CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Desperate Hours
The men in the control room stared at Bell with unbelieving eyes.
"I tell you part of the hull of the Southern Queen has been rolled overon top of us," shouted Earl. "We're trapped! We're trapped!" His voicebroke.
Tim felt sick. Down 185 feet under the surface of the water, there wasno way of sending up news of their predicament and no one there even ifthey could send it up.
Commander Ford remained calm.
"Stay at your posts," he ordered. "I'll go forward and see what can belearned."
Tim followed him. The Commander took over the telephone and spoke tothe divers, sitting inside their compartment.
"What can you make out?" he asked Charlie Gill.
The reply was not encouraging.
"Part of the upperstructure of the Southern Queen was toppled over onus when that last earth shock came," reported Gill. "I'm going outsideand see what can be done."
The doors of the diving compartment clicked open and the chief diverdisappeared.
Long minutes dragged by. There was no word from the man on whom theywere pinning so much of their hopes.
Finally Charlie Gill staggered back into view. Tim knew from the sag ofhis shoulders that the mission had been useless.
Again the doors of the diving compartment were shut and he heard Gill'svoice coming over the wire into the receivers on Commander Ford's head.
"We're caught tight," reported the diver. "There doesn't seem to be achance to escape."
Tim looked down at the rusty treasure chests, piled in such a haphazardfashion on the floor of the outer diving compartment. All thought ofthe treasure had left their minds now. The one desire was to get backto the surface.
The _S-18_ quivered occasionally as new earth shocks rocked the bottomof the ocean.
Commander Ford put down the headset and turned back toward the controlroom.
"We'll try it again," he said.
The electrics hummed, the propellers threshing first one way and thenanother, but there was no upward movement of the submarine.
The water was blown from the diving compartment and Gill and Grahamstruggled out of their diving suits.
Commander Ford called them to one side, and they conversed at length.Tim caught only snatches of the conversation, but it was enough to tellhim that their situation was almost hopeless. Already the air insidethe _S-18_ seemed heavy and his head ached miserably.
"How long can we last?" he asked Pat, who was standing by in thecontrol room.
The chief officer shrugged.
"Let's not think about that."
The motors were shut off and the only sound was the faint humming ofthe ventilating fans as they forced a current of air from onecompartment to another.
The crew, gathered in little groups, conversed in whispers. JoeGartner, the gunner, battered open the top of one of the treasurechests and neat rows of gold bars were revealed. There was only amurmur of enthusiasm. Any man aboard would have traded a safe trip backto the surface for his share of the gold.
Commander Ford decided upon a desperate plane of action. A special bombwith a time fuse was rigged and Charlie Gill donned his diving suitagain and went outside. They saw him working his way along the hull ofthe Southern Queen. Somewhere out there he would plant the bomb in thehope that the explosion would loosen the wreckage and allow the _S-18_to shoot toward the surface.
Fifteen minutes later he was back. In five more minutes the bomb wouldgo off. Tim literally counted every second. The crew waited at theirposts and the motors were ready to push the _S-18_ toward the surfaceif they broke free.
The _S-18_ shook slightly. The propellers threshed madly, but there wasno upward movement.
This time Russ Graham went outside. When he came back he shook his head.
"Explosive won't budge the wreckage," he said. "It would take a bucketof nitro at this depth and we haven't any nitro."
Despair lined the face of every man who heard those words. Most of themwere submarine men, and they knew what was ahead--bad air, headaches,dimming lights, then darkness for the _S-18_ and for them.
"We might as well save the electricity," said Commander Ford. Lightswere turned off until only one bulb gleamed in each compartment.
Some of the men got together a meal. Tim didn't feel like eating. Stilltrue to the code of reporters, he sat down and with pencil and paperwrote the story of the last dive of the _S-18_. For an hour he wrote.Time meant nothing to the men now. The end would come when the lightfaded and the air gave out.
Tim's head pounded to the throbbing of the blood through his body. Afew of the men rolled into their blankets, trying to sleep. Thetreasure chests were forgotten.
The hours passed and Tim wrote slowly, recording his impressions.
The storage batteries had been drained of their reserve by the heavypulls of the motors in trying to free the submarine and now only twolights were on, one in the control room, the other in the crew'squarters.
It was hard to breath. The air was thick and foul. A thin stream ofwater was spurting into the engine room where a seam had opened underthe pressure and the weight of the wreckage above it. Tim could hearthe water splashing on the floor.
The light was dimmer, only a faint glow now. Then it was gone. Writingwas a thing of the past, but in his hands he held the record of theirtragedy. Perhaps someday the _S-18_ would be found and their storyknown.
Tim fumbled for his blankets. The air was cold. He laid down on thebunk. Up ahead was the steady splashing of the water. Back of him a manwas quietly praying.
Tim closed his eyes. His head was splitting. Perhaps sleep would bringpeace.
There was no sound in the _S-18_ except the low breathing of men whowere saving every precious breath and the sound of the water coming inthrough the opened seam.
"When the water reaches the batteries there'll be chlorine," someonemuttered.
"Let's hope it reaches them soon," another voice replied. "This waitingis what hurts."
Tim was drowsy, his mind a blank. The end was near for all of them.Another half hour, not much longer.
An occasional earth tremor could be felt, but they were less distinct.
Tim was on the verge of unconsciousness when the _S-18_ rocked sharplyas though a giant hand had grasped the conning tower and was shakingthe big undersea craft in a playful manner. There was the faint soundof scraping metal, followed by another shock which threw men from theirbunks.
Water was cascading in upon them. Screams filled the air.
"We've broken in two," was one desperate cry.
Tim struggled to get to his feet. Water swished about his feet andsomeone knocked him down. Pat was shouting wildly.
"Shut up!" he cried. "Try and get to your stations. We're moving!"
Men paused, dazed by the words. Gradually the meaning penetrated theirfagged brains and through the darkness they hunted for their places.
Pat was right. Without power of its own, the _S-18_ was moving. Slowlyat first, then with an upward rush that tumbled them about likejack-straws. The slim nose burst through the water and rose above thesurface.
Commander Ford, who had remained in the control room, crawled up theladder and opened the main hatch. A breath of fresh, sweet air, sweptdown into grateful faces. One by one the men crawled out on the deck.
It was the dawn of the second day. They had been saved from death belowthe surface, saved by an earthquake which had shifted the wreckage ofthe Southern Queen off the hull of the _S-18_.
Tim looked toward the Isle of the Singing Trees. The seaplane wasriding safely just off the beach. It was less than 48 hours since theyhad gone below but he had lived a lifetime in those desperate hours ofdarkness and despair.
For half an hour they relaxed, basking in the sunshine of the earlymorning. Then they set about making the _S-18_ ready for the longcruise back to New York.
Tim, remembering the story
he had written while they were on thebottom, plunged below. Part of the paper was wet, but Ike Green decidedhe could read it and he sat down at the radio to transmit it to the NewYork Journal and the Atkinson _News_.
"I'm sending a story on the recovery of the treasure," Tim said toCommander Ford. "How much shall I say the gold totals?"
"It will exceed two million dollars," smiled the Commander, "whichmeans a tidy sum for every member of the crew."
"I wouldn't go through that experience again for a whole million,"replied Tim.
"Neither would I," agreed the Commander. "It was little short of amiracle that saved us from death."
Out of the air crackled a message that afternoon. It was from GeorgeCarson, back in Atkinson.
"Your story is the best of the year," radioed the managing editor ofthe _News_. "Congratulations on a fine piece of writing, but don't takeany more chances by going down in a submarine."
Tim slipped the message in a pocket. It had been a great adventure,more thrilling by far than he had ever dared to dream, but he would beglad when the _S-18_ nosed its way back into New York harbor.
THE END
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This is the fourth book in the Tim Murphy Series. Have you read all of them?
Volume I Daring Wings Volume II Sky Trail Volume III Circle-Four Patrol Volume IV The Treasure Hunt of the _S-18_
The Treasure Hunt of the S-18 Page 23