) "Negro."
It continued: "We appeal to the people of the world for help. We cannot, with our on-hand resources, hopefully cross the contaminated land area around us and transport a vessel that, hopefully, might carry us to safety in or near your hemisphere. So far as we are aware, no other citizens of the United States of America survive on this continent. We are without significant arms, without nuclear weapons or resources to make them, so we are not to be feared. Our future survival time in this area is uncertain. Any person or group listening in--even if said person or group lacks the means or the intent for our rescue--please reply. Please reply. Reply, please. We hear you loud and clear, up here.
We hear Rio de Janeiro. Capetown. Colombo."
A long list of cities, nations, single sending stations, followed. Then:
"Hello, Australia and New Zealand! Hello! Why don't you transmit? Repeat. Why do you never transmit signals of any sort, Australia, New Zealand? Are you alive and okay? Please communicate, our station. Somebody. Anybody."
Farr's brow furrowed as his mind went back to a similar message from another, cut-off group: the men they'd heard in a weather satellite reporting the aspect of the Earth in the first stages of nuclear war. They, too, had begged for word from "anybody"--and, perhaps, received none, like themselves.
Vance wondered what had happened to them . . . and found himself slightly astounded by the fact that he had not, previously, ever wondered about their fate. Why not? The reason was simple.
In the hours, then the days and weeks, after that eerie plaint had come through the chaos of ions to Sachem's Watch and the people it sheltered, he--like all the rest there--
had been too concerned with the death of the entire North Temperate Zone and all its fringes, to give further thought to men stranded in a satellite with no orders about returning to America and, soon, no America worth returning to. That Vance had forgotten them was a measure of what he did remember.
Ben talked steadily. At the end of his message he gave some speculative information about the sea around the region: "It is our assumption, based on nearby monitoring, that the Atlantic could be cruised, with due caution and by shielded parties on ships, in safety. Anyone considering our rescue may communicate intent and we shall then endeavor, if possible, to make long-range measurements of radiation levels in long Island Sound or open sea so that said rescuers would have information on that matter prior to sailing, flying, or steaming to our area. A helicopter would be needed to transfer our people from here to sea, in whatever series of short trips were required by its passenger capacity, from Sachem's Watch to rescue craft. Seaplane landing may be feasible in Sound. Please reply. We will gladly transmit all requested and gatherable data to any respondent.
"Also please note. We realize the mission to rescue fourteen survivors out of a whole population would be hazardous and expensive. Also realize United States currency without value. However, we can amply repay any rescuer with certain stocks of rare and highly refined metals on hand here for that or other purposes. "
There followed a list of rare metals and their quantities that Vance had stocked in the shelter, partly for a post-war exchange medium and partly for just such a purpose as reward to any rescuers after an all-out war, since, as Vance had assumed, such rescue might entail some risk, much work, and so, considerable expense. Other stocked metals were on hand for use in electronic assemblies.
Ben ticked them off: germanium, titanium, molybdenum, tungsten. . . .
At last he ended the sending and, with a sigh, recommenced:
"Mayday. Mayday. SOS. SOS. Mayday. This message is coming from fourteen persons, alive and well, in an air-raid shelter. . . ."
He stopped. Put down the tensely held mike. Massaged weary fingers. Said, "The hell with it!" and looked up at Vance. "Every so often, George or I get a notion to try again. And do. But never a single reply! Never!"
Vance eased into a chair. The look of weariness which he'd worn in the first months of their immolation had now left his square features. They'd softened, and seemed, in a way, younger. The reason for that, everyone knew: Valerie. The new Valerie had not only recovered the marital love of her husband but, at last, had decided to drink no more. Decided in an instant, and with the obliquity of so many female motives, to forgive and forget and to include Angelica in her always-broad affections.
Valerie, sober, had become a round-the-clock tower of strength and sustainer of morale where she had been that hitherto only until evening brought her habitual fuzziness, fatuity, false coquetries, maudlin repetitiveness, and in the end her staggering retreat to alcoholic oblivion.
Valerie had changed and that change had changed Vance.
Ben said, "Anything on your mind?"
"You psychic?" Farr smiled.
"Absolutely." Ben, after grinning, frowned at the telegraph key. "I can pick up all sorts of thoughts. It's just radio signals to us I never detect."
"Forget it. Keep at it. Someday, maybe, you'll be surprised."
"Maybe."
"What I wondered--" Vance carefully lighted a cigar and Ben realized by that the import of this visit to the communications chamber. Farr's cigar supplies were not low, precisely; but he had smoked more in the initial months than he'd anticipated, so he was rationing himself. A cigar lighted by him at such a time as this, a time not on his familiar schedule, meant self-indulgence which, in turn, meant tension. "What I wondered was, should we do anything about our anniversary."
Ben's gray-blue gaze was steady. He even smiled a little. Exhaled breath with some force, afterward. "Wondered if any of you realized." He turned. "Hey, George! Cut off the set, huh? Come on over. Conference."
"Just four more days to the date of that fatal Friday at the end of last July," Farr said above the hum. He waited till the glow died in a multitude of electronic tubes as George cut their signaling apparatus.
The Japanese dragged up a third chair. "About a birthday party?" He smiled.
Vance Farr looked at him and he, too, smiled, eventually. "Yeah."
"The question being:' George went on, "what form? A religious ceremony of Thanksgiving? With a feast? Like the Pilgrims? Who'd want it?"
Farr nodded. "Exactly. Paulus will do his praying by himself, of course. But who els
e? No--not religious." Ben suggested, "We could entertain everybody on TV with outside fireworks. I daresay George and I could whip some up, with the chemicals you've stocked. Still, fireworks seem sort of shabby. Been enough 'fireworks' for all eternity."
George started to make a suggestion, fell silent, and went on with it only when Farr said,
"What were you saying?"
"Just that, since the gang's more than normally low, with the outdoors really messed up by that cobalt dose, it would be dandy if we could break out some new . . .
diversion."
Farr nodded. "Thought of that. I've got some reserve games. Oh, croquet. Half a dozen others. Tennis. Badminton. Bikes."
His two listeners showed animation. Ben exclaimed, "Great! Be fun to bike around the passageways, instead of using those electric carts."
Then George said, "What about swimming?"
Farr turned. "Swimming?"
"Thinking of it for weeks. Water supply's still adequate. Cold, as it comes in.
Warmer, when it's been cleaned. Plenty of hot water, besides."
"But . . . where?"
"Storeroom-'K' is almost empty. Lined, too. Suppose you blocked up the lower-level door. Then filled it. Used the second-floor gallery as a pool rim. We could put in a springboard. Wouldn't take long to clear out the room and move the stuff out. Wash it down with chlorine. Run the pipe. Fill it up, without explaining the idea. After all, somebody's always running pipe, laying cable, cementing up this or that. Then, come the anniversary, we could all swim."
Vance grinned, when months earlier he would have expressed chagrin. "Never thought of a swimming pool down here. Lot of things I never thought of. Great idea!
