by John Blaine
“A good thing,” Scotty said. He rubbed a bruise on his cheek. “Our Oriental pal was no softy. For a while I thought he was going to open me up like a melon.”
“He didn’t have a chance,” Rick said. “You had him on the run from the time you started.”
Hartson Brant came into the pilothouse. “Doing all right, Rick? I wonder if we dare run the reef passage at night.”
Rick looked out at the rain-swept sea. “I don’t think so, Dad,” he said doubtfully. “It would be better to take a small boat in for the others.”
“You’re right,” the scientist agreed. “Want to come with me, Scotty? Rick can stay at the wheel whileHobart keeps an eye on our friends.” He smiled. “Incidentally, that was an excellent demonstration you put on. Congratulations.”
Scotty turned red. “Thank you, sir. Shouldn’t we get started right away? The others will be anxious to know what happened.”
“Let’s go,” Hartson Brant agreed.
A cool, sunny morning dawned on a strange sight. All hands aboard the trawler were eating breakfast, with the exception of Gordon, who was taking his turn at the wheel, and Otera, who was asleep in a bunk.
Rick, Scotty, Chahda, Zircon, and Mr. Brant were eating on the hatch cover, and complimenting Scotty on his surprising ability as a cooker of ham and eggs. Rick came in for his share of praise as a coffee maker.
However, the Spindrift party dined with two pistols very prominent as table
centerpieces, and Scotty’s rifle leaned against his leg.
The prisoners were eating, but not in such comfort. They were backed up to the after rail, seated on the deck. Their hands were free, to permit them to eat, but nooses around their necks secured them to the top rail,This was Chahda’s development. The nooses were not tight enough tohurt, or to interfere with eating and they were all connected by a trip wire which in turn was connected to a suspended small anchor. The ingenious arrangement made it safe to untie the prisoners’ hands. If they tried to move more than a
few inches, the nooses would tighten. If they tried to untie themselves, the tugs necessary to undo the tight knots would trip the anchor and leave the lot of them strangling until someone rescued them.
Over breakfast coffee, Hartson Brant called a council of war.
“In spite of our difficulties, I am not disposed to call the expedition off,” the scientist said. “We’re safe from the natives while we’re aboard ship, and we have enough hands to continue our dives. All of us have operated boats before, and if we remember this is only a larger version, well have no difficulty. Gordon will be captain, since he can navigate. We’ll all bear a hand with the engines, if they need attention.”
“How about our prisoners?”Scotty asked. “There’s no jail aboard and we can’t keep them tied up all the time.”
“I have the answer to that, too,” Hartson Brant said. He pointed to where Little Kwangara thrust out of the sea.
“Like Crusoe Robin,” Chahda said. “We maroon them.”
“I suggest that we leave them there when we’re through diving,” Zircon stated. “We can make our way toGuam , which is the closest Navy base, and tell our tale to the commandant. I’m sure the Navy will be glad to send a destroyer to take them off.”
Rick nodded agreement. He asked, “But do we make all our dives at the temple?”
The others laughed.
“Got the treasure bug, Rick?” his father smiled. “Turk has some very interesting charts and diagrams that I want to study. Yes, I think we might take a look at the treasure ship later today.Unless someone disagrees, of course.”
No one did.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Treasure Ship
Rick was getting nervous. The Submobile had been on the bottom an awfully long time, and standing in the pilothouse, he couldn’t keep track of what was going on.
Through the window he could see the rocky pile that was Little Kwangara. There were a few palms around the shore, but it was largely rock. A thread of smoke wound up through the feathery palm tops and he knew that Turk and Company had a fire going, probably to cook their rations.
The sound of the winch signaled the rise of the Sub-mobile and Rick heaved a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t have to worry any more about his father and Gordon. But what had they found on the bottom? He waited until he heard the Submobile swing on board, then he turned the trawler past Little Kwangara and headed her out into the open sea. He locked the wheel in position, throttled down, and hurried back to see what had happened.
The others were already gathered around the charts spread out on the hatch, and Hartson Brant was explaining what they had found.
“The ship is on her starboard side, pretty much intact except for the torpedo holes. Now, according to Turk’s diagram of the superstructure, the treasure room is also on the starboard side, behind a gun turret.”
He made a quick sketch of the Asamo’s position. She was on her side, resting at about a thirty-degree angle. The treasure room was on the under part of the superstructure.
“Turk wanted information on setting explosive charges,” Gordon said. “He must have come to the same conclusion that we did. The only chance of getting the treasure out is to plant charges under the superstructure and blow the walls out. Then, if we’re lucky, the treasure chests will fall clear and we can pick them up.”
“But how are you going to get underneath to plant the charges?” Scotty objected.
Mr. Brant smiled mirthlessly. “That, Scotty, is the problem. There’s room enough for the Submobile to go in, but we mustn’t forget that our lives depend on the cable. To get under the superstructure, the cable would have to make a sharp turn, resting against the edge of the deck. The question is, is it worth the risk?”
“If the cable got fouled. . . .” Back didn’t complete the thought.
Hartson Brant walked to the rail and stared out over the side. Rick watched him, knowing that it was a difficult decision to make. His father had never shied away from risks, but he had always told Rick, “Before you take a risk, always do a little figuring. Is the result worth the hazard?”
The others were watching Mr. Brant, too, waiting for him to decide.
Presently the scientist turned from the rail and motioned them to gather around him.
“As a research scientist,” he said, “I shouldn’t be influenced by any consideration of money, but I must admit that I am.” He smiled at them. “Let’s be practical. You know that there is never enough money for scientific research. Our own treasury is getting low, since we turn our experiment results over to the public without profit, and we have a number of expensive projects coming up. The Pacific Ethnographic Society is in a similar position.”
“It’s a point to consider,” Zircon agreed. “Since we never try to make money from our developments, we must get capital from some source. You think it’s worth the risk, Hartson?”
“Well eliminate as much of the risk as possible,Hobart , by a careful survey of the ship.
Then we’ll make one trial effort. If the risk is still great, well abandon the project.”
Rick looked at his watch. “There’s time for another long dive today, Dad.”
Hartson Brant nodded. “Well go together, Rick.”
The ship stirred into activity. The oxygen bottles were replaced with full ones, giving a ten-hour supply.
The cable connections were examined carefully. Then Rick aided his father in securing the explosive charges. There were two of them to be taken down, one for each salvage arm. From the outside they looked like metal boxes covered with hooks, but inside was a complicated arrangement that included batteries and electronic equipment for translating the sound impulses into the electric current that would explode the charge.
As they finished locking the charges into the arm clamps, Hobart Zircon came aft.
“We’re standing fifteen feet away from the top of the ship, centered on the
superstructure, as nearly as I can gauge it,” he s
aid.
“Good.” Hartson Brant folded the ship diagrams under his arm. “Ready, Rick?”
They got in, tested equipment and phones,then settled themselves for the ride down. At 700 feet, the Submobile came to a stop. Rick switched on the Sonoscope and the searchlight, but nothing showed either on the screen or through the observation port.
The Submobile began to descend again, slowly and smoothly. Scotty was operating the
winch. Chahda was working furiously with the clamps, aided now and then by Zircon, who had an extension line on his phone set.
A faint signal appeared on the Sonoscope screen. Rick tried to focus, but the outline was too vague. He leaned over and looked through the observation port, and saw why. They were near the big radar antenna of the ship’s tallest mast. The outlines of the thin metal pieces were too slender to register well.
“Let’s check our position,” Hartson Brant said. He opened the charts he had brought.
One was a side view of theship, another was a sketch of the treasure room, showing four large trunks and a safe. He marked their position, off the tip of the forward mast,then phoned to the deck. “Take us aft, about fifteen feet. No, don’t take us up. We’re clear of the ship.”
It was a good fifteen minutes before the Submobile stopped swaying on its cable. Then Rick looked at the Sonoscope screen and tried to focus. “We’re too high,” he said. “Let’s go down ten feet.”
Mr. Brant gave the order and the Submobile descended. The Sonoscope focused on a shelf of solid metal that ended halfway down the screen. Under the shelf, the screen went out of focus, showing that the space went far back.
“We’re at the top edge of the superstructure,” Mr. Brant said. “I’ll move us closer and you can see through the observation port.”
Rick tried to pierce the gloom past the searchlight beam as the Submobile swung in, driven by the after propeller. He began to make out details. The solid color on the Sonoscope was the upper deck. The sharp tilt of the deck made it appear that the Submobile was suspended nose down in space, pointing at the roof edge of a high building. “Close enough,” he called.“Now what?”
“Let’s go down ten feet,” Hartson Brant ordered. “But very slowly.”
The picture on the screen changed, and Rick was suddenly looking at three great pipes that thrust up into the bottom edge of the Sonoscope. Hartson Brant ordered another ten feet of depth, and the picture became clear. They were guns, not pipes.
The position was confusing, since the ship was on its side. Rick’s view was the same as if he had been hanging head down, looking at the top of the turret.
“We’re right where we want to be,” Hartson Brant said. “Do some figuring, Rick. The treasure room is right above those guns. If we blast it open, what happens?”
Rick puzzled over the picture of the turret. “Well, the turret has a sharp slant. If the treasure chests drop on it, they’ll slide off, probably, and either get caught on the gun barrels or slide to the bottom.”
Hartson Brant nodded agreement. “In either case, we could pick them up. Now, what could the cable catch on?”
Rick looked through the observation port. “I can’t see anything. We should go back up, until we’re above the ship. Then we can watch everything we pass on the way down.”
“I agree.” Hartson Brant ordered, “Take us up to 700 and hold.”
Rick grinned. He knew his father was a step ahead of him all the way, but the scientist was letting him do the talking, making him puzzle out the problem as they went.
Once back at 700 feet, they started to descend again.
As they went, Hartson Brant kept the side propellers going, swinging the nose from side to side. There were no major obstructions that might catch the cable. They reached the lower edge of the deck and the Submobile halted, at an order to the trawler.
“Well,” Hartson Brant said calmly, “do we try it?”
Rick looked at the Sonoscope screen and gave a little shiver. They had to use full propeller power, to swing like a yo-yo at the end of its string, figuring their arc so that it would miss the turret, ending up at the angle where the deck of the ship met the wall of the superstructure. They would have to drive in about twenty-five feet from freedom, dragging their cable against the edge of the roof as they went.
And they were more than 100 fathoms under, with tremendous pressure on them. The smallest break in the Submobile’s armor. . . .
“Let’s give it a whirl,” Back said, and his voice surprised him by being steady.
Hartson Brant spoke crisp orders into the phone. “We’re going in. Give us cable very slowly, and be ready for anything I might say.”
Zircon’s voice was tense in the earphones.“Right. We’re on our toes.”
“Ten feet,” the scientist ordered. Then, as the Submobile began to sink, he threw power into the aft propeller. Bick was holding the Sonoscope focusing knobs so tightly that his
hands shook.
Suddenly a rasping screech sent an icy wave through him. The cable was scraping on the edge of the roof. The Submobile came to a halt, shuddering under the propeller drive. The rasping stopped.
“Another ten feet,” Hartson Brant ordered. “We’re under the overhang.”
Rick focused on the angle where the deck met the wall. Then he looked out through the observation port. The searchlight showed the angle dimly. They still had a distance to go. The Submobile began to move again.
“Watch upward,” Hartson Brant said. “Get forward as far as you can. Look for a porthole.”
Rick did, and saw that they were only a few feet under the wall. The strain on the cable must be tremendous. It ran down from the ship and turned the corner, a sharp angle.If it broke . . . but it wouldn’t. It could take more than they were giving it. It had been specially made. It wouldn’t break-he hoped!
He saw a circle in the smooth surface overhead and called, “Porthole!”
“How far are we from the deck?”
He sighted. “Close enough! Hold it, Dad, hold us right here!” The deck angle was only about six feet away.
Hartson Brant had the most difficult task, holding the shuddering Submobile in position with just the right amount of power in the aft propeller.
Rick pressed his face against the observation port and looked for a break in the smooth deck, or in the wall. In a moment he saw just the thing ... a cleat on the deck, right at the angle. He was cool as an ice cube now. He took the pistol grip that controlled the left extension arm and moved it forward, the explosive charge at its tip.Now to engage a hook in the deck cleat. The explosive charge blocked his view. He moved it into place until he felt the electric motor change tone as it pushed the charge against the deck. Then he lifted it, let it slide down. It stopped sliding! He put pressure downward on the extension arm and the motor whined again. It was caught! He released the arm clamp, and the explosive charge hung secure on the cleat!
Hartson Brant gave an audible sigh. “Wipe your forehead, Rick. You’re melting.”
Rick mopped his face. He hadn’t even noticed the sweat running off his nose. “Dad, we’ll have to back up about three feet.”
“Right, son.Here we go.” Hartson Brant slowed the aft propeller a little at a time and the Submobile swung slightly down away from the overhead wall and back just enough.
Rick took the control for the extension arm he had just used to place the charge. He moved it up and out, right at the black circle of the porthole. It reached it, and kept on going. The blackness was only water. He had been afraid it was a steel covering.
It was easy after that. He retracted the left arm and took the control for the right one, which held the second charge. It was only a matter of pushing the charge through the open port and releasing it. He pushed the arm far enough through the porthole so that the charge wouldn’t drop out again. He released the clamp and withdrew the arm, slowly.
Then he gave a sigh of relief. The charge was in the room.
Now, if they could g
et safely out again. . . .
That was Hartson Brant’s problem. If he asked for too much cable, they would swing down and strike the turret. He slowed the aft propeller, letting the Submobile drift down and back a few feet, then he speeded the motor again and held it there.
“Take up five feet of slack,” he ordered. “No more.”
The cable rasped, sending a shiver through Rick again. It was horribly loud in the Submobile. The process was repeated, twice, three times. And the last time, they hung free again, the edge of the upper deck visible in the screen.
Father and son shook hands solemnly andgrinned their relief.
“Take us up,” Hartson Brant ordered. “The charges are in place!”
CHAPTER XIX
The Last Dive
Willing hands helped Rick and Hartson Brant to the deck, and Otera, a bandage startlingly white against the inky black of his hair, arrived in person to pour fresh coffee.
They sat down on the hatch, weaker than they had realized from the strain of the trip,
and described the adventure in detail.
Scotty put his arm around Rick’s shoulder. “Old son, when I saw the cable vibrate, I almost passed out. I thought you were a cooked goose for fair!”
“I thought so myself.” Rick grinned.“Any gray hair in my head?”
Chahda’s brown skin was still unnaturally white. “In all my life I am never so fright. I think: ‘Oh, unhappy day! Now these good friends is become some statistics for theWorroldAlm-in-ack !’”
“If the explosive charges fail to do the job,” Zircon bellowed, “I say to hell with the treasure! Let it stay on the bottom.”
“Amen,” Gordon said. “When do we explode the charges?”
Hartson Brant finished his coffee and rose.“Right now.”
Gordon went back to the pilothouse and swung the trawler around, heading once more for Little Kwangara. Just off the tip, a 1,000 yards away from the sunken Asamo, he stopped the ship. Hobart Zircon reconnected the sound gear.
“Here she goes,” the big scientist shouted. He threw the switch that sent forth the sound impulses.
