The explosions occurred before he could crawl to his feet. Under his body he could feel the armor plate of the Vulcan buckling and twisting like cardboard. The ship was shuddering mightily, and the heaving, wrenching groans of its steel structure sounded in his ears like the death agonies of a wounded giant. Through the dazed fog of shock and terror he could hear the terrible roar of escaping steam and the greedy, sucking rush of water as it poured into the ship’s vitals.
His body rolled drunkenly as the ship listed. A smothering, battering wall of water smashed down on him, hurling him against the rail with rib-cracking force. Strangling and stunned he had no power to resist the swift clutch of the water dragging him over the side and into the boiling turmoil of the ocean.
A timeless instant followed. An instant in which screams and the sound of hissing water and groaning steel blended with the deafening roar of the smashing, surging waves.
For an instant his head broke through the water and his lungs automatically jerked in a mouthful of air. Then he was caught in the tremendous suction created by the sinking ship and dragged helplessly down and down.
Instinctively his arms thrashed out, fighting blindly and desperately against the strangling, crushing pressure. For minutes, it seemed, the downward suction of the Vulcan continued to hold him in its fatal grip. With the desperate strength of a man fighting for life, Brick lashed out with arms and legs in a last frantic effort. The pressure on his lungs was like that of a giant vise. Through the pain and the desperation, one foggy section of his numbed mind cleared enough to realize that the fight he was waging was hopeless.
His arms were almost too heavy to move and his tortured lungs were at the bursting point, when the clutch of water released him suddenly. A roaring torrent of noise sounded beneath him and almost simultaneously a tremendous rush of air and water caught hold of his limp body and carried it in a rush to the surface.
HIS LUNGS gulped air gratefully.
Groggily, he realized that it must have been another explosion in the settling Vulcan that had created the sudden upsurge of air and water that had hurled him to the surface.
Huge, choppy waves covered with an inch of slimy oil were battering against him, but by dog-paddling frantically he managed to keep afloat. As his brain cleared he realized the hopelessness of his position. His body had been weakened by the terrific buffeting it had received and there was a dull pain creeping up the right side of his body from his hip to his collar bone. He was still too dazed to realize the enormity of what had happened to himself and the Vulcan. In one devastating explosion his ship, with all hands aboard, had plunged to the bottom of the Atlantic. His own life had been spared momentarily, but he was alert enough to know that his chances of survival were practically non-existent.
The supply boats which the Vulcan had been patrolling were proceeding slowly at a distance of about thirty miles behind the convoy.[2] Other destroyers had been flanking the supply chain at about the same distance to the rear. Before they would reach him, providing he could maintain his position against the undertow and currents, his exhausted body would have been claimed by the wet embrace of the ocean.
These things he realized instinctively, almost subconsciously. Consciously his stunned senses were aware only of the heavy, oil-blanketed water on his body and the soft, warm wind on his face.
It was probably because of this that he was conscious of the first sluggish swell that lifted his body in the water. It was followed by another, steeper swell. Then he felt the unnatural eddying currents that were boiling beneath him and causing the uneasy movement of the water.
He twisted his body in the water and saw the heavy ripples were originating about a hundred yards from where he was floating. They were growing higher by the minute, rocking him up and down in six foot swings.
Then, as a particularly deep swell, lifted above the water he saw a slim, black hull break the surface of the water. Hissing white streams of bubbles broke and poured from its shining sides, as it rose steadily from the depths. With the unhurried majesty of a killer shark the sinister gleaming length knifed the blackness of the night until it rested silently and ominously on the choppy crests its rising had created.
Brick stared at the silent specter in amazement. For he recognized the sleek, dangerous lines of the emerging craft as a German sub, of the latest and most mercilessly efficient type!
CHAPTER II
Rescue!
FOR A MINUTE SILENCE held over the water and then Brick heard the metallic sounds of steel clamps releasing their grips and the hissing noise of compressed air.
A door swung upward from the conning tower and he saw three figures emerge and clamber down to the narrow deck of the sub. Guttural voices reached him across the hundred-yard stretch and he could hear the faint hollow sounds of heavy shoes on the steel decks of the sub.
After another few seconds a bright, powerful finger of light probed forth from the side of the undersea craft and began a searching sweep of the dark water.
Again he heard guttural orders issuing from the Nazi seamen on the deck, and then the brilliant finger of light touched him, bathing him for an instant in glaring whiteness, swung on. A sharp exclamation reached him from the sub and the light swung hastily back, blinding him again with its revealing glare.
Brick waved a tired hand in the air. He could see figures on the sub wave back and several shouts reached him. He saw then that preparations for launching a boat were getting underway.
He paddled toward them slowly, favoring his right side as much as possible. This sub, he knew, was probably the one that had launched the torpedo that destroyed the Vulcan.
The conclusion was automatic. Till that instant the thought of a German sub being responsible for the sinking had been far from his thoughts. It just hadn’t occurred to his numbed mind. But seeing the deadly length of a German sub brought it to him forcefully.
It had done the job, he knew. There was no rancor or bitterness in his reasoning. Just a dull feeling of inevitability.
Watching the shadowy collapsible rowboat nearing a peculiar irrelevant thought came to him. If shooting did mean war, what part would Brick Harrington, seaman, first class, play in that war?
THE BOAT was almost next to him now, so he stopped paddling and treaded water feebly. It wasn’t until he stopped swimming that he became aware of his exhaustion. The pain in his right side had localized itself along his ribs and every breath he took was a new ache.
Spots of black and white were dancing before his eyes when the small boat pulled alongside of him. He hardly felt the strong arms that pulled him from the water and lifted him over into the boat. For a long, sweet moment he relaxed completely, breathing heavily and deeply in spite of the pain.
But by the time the boat reached the sub he had recovered enough strength to crawl to his feet and clamber onto its deck without assistance. He felt a queer pride in doing this. Though desperately weak, he straightened and stared levelly at the German seamen who were regarding him curiously. With deep stubbornness he wanted them to know that he was ship-shape and right.
He heard a sudden, sharp cry from one of the sailors at the opposite rail and turning, he saw the searchlight flashing again in widening circles over the black water. The seamen at the side of the sub, he saw, were preparing to launch the small rowboat again.
Brick started to cross the deck to see what was going on, but a German seaman took him by the arm and pointed to the conning tower.
“It is best you go below,” he said in halting English. The man’s voice was gruffly impersonal, but Brick could sense a halting sympathy in it.
He was too weary to argue. He stumbled to the conning tower and an officer helped him down the narrow steel ladder that led to the depths of the sub. Vaguely Brick realized that he was seated on a stool and his water soaked windbreaker had been removed.
Later, as his head cleared, he saw more men climbing down the iron ladder. Reaching the bottom they received a small, soggy body handed down
to them. Two of them stretched the body on the floor and another seaman went to work on it with artificial respiration.
Brick shook his head and climbed to his feet. There was something disturbingly familiar about that huddled figure on the floor. He took several unsteady steps toward the small knot of men, and then one of them moved and he got a look at the face of the man on whom they were working.
It wasn’t logical that he should have been so shocked, but his legs almost collapsed as he recognized the pale, pinched features of his shipmate, Pop Carter.
He dropped to his knees beside the little man’s inert figure.
“Is he—has he got a chance?” he demanded hoarsely to the men who were working over him.
As if in direct answer to his question the small, soaked figure on the floor stirred weakly. Brick watched tensely as the old fellow’s bright little eyes opened and stared up at him. For a moment his face was blank, but then recognition dawned, and a faint flash of ire glinted in his eyes.
“Dang it!” he wheezed. “I told you to get below. Now get movin’ before I—I—I—”
His voice trailed off weakly. His eyes closed again but a faint flutter of color was showing in the tough little man’s leathery cheeks.
SOMEHOW, POP’S presence acted like a tonic to Brick. Except for the dull pain in his right side he was feeling considerably better. Strength was flooding into his healthy, well-muscled body and his head was clearing rapidly. Though still weak and tired, he was feeling more himself every minute.
He stood up and the German who had spoken to him on the deck stepped to his side.
“Please,” he said, “will you come with me? The captain wishes to see you.”
“Okay,” Brick shrugged. He started to leave, but stopped and glanced back uncertainly at Pop’s still figure.
The German guessed his anxiety.
“Your comrade will be in good care,” he said earnestly. “Everything he needs will be provided for him.”
Reassured, Brick followed the German through the narrow ship to a small gray door which was closed. The German opened the door and saluted smartly.
“The American,” he said stiffly.
“By all means bring him in,” a smooth, cultured voice answered from the room.
Obeying a nod from the German, Brick stepped into the room. He heard the door click behind him silently.
Standing behind a desk in the middle of the room, Brick saw a tall, dark-haired man in an officer’s uniform regarding him. There was silence for an instant as the eyes of the two men locked and held with an almost physical force.
Brick noticed fleetingly the hard features, the thin black mustache and the arrogant bearing of the German officer. Then his gaze flicked back to the German’s eyes, light blue and as cold as sunlight on snow, mirroring the nature of the man behind them.
They were the reflections of a ruthless, dangerous mind and will. Flintlike in their hardness, chilling in their coldness, they pierced Brick like twin lances of deadly flame.
It was the German officer who broke the strained silence.
“I am Captain Von Herrman,” he said. Brick noticed again the flawless, precise pronunciation, the clipped, metallic voice. “I picked you up because I think you may have information I can use. If you are sensible you will cooperate with me. However I don’t expect your answer now. You may have time to think it over.”
Brick’s hands tightened into fists, but there was the flicker of a humorless smile on his lips as he said.
“I wouldn’t think of keeping you waiting. You can have my answer right now. Go to hell!”
The Captain shrugged.
“You are bitter, perhaps. You are still thinking of the sinking of your ship. I would advise you to forget such things. They are part of the past. They are over and done with and nothing you or I can do will change them.”
“I am not thinking so much of the sinking of the ship,” Brick said coldly, “as the method used in sinking it.”
The captain smiled, displaying strong even teeth.
“You Americans are too idealistic. You play at war as if it were some school game. You let your sympathies rule your head. The world today has no room in it for boy scouts.”
“Perhaps room will be made,” Brick said softly.
“That will be difficult to do,” the captain said. “More difficult than you know. You have been attempting it and how far have you progressed? The convoy you were supposed to be protecting was destined for Britain. How much good will it do them at the bottom of the ocean?”
A buzzer sounded suddenly in the room as the captain finished speaking. He stepped quickly to the wall and lifted a communication hose from a hook on the wall.
“Ja?” he snapped curtly.
He listened for a few seconds and Brick saw an anxious frown spreading over his hard features. For another interval he listened and then he spoke one tense, electric word into the mouthpiece.
“Tauchen!” Submerge!
HE REPLACED the hose with a savage gesture and strode to his desk. “Our little discussion must be postponed,” he snapped. “Two enemy destroyers have evidently picked up our vibrations. They are closing in under full steam.”
Brick felt a slight shift under his feet as the sub tilted downward. The captain seated himself at the desk and was intently studying the charts and current indicators spread before him.
Brick knew destroyer tactics and he felt a grim exultation sweeping through him. Once they picked up a sub’s vibrations it was generally curtains for the undersea craft. Tons of depth bombs would be the opening phase of the battle. Then the sleek destroyers would flash through the water like sharks on the trail of blood, watching for the ominous signs of air bubbles and oil that indicated their charges had scored.
But their great advantage lay in the sub’s necessity to rise to the surface for oxygen within a time limit. The destroyers could play a waiting game. The subs could not. They must get to their bases or rise for air. They couldn’t do either as long as a destroyer was on their trail.[3]
“You haven’t got a chance,” Brick said grimly.
The captain glanced up briefly from his charts. There was a cold, mocking light in his eyes.
“Your stupid American optimism is annoying even though there is a logical basis for it. We are in danger now, but in a few minutes I can promise you we will be out of it.”
“You’re whistling in the dark,” Brick said, grinning, “You’re a thousand miles from your closest base, and you’ll soon be out of oil and oxygen.”
“Your calculations are off,” the Captain snapped. “We are closer to our base than you imagine.”
Brick started to reply but an imperative clamor of the buzzer interrupted him.
He watched the captain step quickly to the wall, remove the ear phone with a quick motion.
And then it happened!
The floor beneath him jerked spasmodically and a thunderous reverberation throbbed in his ears. Stunned by the impact of sound he found himself sprawled on the floor, head ringing. His side, which he had momentarily forgotten, was aching again as he crawled to his knees.
Following the first blast of sound came an almost continual rumble of explosions in quick succession that jarred the sub with sledge-hammer blows.
Delicate wall instruments rattled and crashed to the floor as the craft shuddered under each successive impact. Brick saw that the captain had struggled to his feet and was barking frantic orders into the communication hose.
Under his feet Brick felt the floor shift to a steeper angle as the sub pointed downward.
BRICK CRAWLED to his feet, holding his breath against the pain the movement caused. The steep angle of the floor held, and minute after minute ticked off in silence. The rumble of the depth bombs was changing to a faint sound, above them and off to their leeward side.
Then he felt the floor beneath him level itself out. It was no longer necessary to brace himself against the wall to maintain his balance. He glanced at t
he captain and saw that he was smiling coldly.
“In spite of your expectations to the contrary,” the Nazi said in his clipped, sarcastic voice, “the danger is past. Your stupid destroyers will chase about for a few days like dogs after their own tails, then they will boast of the sinking of another German submarine.”
Brick remained silent. The captain’s confidence was genuine, he felt sure, but it puzzled him.
He felt, or thought he felt, a slight jar travel the length of the sub. He couldn’t be sure for there was a strange lightness in his head that was making thinking a difficult job. The pain in his side had subsided again to a dull throbbing ache.
“We are docked,” he heard the captain’s voice as if from a great distance.
Brick shook his head in an effort to clear the white mists.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered thickly. “Where are we?”
The captain drew himself erect, his eyes lighting with a cold flame.
“Atlantis,” he said. There was a pride in his voice that was almost exultation.
Brick tried to laugh, but no sound came from his throat. Atlantis! The continent that had sunk thousands of years ago. Now he knew this was all a wild, crazy nightmare.
Then something struck him a blunt blow in the face and chest and when he tried to lift his arms he found that he had fallen to the floor. Before he could figure out this surprising development a wave of dirty black spilled over him, smothering him . . .
CHAPTER III
Atlantis!
POP CARTER STARED AT the still figure on the cot anxiously. His round, red face was wrinkled worriedly and his gnarled, blunt fingers were twisted together in something very like entreaty.
Long slow minutes passed and then the figure on the cot stirred restlessly.
Pop leaned forward in sudden anxiety.
“Brick, boy,” he whispered pleadingly.
Brick opened his eyes slowly, painfully. It was like coming up from black silent water or walking from darkness into a brightly lighted room. He blinked his eyes and managed to focus them on Pop’s worried, wrinkled face.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 43
