The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “Very well, I hope it proves a success.”

  “Of course it will. It is impossible to burst my gun! Now, are we ready for the test.”

  The gun was rather crude in form, not having received its final polish, and it was mounted on a temporary carriage. But even with that Tom could see that it was a wonderful weapon, though he thought he would have put on another jacket toward the muzzle, to further strengthen that portion.

  “I’m going to make a gun bigger than that,” said Tom to Ned. He spoke rather louder than he intended, and, as it was at a moment when there was a period of silence, the words carried to General Waller, who was at that moment near Tom.

  “What’s that?” inquired the rather fiery-tempered officer, as he looked sharply at our hero.

  “I said I was going to make a larger gun than that,” repeated Tom, modestly.

  “Sir! Do you know what you are saying? How did you come in here, anyhow? I thought no civilians were to be admitted today! Explain how you got here!”

  Tom felt an angry flush mounting to his cheeks.

  “I came in here on a pass countersigned by you,” he replied.

  “A pass countersigned by me? Let me it.”

  Tom passed it over.

  “Humph, it doesn’t seem to be forged,” went on the pompous officer. “Who are you, anyhow?”

  “Tom Swift.”

  “Hum!”

  “General Waller, permit me to introduce Tom Swift to you,” spoke Captain Badger, stepping forward, and trying not to smile. “He is one of our foremost inventors. It is his type of monoplane that the government has adopted for the coming maneuvers at Panama, you may recall, and he was very helpful to Uncle Sam in stopping that swindling on the border last year—Tom and his big searchlight. Mr. Swift, General Waller,” and Captain Badger bowed as he completed the introduction.

  “What’s that. Tom Swift here? Let me meet him!” exclaimed an elderly officer coming through the crowd. The others parted to make way for him, as he seemed to be a person of some importance, to judge by his uniform, and the medals he wore.

  “Tom Swift here!” he went on. “I want to shake hands with you, Tom! I haven’t seen you since I negotiated with you for the purchase of those submarines you invented, and which have done such splendid service for the government. Tom, I’m glad to see you here today.”

  The face of General Waller was a study in blank amazement.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE IMPOSSIBLE OCCURS

  There were murmurs throughout the throng about the big gun, as the officer approached Tom Swift and shook hands with him.

  “What have you in mind now, Tom, that you come to Sandy Hook?” the much-medaled officer asked.

  “Nothing much, Admiral,” answered our hero.

  “Oh, yes, you have!” returned Admiral Woodburn, head of the naval forces of Uncle Sam. “You’ve got some idea in your head, or you wouldn’t come to see this test of my friend’s gun. Well, if you can invent anything as good for coast defense, or even interior defense, as your submarines, it will be in keeping with what you have done in the past. I congratulate you, General Waller, on having Tom Swift here to give you the benefit of some of his ideas.”

  “I—I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Swift before,” said the gun inventor, stiffly. “I did not recognize his name when I countersigned his pass.”

  It was plain that the greeting of Tom by Admiral Woodburn had had a marked effect in changing sentiment toward our hero. Captain Badger smiled as he noticed with what different eyes the gun inventor now regarded the lad.

  “Well, if Tom Swift gives you any points about your gun, you want to adopt them,” went on the Admiral. “I thought I knew something about submarines, but Tom taught me some things, too; didn’t you, Tom?”

  “Oh, it was just a simple matter, Admiral,” said Tom, modestly. “Just that little point about the intake valves and the ballast tanks.”

  “But they changed the whole matter. Yes, General, you take Tom’s advice—if he gives you any.”

  “I don’t know that I will need any—as yet,” replied General Waller. “I am confident my gun will be a success as it is at present constructed. Later, however, if I should decide to make any changes, I will gladly avail myself of Mr. Swift’s counsel,” and he bowed stiffly to Tom. “We will now proceed with the test,” he went on. “Kindly send a wireless to the patrol ships that we are about to fire, and ask them to note carefully where the projectile falls.”

  “Very good, sir,” spoke the officer in immediate charge of the matter, as he saluted. Soon from the aerials snapped the vicious sparks that told of the wireless telegraph being worked.

  I might explain that near the spot where the projectile was expected to fall into the sea—about fifteen miles from Sandy Hook—several war vessels were stationed to warn shipping to give the place a wide berth. This was easy, since the big gun had been aimed at a spot outside of the steamship lanes. Aiming the rifle in a certain direction, and giving it a definite angle of inclination, made it practically certain just where the shot would fall. This is called “getting the range,” and while, of course, the exact limit of fire of the new gun was not known, it had been computed as nearly as possible.

  “Is everything ready now?” asked General Waller, while Tom was conversing with his friends, Captain Badger and Admiral Woodburn, Ned taking part in the conversation from time to time.

  “All ready, sir,” was the assurance. The inventor was plainly nervous as the crucial moment of the test approached. He went here and there upon the barbette, testing the various levers and gear wheels of the gun.

  The projectile and powder had been put in, the breech-block screwed into place, the primer had been inserted, and all that remained was to press the button that would make the electrical connection, and explode the charge. This act of firing the gun had been intrusted to one of the soldiers, for General Waller and his brother officers were to retire to a bomb-proof, whence they would watch the effect of the fire, and note the course of the projectile.

  “It seems to me,” remarked Ned, “that the soldier who is going to fire the gun is in the most danger.”

  “He would be—if it exploded,” spoke Tom, for his officer friends had joined their colleagues, most of whom were now walking toward the shelter. “But I think there is little danger.

  “You see, the electric wires are long enough to enable him to stand some distance from the gun. And, if he likes, he can crouch behind that concrete wall of the next barbette. Still, there is some chance of an accident, for, no matter how carefully you calculate the strain of a bursting charge of powder, and how strongly you construct the breech-block to stand the strain, there is always the possibility of a flaw in the metal. So, Ned, I think we’ll just go to the bomb-proof ourselves, when we see General Waller making for the same place.”

  “I suppose,” remarked Ned, “that in actual warfare anyone who fired one of the big guns would have to stand close to it—closer than that soldier is now.”

  “Oh, yes—much,” replied Tom, as he watched General Waller giving the last instructions to the private who was to press the button. “Only, of course, in war the guns will have been tested, and this one has not. Here he comes; I guess we’d better be moving.”

  General Waller, having assured himself that everything was as right as possible, had given the last word to the private and was now making his way toward the bomb-proof, within which were gathered his fellow-officers and friends.

  “You had better retire from the immediate vicinity of the gun,” said its inventor to Tom and Ned, as he passed them. “For, while I have absolute confidence in my cannon, and I know that it is impossible to burst it, the concussion may be unpleasant at such close range.”

  “Thank you,” said Tom. “We are going to get in a safe place.”

  He could not refrain from contrasting the general’s manner now with what it had been at first.

  As for Ned, he could not help wondering why,
if the inventor had such absolute faith in his weapon, he did not fire it himself, even at the risk of a “concussion.”

  How it happened was never accurately known, as the soldier declared positively—after he came out of the hospital—that he had not pressed the button. The theory was that the wires had become crossed, making a short circuit, which caused the gun to go off prematurely.

  But suddenly, while Tom, Ned and General Waller were still some distance away from the bomb-proof, there was a terrific explosion. It seemed as if the very foundations of the fortifications would be shattered There was a roaring in the air—a hot burst of flame, and instantly such a vacuum was created that Tom and Ned found themselves gasping for breath.

  Dazed, shaken in every bone, with their muscles sore, they picked themselves up from the ground, along which they had been blown with great force in the direction of the bomb-proof. Even as Tom struggled to his feet, intending to run to safety in fear of other explosions, he realized what had happened.

  “What—what was it?” cried Ned, as he, too, arose.

  “The gun burst!” yelled Tom.

  He looked to the left and saw General Waller picking himself up, his uniform torn, and blood streaming from a cut on his face. At the same instant Tom was aware of the body of a man flying through the air toward a distant grass plot, and the young inventor recognized it as that of the soldier who had been detailed to fire the great cannon.

  Almost instantaneously as everything happened, Tom was aware of noticing several things, as though they took place in sequence. He looked toward where the gun had stood. It was in ruins. The young inventor saw something, which he took to be the projectile, skimming across the sea waves, and he had a fleeting glimpse of the greater portion of the immense weapon itself sinking into the depths of the ocean.

  Then, coming down from a great height in the air, he saw a dark object. It was another piece of the cannon that had been hurled skyward.

  “Look out!” Tom yelled, instinctively, as he staggered toward the bomb-proof, Ned following.

  He saw a number of officers running out to assist General Waller, who seemed too dazed to move. Many of them had torn uniforms, and not a few were bleeding from their injuries. Then the air seemed filled with a rain of small missiles—stones, dirt, gravel and pieces of metal.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A BIG PROBLEM

  “Are you much hurt, Ned?”

  Tom Swift bent anxiously over the prostrate form of his chum. A big piece of the burst gun had fallen close to Ned—so close, in fact, that Tom, who saw it as he neared the entrance to the bomb-proof, shuddered as he raced back. But there was no sign of injury on his chum.

  “Are you much hurt, Ned?”

  The lad’s eyes opened. He seemed dazed.

  “No—no, I guess not,” he answered, slowly. “I—I guess I’m as much scared as hurt, Tom. It was the wind from that big piece that knocked me down. It didn’t actually hit me.”

  “No, I should say not,” put in Captain Badger, who had run out toward the two lads. “If it had hit you there wouldn’t have been much of you left to tell the tale,” and he nodded toward the big piece of metal Tom had seen coming down from the sky. That part of the cannon forming a portion of the breech had buried itself deep in the earth. It had landed close to Ned—so close that, as he said, the wind of it, as well as the concussion, perhaps, had thrown him with enough force to send the breath from him.

  “Glad to hear that, old man!” exclaimed Tom, with a sigh of relief. “If you’d been hurt I should have blamed myself.”

  “That would have been foolish. I took the same chance that you did,” answered Ned, as he arose, and limped off between the captain and Tom.

  A great silence seemed to have followed the terrific report. And now the officers and soldiers began to recover from the stupor into which the accident had thrown them. Sentries began pouring into the proving grounds from other portions of the barracks, and an ambulance call was sent in.

  General Waller’s comrades had hurried out to him, and were now leading him away. He did not seem to be much hurt, though, like many others, he had received numerous cuts and scratches from bits of stone and gravel scattered by the explosion, as well as from small bits of metal that were thrown in all directions.

  “Are you hurt, General?” asked Admiral Woodburn, as he put his arm about the shoulder of the inventor.

  “No—that is to say, I don’t think so. But what happened? Did they fire some other gun in our direction by mistake?”

  For a moment they all hesitated. Then the Admiral said, gently:

  “No, General. It was your own gun—it burst.”

  “My gun! My gun burst?”

  “That was it. Fortunately, no one was killed.”

  “My gun burst! How could that happen? I drew every plan for that gun myself. I made every allowance. I tell you it was impossible for it to burst!”

  “But it did burst, General,” went on the Admiral. “You can see for yourself,” and he turned around and waved his hand toward the barbette where the gun had been mounted. All that remained of it now was part of the temporary carriage, and a small under-portion of the muzzle. The entire breech, with the great block, had been blown into fragments, so powerful was the powder used. The projectile one watcher reported, had gone about three hundred yards over the top of the barbette and then dropped into the sea, very little of the force of the explosive having been expended on that. A large piece of the gun had also been lost in the water off shore.

  “My gun burst! My gun burst!” murmured General Waller, as if unable to comprehend it. “My gun burst—it is impossible!”

  “But it did,” spoke Admiral Woodburn, softly. “Come, you had better see the surgeon. You may be more seriously injured than you think.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” asked the inventor, listlessly. He seemed to have lost all interest, for the time being.

  “No one seriously, as far as we can learn,” was the answer.

  “What of the man who fired the gun?” inquired the General.

  “He was blown high into the air,” said Tom. “I saw him.”

  “But he is not injured beyond some bruises,” put in one of the ambulance surgeons. “We have taken him to the hospital. He fell on a pile of bags that had held concrete, and they saved him. It was a miraculous escape.”

  “I am glad of it,” said General Waller. “It is bad enough to feel that I made some mistake, causing the gun to burst; but I would never cease to reproach myself if I felt that the man who fired it was killed, or even hurt.”

  His friends led him away, and Tom and Ned went over to look at what remained of the great gun. Truly, the powder, expending its force in a direction not meant for it, had done terrific havoc. Even part of the solid concrete bed of the barbette had been torn up.

  An official inquiry was at once started, and, while it would take some time to complete it (for the parts of the gun remaining were to be subjected to an exhaustive test to determine the cause of the weakness), it was found that there was some defect in the wiring and battery that was used to fire the charge.

  The soldier who was to press the button was sure he had not done so, as he had been ordered to wait until General Waller gave the signal from the bomb-proof. But the gun went off before its inventor reached that place of safety. Just what had caused the premature discharge could never be learned, as part of the firing apparatus had been blown to atoms.

  “Well, Tom, what do you think of it?” asked Ned, who had now fully recovered from the shock. The two were about to leave the proving grounds, having seen all that they cared to.

  “I don’t know just what to think,” was the answer. “It sure was a big explosion, and it goes to prove that, no matter how many calculations you make, when you try a new powder in a new gun you don’t know what’s going to happen, until after it has happened—and then it’s too late. It’s a big problem, Ned.”

  “Do you think you can solve it? Are you still going
on with your plan to build the biggest cannon ever made?”

  “I sure am, Ned, though I don’t know that I’ll make out any better than General Waller did. It’s too bad his was a failure; but I think I see where he made some mistakes.”

  “Oh, you do; eh?” suddenly exclaimed a voice, and from a nearby parapet, where he had gone to look at one of the pieces of his gun, stepped General Waller. “So you think I made some mistakes, Tom Swift? Where, pray?”

  “In making the breech. The steel jackets were of uneven thickness, making the strain unequal. Then, too, I do not think the powder was sufficiently tested. It was probably of uneven strength. That is only my opinion, sir.”

  “Well, you are rather young to give opinions to men who have devoted almost all their lives to the study of high explosives.”

  “I realize that, sir; but you asked me for my opinion. I shall hope to profit by your mistakes, too. That is one reason I wanted to see this test.”

  “Then you are seriously determined to make a gun that you think will rival mine.”

  “I am, General Waller.”

  “For what purpose—to sell to some foreign government?”

  “No, sir!” cried Tom, with flashing eyes. “If I am successful in making a cannon that will fire the longest shots on record, I shall offer it to Uncle Sam first of all. If he does not want it, I shall not dispose of it to any foreign country!”

  “Hum! Well, I don’t believe you’ll succeed. I intend to rebuild my gun at once, though I may make some changes in it. I am sure I shall succeed the next time. But as for you—a mere youth—to hope to rival men who have made this problem a life-study—it is preposterous, sir! Utterly preposterous!” and he uttered these words much as he had declared that it was impossible for his gun to burst, even after it was in fragments.

  “Come on, Ned,” said Tom, in a low voice. “We’ll go back home.”

  CHAPTER IX

  THE NEW POWDER

  “Bless my cartridge belt, Tom, you don’t really mean to say that stuff is powder!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.

  “That’s what I hope it will prove to be—and powerful powder at that.”