Tom Swift and the Electronic Hydrolung

by II Victor Appleton

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Graeme Mackreth and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  TOM SWIFT AND THE ELECTRONIC HYDROLUNG

  _The grenade went streaking straight toward Tom!_]

  THE NEW TOM SWIFT JR. ADVENTURES

  TOM SWIFTAND THE ELECTRONICHYDROLUNG

  BY VICTOR APPLETON II

  ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES BREY

  NEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS

  Copyright BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1961

  [Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  1 PIRATE MISSILE 112 UNDERSEA SURVEY 203 INVISIBLE SUB 314 AERIAL ATTACK 395 A HUNCH PAYS OFF 506 THE CAISSON CLUE 567 PORPOISE TAG 648 DATE TROUBLE 729 A MAGNETIC KIDNAPING 8110 TELEPHONE CODE 9011 SQUARE-DANCE HOAX 10012 DETECTION TEST 10913 ENEMY FROGMEN 11914 A PROPAGANDA BLITZ 13015 MOUNTAIN HIKE 14016 THE GUNMAN'S SURPRISE 14817 A MISSING AMULET 15618 SMILEY THE SEA COW 16619 FLASH FROM THE DEPTHS 17620 A LUCKY BLAST 183

  CHAPTER I

  PIRATE MISSILE

  Tense, excited men gazed spaceward from the ships and planes of theSouth Atlantic task force. Other watchers waited breathlessly in thecontrol room of the ship _Recoverer_. Among these was Tom Swift Jr.

  "How close to earth is our Jupiter probe missile?" Bud Barclay asked Tomexcitedly.

  The lanky blond youth beside him, in T shirt and slacks, shot a glanceat the dials of the tracking equipment. "Eight thousand miles from thisspot, Bud. It should land here in fifteen minutes!"

  Tom Jr., his father, Bud, and a host of scientists, Navy officers, andnewsmen were crowded aboard a U.S. Navy missile launching ship.

  "Just think!" Bud exulted. "You'll have data from the planet Jupiterthat no one on earth has yet been able to get!"

  "_If_ we recover the missile safely," Mr. Swift spoke up hopefully. Theelder scientist's voice was quiet but taut with the strain of waiting.The two Swifts resembled each other closely--each had deep-set blue eyesand clean-cut features--although Tom was somewhat taller and rangier.

  "You're right, Dad," Tom agreed. "If we don't snare the missile, ourwhole project will be a total loss to America's space program!"

  At Tom's words, the watchers and crewmen who were crowded into the_Recoverer_'s control room stirred restlessly. Its bulkheads were bankedwith radar and telemetering devices. Tension had been mountingthroughout the morning aboard the ships and observation planes of thetask force as everyone awaited the return of the planet-circlingmissile--scientists' deepest penetration into space so far.

  "What do you mean, a total loss?" Bud argued. "Even if the recoveryoperation's a flop, the shot will still pay off in valuable information,won't it?"

  Tom shook his head grimly. "The purpose of this unmanned, exploratoryflight around Jupiter was to take and record all kinds of data. But noneof the info is being radioed back to us."

  "How come?"

  "If we had put in radio gear strong enough to relay signals back, itwould have cut down the amount of information-gathering equipmentaboard," Tom explained. "We had to make every ounce count."

  Outwardly calm, Tom was seething with inner excitement. Although onlyeighteen--the same age as his husky, dark-haired pal and copilot, BudBarclay--Tom had been given the job of directing the recovery phase ofthe United States government's Project Jupiter survey. The Swifts andtheir rocket research staff had built the missile and engineered thespace probe for the government.

  "Whew!" Bud gave a nervous whistle. "I see what you mean, pal. With allour eggs in one basket, we sure can't afford to get butter-fingered withthe Jupiter prober."

  Admiral Walter, a tall, distinguished man, graying at the temples,smiled. "It's what we call in warfare a calculated risk, Bud," he said."But with Tom in charge, I believe we have nothing to worry about."

  Mr. Swift's eyes shone with fatherly pride at the admiral's remark. TomJr.'s pioneering rocket flights and inventions had won the youth a toprank in American space research.

  "Guess you're right, sir," Bud agreed. "I'll back genius boy here anyday!"

  Tom winced as Bud whacked him heartily on the shoulder. "Better saveyour orchids and keep your fingers crossed, fly boy," the young inventoradvised. "That rocket's not home yet."

  Radio telescopes, both on land and aboard the ships of the task force,were following the missile's progress as it drew closer to earth. Allwere feeding a steady stream of information to the ships' computers.

  "How soon will you fire the retro-rockets, Tom?" Admiral Walter inquiredpresently.

  "In about ten seconds, sir," Tom replied, eying the sweep second hand ofthe clock.

  Moments later, a red light flashed on the master control panel. Tom'sfinger stabbed a button. Far out in space, the retarding rockets in themissile's nose were triggered for a brief burst, slowing its high speed.Without this, the missile would hurtle to flaming destruction in theatmosphere.

  "We've picked it up!" shouted a radarman.

  Bud gave a whoop of excitement and everyone crowded around theradarscope. Tom's steel-blue eyes checked the blip. Then he threw aswitch which started an automatic plotting machine that had beenprepared with the landing plan, and noted that the missile was slightlyoff the correct path. A new flow of information now began pulsing in asother ships' tracking radars recorded its course. The data was being fedautomatically to the "capture" computer. This would analyze the correctflight path for the recovery missile, which would magnetically seize thereturning traveler from Jupiter and bring it safely home.

  Tom quickly read off the results from the computer's dials, then busiedhimself again with the retarding-rocket controls.

  "Everything going okay, skipper?" Bud asked.

  Tom nodded. "I've readjusted the retarding rockets. They'll fire at theproper intervals to slow down the missile still further and bring itback on beam."

  The excited buzz of voices in the compartment gradually quieted as theclock ticked steadily toward the next step in the recovery operation.

  "Stand by for missile firing!" Tom snapped.

  A seaman relayed the order over the ship's intercom. Tense silence fellas Tom's eyes followed the sweep of the second hand.

  "All clear for blast-off!" came the talker's report.

  Tom pressed the firing button. A split second later the listeners'eardrums throbbed to a muffled roar from topside as the slender recoverymissile shot skyward. The ship rocked convulsively from the shock ofblast-off. Then it steadied again as the gyros damped out thevibrations.

  "Wow!" Bud heaved a sigh of relieved tension. Then he dashed from thecompartment and up the nearest ladder for a quick look at the rocket asit disappeared into the blue.

  Tom watched the recovery missile intently on the radarscope.

  "Nice going, son," said Mr. Swift quietly.

  In response to his father's reassuring grip on his arm, Tom flashed hima hasty smile. For the first time, the young inventor realized he
wasbeaded with perspiration and that his pulse was hammering.

  "It's a case of wait and hope," Tom murmured.

  On every ship and plane in the task force, eyes were glued to the radarscreens. Two small blips were visible--one the Jupiter probe missile,the other the recovery missile--moving on courses that would soonintersect.

  Just as Bud returned to the compartment, several of the watchers gavestartled gasps.

  "Another blip--coming in from nine o'clock!" Admiral Walter exclaimed."What's that?"

  Tom stared at the new blip. It was moving steadily toward the meetingpoint of the first two missiles!

  "It's a thief missile!" Tom cried out. "Some enemy's trying to steal ourprobe data!"

  "Good night!" Bud gulped. "Who'd dare try that?"

  "I don't know," Tom muttered tensely. "But if those three missiles meet,our whole project will be wrecked!"

  "Better tape all readings!" Mr. Swift advised.

  "Right, Dad!"

  Admiral Walter had paled slightly under his deep tan. In stunnedsilence, the Navy officers and scientists watched as Tom's lean handsmanipulated two controls.

  "What are those for?" Bud asked.

  "One's to speed up our recovery missile," Tom explained. "Looks like aslim hope, though, from the way that third blip is homing on target.This other control has just caused every instrument on this ship, andall the others in the task force, to make permanent records on magnetictape of all their readings.

  "If a collision occurs and the probe missile falls into the sea," Tomwent on, "there's only one hope of recovery--to plot the exactgeographical position and then get to the spot before the enemy does!"

  "Roger!" Bud agreed.

  It was obvious that Tom's fears about the missiles colliding were wellfounded. The mystery blip had veered as the recovery missile speeded up.Within seconds, the three blips met on the screen and fused into asingle spot of light.

  "The probe missile's no longer responding to control!" one of thetelemetering scientists called out.

  Admiral Walter, grim-faced, flashed a questioning look at Tom. "Thenrecovery has failed?"

  "I'm afraid so, sir."

  The fused blip was still visible on screen as the radar dishes trackedit, moving in a way that indicated a steep downward plunge.

  For a moment Tom felt numb with despair. But he set his jaw firmly andturned to the admiral.

  "Sir, I'd like helicopters readied for take-off immediately," Tom said."As soon as the tracking instruments lose contact, have the recordingtapes picked up from every ship in the task force and brought here tothe _Recoverer_."

  Admiral Walter nodded tersely. "Very well. Then what?"

  "I'll get to work right now," Tom replied, "and lay out a computerprogram to process the readings."

  The data--consisting of millions of information "bits" from theshipboard instrument tapes--would be fed to an electronic brain. Thebrain would then calculate the probable location in latitude andlongitude of the sunken missile.

  As the admiral snapped out orders, Tom exchanged a brief worried glancewith his father. Each was pondering the same thought.

  _Could Tom find the lost Jupiter probe missile? Or would their enemylocate it first?_