Cuttlefish

by Dave Freer

  “Do what you can, Chief. We've got three hours to dawn. We'll need to lie up somewhere. Cover with camo and inshore on the bottom for the day.”

  Ten minutes later they dived, with almost no one in the engine room, for safety. But even outside the engine room Tim could hear water spraying onto the temporary sheet metal barrier they had put up. The glue wasn't holding out the water.

  The boat moved, though.

  A little later they went back into the wetness of the engine room. The submarine had risen to just under the surface, and the captain was making as much speed as possible. In shallower water the leak was back to a stream running down the wall.

  Tim knew all too well from his lessons that with no compressors running the compressed air to raise the sub was limited to what they had already. Dive too often, and she'd never come up. He tried hard not to think about it. He settled in to work with Thorne and Matthews, on one of the Stirling engines. Others were busy on the other engines—there were fourteen of them, each with their own firebox and coal-dust pressure feed—and the chief himself was trying to see if any one of the three compressors could be salvaged.

  In the distance Tim heard drop-mines.

  “That's good,” said Thorne.

  “Why? That means the other airship must be here.”

  Thorne gave him a half-smile. “If they knew where we were, they'd save them to drop on us. They're probing. They've lost us.”

  Tim could only hope that that stayed true.

  The interior of the submarine was dark except for the dim emergency lights, although they were under way. It made working in the galley difficult, and hot food for anyone out of the question. But Cookie broke out tins of ham, ship's biscuits, and tinned fruit for dessert, and fed people. “Outside a meal, life don't seem so bad, missy,” he said. “Takes a brave man to face trouble, and they face it better with a full stomach. Work better too. I reckon feeding them is a good thing.”

  Clara did too, seeing the crew's faces in the dim light as they ate. She hadn't realized before just how important the people who merely made food and hot drinks were.

  Then came a noise that was even more welcome than the easing that plates of food had given to the frightened faces. It was halfhearted…but it was an engine noise, not just the soft, near-silent hum of the electric motors.

  Cookie beamed. “That chief could make an engine out of a dustbin lid. I've kept what bread I've got for the engine room sandwiches, and we've got biscuits too. See if the bridge can use some of those, or if they can come down to eat? Engine room lads get priority over officers right now.”

  So Clara ran up to the bridge.

  “It doesn't seem to have occurred to them that we could be listening in,” said Sparks to the captain. “Here are the coordinates, Captain, for the RAS Calpurnia and the RAS Balmain. The other airship is heading for Adelaide, as she's nearly out of fuel. The HMS Portrush is still half an hour from where they lost us.”

  “I assume they think we can't receive wireless signals from underwater, and the idea that we might have an aerial up on an aquaplaned float at low speeds has not occurred to them,” said the captain. “Three degrees starboard, steersman. It's that or they are trying to deceive us, and it is a trap. Right now we need to take a chance, gentlemen. The Portrush will have hydrophones, and running on the Stirlings and whatever cobbling the chief has managed on a compressor now will allow us a little recharging time. We can also refill our purge tanks.”

  “Sighting breakers, sir,” said the periscope man.

  “Black Rocks. With any luck they'll think we've gone to ground at Coffin Island.”

  “Aren't we going to, sir?” asked Clara, forgetting she was merely supposed to be here on an errand.

  “No. We'll make for the Halls Reefs,” replied the captain. “We'll have three-quarters of an hour of running in daylight, but until the sun gets high enough, even the airships can't see very far into the water. It's a chance we'll have to take.” Then he took in who he was speaking to. “Miss Calland. What do you want?”

  “Please, sir, Cookie wants to know if he should send biscuits up, or whether the bridge crew can come to the mess to eat. We've fed the rest of the crew, sir, except the engine room. It's all cold, sir, but it's food,” she said hastily.

  The captain shook his head. “Tell him I'll send the men down in shifts. And he can use his burners again at the moment, while we're on the snuiver, just not the electrical equipment. He can send me tea and some biscuits up. And he's to send some food down to the chief and his men.”

  “He has kept the bread for them, sir,” said Clara. “Just in case they needed sandwiches.”

  That actually managed to raise a smile from the captain and the bridge watch. “Then I think I will ask the chief engineer if he can let some of his men have some relief. We'll find more labour for the chief. Let them eat cold canned stew with the rest of crew.”

  “Um. It's ham, sir. Cookie said things weren't bad enough for stew.” That actually got them to laugh.

  Walking down to the mess again, Clara thought to herself how she had changed on this journey. When the Russians had kidnapped them, she'd been afraid, for herself and her mother. When they'd been trapped in the nets, and when she'd been stuck outside, she was afraid for herself again. In the Faroes, she had been afraid, afraid Tim might be hurt. In Rivas…she'd been afraid people might be angry, and afraid of being left behind. When Tim had been locked up, afraid for him again. When the mate had taken her prisoner, she hadn't been afraid, just angry, mostly with herself. Now…now she was afraid for everyone on the crew, and also for the boat. They were hers, and she was theirs.

  Tim was glad to leave the engine room and the erratic clatter of the jury-rigged compressor for the mess. Just how long the compressor would survive was another matter. They were busy with a frantic rebuild of the second one. Tim was no artificer or engineer, but it looked hopeless to him. The chief had bullied and sworn one piece of equipment into working again, though; he might succeed again. They had to do it, Tim knew. They needed to be able to empty the ballast tanks if they dived, and, if they stayed down long, for their breathing while submerged below snuiver depth.

  Tim had been told to eat and sleep—washing right now was out of the question, because it would take power—so he did. He was faintly aware of Big Eddie coming in. They'd stopped and the divers had been busy. Then when he woke again the “all quiet” light was burning, and the sound of drop-mines echoed eerily again. They weren't close, but even hearing them at all was too close.

  When it was time to go on his watch again, Tim was glad to hear the sound of the compressor. It sounded, even to his ears, irregular. Then it stopped.

  The chief, who looked like he hadn't slept at all, was standing and staring at it when Tim got down there.

  “It's not going to go again. We'll strip it for parts for number two.”

  “Chief,” said Lieutenant Ambrose's voice down the speaking tube. “You'll need to douse the fires on the Stirling engines. We're going to have to dive below snuiver depth soon.”

  As they couldn't run off the big compressor tanks, the Stirlings were drawing their oxygen for the heat-chamber fire directly from the engine snuiver. The problem with that was that there was no buffer—the firebox drew air from the inside of the submarine too. So now Tim hastily joined the engineers and artificers taking shovels of hot coal out of the heat chambers, and dropping the coal into buckets of water—which of course generated much steam and hissing, but at least the fire wouldn't be sucking oxygen from the engine room.

  It looked like hell, and it was pretty nearly as hot as that.

  “Tongs and hot iron duty, lads,” said the chief.

  Tim grabbed the tongs from the rack and joined in hauling the bits of scrap iron from the fireboxes and pushing them into the unbolted heat casings of the Stirling heating chambers. It would let the engines continue, silently, for a little while. Then they would have to switch to the power in the battery banks.

>   “What charge have we got, Chief?” came the captain's tired voice down the speaker tube.

  “If you keep it to four knots, Captain, we ought to have about three hours' running. If you go any faster, we'll lose some time,” said the chief engineer.

  “How is the new patch holding?”

  “I think the pipe itself is fractured, Captain. There is still a bit of leakage coming through. We've got everything as dry as we can. It's only a seep at this depth. There's a chance it might be fine. It could also give in completely if we get any more shocks. The glue is not as flexible as the solder.”

  “I'll avoid sudden dives if possible. I can't guarantee them avoiding drop-mines,” said the captain.

  “Last bit now,” said Cookie quietly.

  He'd made himself and Clara both a mug of hot sweet tea, and then Clara's mother one too, when she had come out of their cabin to join them. Quietly, although the “all quiet” light did not burn yet, they sat together in the mess, with its solitary dim emergency light.

  They waited.

  Clara's mother reached out a hand to hold hers. Clara held it tight. It did not seem a childish thing to do now.

  The amber “all quiet” lights in the Bakelite holders were not lit yet, but there were orders that the noise was to be kept to a minimum. Down in the engine room Tim knew that the Cuttlefish had been staying just below the surface so that they could use the remaining jury-rigged Stirling engines for as long as they dared. Looking at the engine he'd been working on, Tim knew that it had been more a case of which came first: the engines dying or them needing to dive.

  They all looked up when the engine room door was opened. “Captain said to let you know, we're going to go down gradually,” said Nicholl, quietly. “Wireless aerial is coming down. We have to sneak past a line of vessels blockading the passages to Ceduna. They're lying just out of reach of the Westralian batteries on St. Peter Island.”

  The submarine dived slowly. Tim—and everyone else—watched the leak.

  “You greasers, watch your fingers. I'll watch the water,” said the chief

  The problem, when it came, was not from the leak, or the mines, or the nets, but from the batteries.

  The chief looked at his dials worriedly. He touched Tim—who happened to be nearest—on the shoulder, as he waited to take his turn at the dangerous task of greasing the brass rods, and drew him away. “Go to the bridge, quick and quiet. Tell the skipper we've lost a set of batteries, and he's only got twelve minutes' power left.”

  So Tim ran, on his toes, to the bridge, where he delivered the message. He came back into the engine room to see red warning lights on the panels. And then, suddenly, came the boom of a drop-mine.

  And another.

  Not too close, but still shaking the boat.

  And then…a cracking noise.

  Water began running down the wall from the patch.

  “Out. She's going to blow!” yelled the chief.

  Tim joined the scramble for the engine room door.

  Water was pouring into the engine room as he helped to close it and haul down the sealing bars with a loud clank.

  Tim knew the hydrophones on the ships above them could not have missed picking up that crack or clank and the yells. Now they were crowded into the narrow gangway, wondering what would happen next.

  The skipper must have heard the noise too, and reached his own decisions.

  The Cuttlefish accelerated.

  For a full three minutes the boat continued at top speed, despite the engine room being flooded. Tim, moving to his emergency station, heard the sound of more drop-mines. But there was nothing he could do—just regret that he was here, and that Clara was somewhere else on the submarine. It was all that he could do to stay where he was supposed to stay, and not go looking.

  And then…all was still.

  The only sound Tim could hear was his own heartbeat.

  It was dark, and then the emergency lights came on, dimly. Their batteries were not in with the rest, but they too were low.

  And then there was a torch coming down the gangway. It was the captain. The chief engineer saluted him. “Not sure what died first, sir. The batteries or the motor.”

  “We'll need to manually purge the ballast tanks, Chief,” said Captain Malkis, his voice emotionless. “We'll wait until the hydrophones give us the best window. We should be in sight of St. Peter's Island now.”

  “It's to be hoped we've enough air to purge with the engine room full, sir,” said the chief.

  Tim did not need to hear that.

  Clara couldn't take the waiting in the dimness, as the emergency light grew weaker, for one more minute. The air felt old and stale. Then she heard a party of submariners coming along. “Let's go with them, Mother?”

  Her mother shook her head. “I am going back to my cabin. I am going to seal as many of my notes as I can in these bottles I have got from Cookie. Maybe…maybe they'll wash ashore, if we don't make it.” She kissed Clara. “Go.”

  So Clara went. The smell of coal smoke more than anything else told Clara the submariners came from the engine room. To her delight and relief, Tim squeezed her shoulder. “Clara,” he said, quietly.

  She'd only recognized him by the voice. “What's happening?” she whispered back.

  His answer wasn't encouraging. “Going to see if we can surface. Engine room is flooded. We're a hundred and fifty feet down, and slowly sinking.”

  They arrived at the manual purge wheels for the forward ballast tank. The big brass wheels that Tim and Clara had both polished in happier times gleamed in the light of the torch Thorne held. “Put the bar in, Barnabas. You've had the devil's own luck. Maybe it'll rub off on that.”

  Tim threaded the pipe bar, and they heaved in unison. “Two…six, pull!” said Thorne. “Again. Two…six!” and it turned. Clara wondered what was so magical about two and six…and why everyone was listening.

  “Again,” said Thorne, his voice a little high.

  And this time they were rewarded by the hiss of compressed air being forced into the ballast tanks, forcing the water out. “We just don't have much compressed air,” muttered Tim to Clara, holding her shoulder. She could feel he was shaking slightly.

  Nothing happened.

  And then, as they stood there, panic written on their faces…

  The Cuttlefish began to move, terribly sluggishly, barely shifting.

  “She's stuck down here!” said a panicky voice.

  “Shut up,” snapped Clara.

  “Yes. Shut up,” said Tim, backing her up, as always.

  They waited for an eternity…of maybe thirty seconds.

  The angle of the floor changed slightly in a sudden rocking movement. “Close it down,” said Thorne, relief in his voice. “We don't want to come up too fast.”

  They heaved on the lever again, this time turning it the other way.

  Now the submarine's floor began to tilt steeply. Her nose was rising.

  “Second air-bleed wheel, gentlemen. And lady,” said Thorne, his teeth white in the dim light. “And keep it quiet. Jump to it. Quickly.”

  They did. It was all Clara could do, though, not to cheer.

  Gradually, the submarine rose slowly from her watery grave towards the light and air.

  Lieutenant Willis came down. He pointed at the pressure gauge. “Stop at one-point-two bar, gentlemen.”

  “And lady,” said Tim.

  “And lady,” said the young lieutenant with just a hint of a smile. “Your mother is on the bridge, miss. She's looking for you too. And the chief engineer wants all hands to the engine room, the rest of you. He's pumping it out, and the divers will be trying a patch, again.

  Clara managed a squeeze of Tim's hand before following the lieutenant.

  “Captain,” said Clara's mother, when Clara got to the bridge and stood beside her. Her mother was pale and stood very erect. “I know that my daughter will support me in this. We'll give ourselves up if they will let you go. You know that the
y want me alive.”

  “I cannot ask that of you, ma'am,” said the captain.

  “I can,” said her mother, with quiet firmness. “Get your wireless operator to contact them. Your ship and your crew deserve no less. And if you reach shore give my mother's trunk to the Westralians. Tell them that it is pressure that is the key to making ammonia—pressure and a catalyst.”

  Clara looked at her mother. Blinked back a tear from her eyes. Stood just as tall and straight, and nodded her head. She didn't trust herself to speak.

  The wireless operator coughed. “Ma'am. Their orders are to sink the submarine and machine-gun any survivors in the water. Orders direct from Duke Malcolm.”

  Captain Malkis shook his head at the two of them. “Dr. Calland. If I let you and your daughter do this, my crew would hang me from the Cuttlefish's mast, and I would tell them to do so. We've got less than a mile to go to St. Peter's Island. The hydrophones say that the nearest Royal Navy vessel is some distance off, and looking through the periscope, we think that they are at least another two and half miles offshore. The tide is carrying us back towards her, though. So, Lieutenants. Get our sail crews and every other man jack on this submarine ready. We'll surface, and see if we can get in under sail.”

  “They'll fire on us, sir,” said Lieutenant Willis.

  “Then it's a pity we can't return fire,” said the captain. “Get to it, gentlemen.”

  “Me too,” said Clara. “And please don't stop me, Mother. Captain.”

  “I wouldn't dream of stopping you,” said her mother. “Seeing as I will be up there too.”

  It was bright sunlight outside, and the sky was cloudless and blue—except for the haze of coal smoke on the seaward horizon. The shoreline seemed so close now, but still far too far to swim. The Cuttlefish's crew worked like frantic ants. Her masts went up faster than they ever had before, and the outrigger hydrofoil pontoons were deployed speedily. “They've seen us,” yelled the lookout.