Deep danger

by White, Robb, 1909-1990

  J^illtwisted it the rest of the way and, carrying it, he went back a little way down the corridor.

  On the floor the red hose lay motionless. Bill picked it up and untaped the phone wire until he could get the end of the piece of metal against it. The wire cut in two easily.

  Bill dropped the hose.

  Then, standing there in the corridor, he banged on the steel walls with the piece of ladder.

  Sweiner swung around, the light trailing him. Then the light fell full on Bill.

  Bill stood motionless for a moment and then, slowly,.

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  he raised his right hand in the Hitler salute. Then, not able to see Sweiner because of the light, he turned, and, dropping the piece of ladder, floated up and out of the corridor.

  Grabbing a rail stanchion, he pulled himself down to one of the decks. He didn't want to come shooting up out of the water perhaps right under the muzzle of that machine gun.

  Soon he found a piece of metal heavy enough to hold him down. With that in both hands, he got clear of the ship and walked as fast as he could over to the Ventures anchor.

  Aft he saw the phone wire and line dangling straighter down than the anchor chain.

  He walked over to it and plugged the wire in, leaving the line alone.

  ''John/' he said softly.

  There was no answer.

  He said it a little louder.

  A whisper came back. "Is that you. Bill?"

  ''Yeah. What's going on up there?"

  "Something's up. I don't know what. We're still pinned here on the fan tail. They've been yelling in the

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  phone over there and there's a lot of moving around/'

  '1 cut his phone wire/' Bill said. *'Let em yell/'

  "Where are you, Bill?"

  "On the bottom. Right under you. I might have it, Johnny."

  "Have what?''

  Bill laughed a little. "Remember w^hat we came for?"

  ^JThe money?" John said, his voice oddly flat. "What good can that do us now?"

  "Not much. Listen, where are you and Sticks sit-tmg?

  "On the fantail."

  "I mean, where exactly?"

  "Just past the mainsheet runner, aft of it."

  "Can you move forward until you're right on the edge of the cockpit?"

  "That guy keeps a pretty close watch on us. We haven't moved any yet."

  "Try it. But quit if he looks like he's interested/'

  "Don't worry about that. That's a mean looking contraption he's got in his lap."

  Bill waited, tense now, nervous again, feeling the time ticking away.

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  John's voice came down faintly. "Made it. Tm up forward of the runner now. Sticks is going to try it. , . . He made it too. The guy didn't seem to notice."

  * Wait a httle while then try to make it all the way to the cockpit coaming.'*

  *Took, what's up, Bill?'*

  *'Sweiner knows I'm down here with him. But not where I am. And he's tangled up with his hose going all through that ship."

  John's voice sounded horrified. "How does he know you're down there?"

  "I told him so, Johnny."

  "Told him! I thought you said you wanted him to think that Sticks was you and that there were only two of us."

  Bill said slowly, "I had to let him know, John. Or he'd have gotten killed."

  "So what?" John almost yelled.

  "Well, I had to do it. Come on, now, get a move on up there. We've got places to go."

  Bill wondered just how much time they did have.

  Sweiner was a killer and he probably thought that everybody thought the way he did—that murder was

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  okay any time you could get away with it. Thinking hke that he'd be moving mighty careful now. Around every corner he'd be expecting Bill to jump him. It would take only one quick knife stab to let the sea in on him.

  Yes, he'd be careful now. And, Bill hoped, scared. Scared sick. And not knowing that Bill had really saved his useless life.

  'We're doing fine," John whispered. "We're both back to the coaming and the man hasn't made a move."

  "Sit tight. What's the weather?"

  "Wind's been picking up for an hour. Must be blowing around fifteen, twenty knots now."

  *'Good! Can you move your hands at all?"

  "One of mine's inside my shirt on the talk button. Haven't tried moving the other one."

  "See what you can do about getting the mainsheet ready and clear."

  "All right."

  Bill went back to the anchor then and dropped his piece of metal, holding himself with the chain. Slowly he began going up it.

  "Sheet's clear."

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  *ls the forward hatch open or closed?''

  "rm afraid to turn around, Bill. There're three men up in the bow now talking to the man with the gun. Something's really brewing over there."

  '^Something s brewing down here too."

  ^'Sticks says he thinks the forward hatch is open."

  Bill went on up the chain.

  Soon John said softly, ''They're unlashing a lifeboat over there."

  "Oh oh."

  Bill went up fast then.

  Only a few feet under water, he stopped again. *'How's Sticks, John?"

  '1 don't know."

  Bill thought for a moment. *Well, put it up to him. Real straight, John. Tell him that we've got one long, long chance. That if we don't make it it's curtains for sure for all of us. That if he wants to quit and take his chances with Sweiner he can do it."

  "How?"

  "Jump overboard and yell for help. They won't shoot him until they've listened to him. Make it plain, Johnny, that he's got to make his own choice and that I

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  think he's got a better chance of Hving now if he pitches in with Sweiner/'

  Bill waited, hating to think of the time slipping away, but he knew that he couldn't go ahead until he was sure about Sticks.

  It was going to be rough up there in a little while. It was going to have to be rough if they wanted any hope of living because, as soon as Sweiner got back on his ship, they would have no chance at all.

  And Bill didn't want to put Sticks through what was coming unless Sticks wanted to go through it.

  John's voice sounded far away. ''Sticks says to tell you that, the next time he gets a chance, he's going to knock you on your head so hard it's going to break both your ankles. He says to tell you that he made you a promise and now you're acting like you don't think his promises are any good. In fact. Bill, he's sore as a boil.'*

  Bill, hanging to the anchor chain, smiled slowly.

  "Tell that big, freckle-faced, towheaded, flat-footed Irishman that I love him," Bill said.

  Then, keeping close under the overhanging bow of the Venture, Bill stripped off the rubber suit, the mask, and tank harness. Taking the two packages out of the

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  pockets, he shoved them one by one up through the hawsehole and then let the diving rig go, floating slov^ly downward.

  In nothing but his skivvy pants, Bill climbed the anchor chain and slid over onto the deck of the Venture. Expecting to hear the gun open up, he went on, slithering along the hot wood.

  The forward hatch was open, the cover propped up and making a perfect shield for him. In a second he was down below decks.

  He ran back through the ship until he could see John^s and Sticks' backs sitting above the cockpit.

  Softly he said, ^'J^hn, Sticks, don't move. Tm in the hatch. Now, listen, Tm going to cast off the anchor chain. When I give you the word, both of you tumble straight backward into the cockpit. But don't lie around resting. Sticks, you grab the jib halyard and snap it on. Then help John with the main. We'll be drifting backwards, down on them, and they'll be shooting so try to stay right behind the stern post—that's a good foot thick and solid oak."

  Bill went back to the peak and pulled up ch
ain until he reached a shackle. He was about to pull the pin on

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  it when he suddenly remembered the two packages lying up on the deck. Feeling foolish, he reached up and pulled them down into the peak and pulled the pin.

  "Now!'' he yelled, turning and racing back through the ship.

  As he came rushing up the hatch. Sticks and John got to their knees in the cockpit and grabbed the halyards.

  Sticks had the jib on before they heard the shout from the other boat.

  Then the gun opened.

  Bullets ripped through the lazarets and threw splinters all over Sticks and John on the main halyard, but the sail kept on going up as Bill worked his way back to the sheets and the wheel.

  The machine gun talked for a while alone, then more guns came in.^Now heavy slugs were tearing the chart locker to pieces, one clipped a spoke off the wheel, another shattered the sextant and went on straight through the face of the chronometer.

  Halyards clamped. Sticks and John lay down head to foot on the cockpit floor and handled the sheets, as Bill

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  lying on his back sailed only by the look of the mainsail peak.

  It seemed to take hours—days, centuries—for the wind to fill the sails and stop the dreadful backward drift which was carrying them down right on top of the schooner.

  But at last the Venture came alive; wind snapped the jib out, the main filled, and she lay over hard, dead in the water.

  Now the bullets were tearing the fantail into splinters and some of them were thudding—and stopping—in the stern post.

  They could hear the men on the schooner shouting between the bursts of the machine gun. They sounded close.

  Then the Venture began to move. The voices died, the roar of the machine gun seemed to fade away. Bullets were flying wild now, few of them reaching into the cockpit.

  Bill lay on his back, watching the tall sail and sailing her, getting everything he could out of every little change in the wind.

  Then, at last, it was quiet except for the sweet moan

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  of the Ventures timbers and the song of wind, and the hiss and splash and murmur of the sea around her.

  Slowly, still afraid, Bill raised his head.

  There was blood all over the cockpit deck, blood draining down the self-bailing outlets.

  Sick, Bill twisted around. Sticks lay flat on his face.

  Slowly John sat up.

  "You hurt?^^ Bill asked.

  "No. You?^^

  It was Sticks.

  One had gotten him right through the shoulder.

  Cnapter 10

  THE SUDDEN RATTLING OF THE MAINSAIL, THE LONG

  wrinkles snapping, brought Bill out of the shock of seeing Sticks lying there, oozing blood.

  Bill brought the wheel down, got the boat sailing again.

  And then, in a wild rage, he stood up and looked back.

  Men were running all over the schooner, no longer shooting. Aft they were hauling Sweiner in, the red rubber suit glistening in the sunlight. Forward two men were working furiously at the anchor winch. Sail was breaking on the masts and gouts of exhaust smoke were wreathing the stern.

  Suddenly, not even knowing he was doing it, Bill

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  yelled at Sweiner and his men. "Come on. Come on, you murderers!''

  Then he turned forward.

  The wildness of rage changed almost instantly into a cold, deep anger.

  And he remembered that he could have killed Sweiner. For an hour down there in that ship he could have snuffed out the man's life in a second. And he had not done it and now Sticks Neal was lying in his own blood.

  Bill closed his eyes for a moment, sick with the knowledge that he was responsible for what had happened to Sticks; that he was almost as guilty as the man who had aimed and fired the gun.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw John bent over beside Sticks. Very gently John turned the boy over and pulled a seat cushion down under his head.

  *'He's alive, Bill,'' John said slowly. '*He's still breathing."

  Relief swept over Bill like a huge, clean wave. "Take the wheel. Keep her strapped down—our only chance is to keep to windward of them."

  Bill leaped down the hatch and came back with the

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  first-aid kit. Almost all the sulfa powder had been used on John's head but he sprinkled the rest of it on both sides where the bullet had gone in and come out. It must have missed the big arteries for the blood was just oozing now.

  He bandaged it as well as he could and covered Sticks with both of the sleeping bags.

  'What else can we do?'' he asked.

  John shook his head. '^Nothing, I guess." Then he said, slowly, "It's bad, isn't it?"

  **Very." Bill pounded his fist on the deck. 'Wish it'd been me."

  **0r me," John said. ''Sticks wasn't even in this thing."

  Bill pulled himself up and sat down, absolutely exhausted now.

  In a little while John said quietly, "It's going to be both of us soon. Bill. They're gaining fast."

  Bill raised his head slowly, looking first up at the Ventures sails, and then looking out to windward. "This is all the wind we're going to get. And it'll drop around four o'clock." He looked aft, staring at the schooner. "She carries a lot of sail, doesn't she?" he asked, his voice vague.

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  John leaned forward and got the glasses, handing them to Bill.

  Bill's hands moved very slowly as he wrapped the strap of the glasses around one wrist and then put them up to his eyes.

  For a long time he sat, studying the schooner. Then, slowly, he put the glasses down. ''Guess it didn't work.''

  'What?"

  "I stuffed two gloves and a screw driver up the water intake of their engine. But they must have either found them and taken them out or the pump pulled them all the way through. Or—maybe it wasn't even the intake. Anyway their diesel is still going full blast.''

  "How long would it take if the gloves worked?"

  "I don't know," Bill said wearily. "In the Navy if one started getting hot we cut it down but quick. I don't know how long it would take to get hot enough to ruin

  » one.

  "Guess we're in for the works now?" John said.

  "The works." Bill looked down at Neal. "Maybe Sticks is lucky."

  John looked at Sticks, too. "He turned out to be a good joe, didn't he?"

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  "Okay/' Bill said. *The best/'

  There wasn't anything else to say. John kept sailing her and occasionally looked back. The schooner kept closing them. Each time he looked aft he could see more and more details aboard her.

  Bill sat, slumped over, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, the glasses idle on the seat beside him.

  After a while John said, *'Maybe we'd better get down behind the stern post again, Bill. They're pretty close and may start shooting again."

  "Guess so," Bill said. He pulled himself up and raised the glasses. He looked through them for a little while, then sat down again, propping the glasses on the cockpit coaming and leaning down to see through them.

  At last, he stood up, put the glasses back in their case and turned to John.

  *'Sail this boat, Johnny! Sail her till she screams! Sail her, boy! That diesel's quit cold."

  John looked up at him. Bill had a peculiar smile on his face, but his eyes were ice cold and hard.

  Then Bill was almost whispering. "Sail her, Johnny.

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  Let's see what Sweiner can do now in a fair race. He's got the canvas on us, and a bigger boat, and maybe he's a better sailor. I don't know. But we're to windward of him and, I think, we can stay there. Let's just see what a six-meter can do."

  He took the sheets one by one and inched them in, strand by strand almost. "How's that feel?"

  *'Right on the edge."

  "Hold her. Don't let her lose an ounce of
wind, Johnny." Then Bill turned and looked aft again. "Now," he said, his voice level and cold, "come on, Sweiner. Come on. Let's see what you can do."

  The schooner, under sail alone, was still a fast boat. For an hour she hung behind them, gaining slowly on them, but gaining.

  At last John said, "You take her. Bill. I don't believe I'm getting all she's got."

  "You've got it," Bill said, sitting down. "It'll take a while; but, if the wind'll hold, we'll give them a real run for it."

  The afternoon dragged on, the schooner pulling always closer.

  Bill, now on the wheel, looked back. "I'll bet they're

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  sweating over that diesel. But they ran that thing hot for a long time. No diesel's going to take that sort of beating. Til bet every bearing's gone in her and those pistons are welded into the cylinder walls.'*

  John looked aft. "Even if we can hold them off until dark they've still got the radar."

  *lm ready to bet a buck they haven't, John. It takes plenty of power to run one of those things and it stands to reason that they'd run it off the diesel—and that ain't buzzin', cousin."

  *1 hope not."

  At four-thirty the schooner was in gun range of them. Bill and John got down into the cockpit with Sticks, but the range was so long that only a few bullets struck the ship and they did no damage.

  After an hour the shooting stopped. Bill got up cautiously and looked aft.

  *'Come on up, the air's fine," he said. Then, when John was up, he pointed.

  John looked.

  Quietly, Bill said, "They're whipped, John. We're too high on the wind for them. They'll never make it— as long as any wind blows at all."

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  And the wind blew all night long. In the morning the sea was empty, no sail anywhere.

  By nine in the morning the Florida Keys were a line on the water. By eleven Sticks Neal was in the Navy hospital.

  Bill and John, sitting on a hard bench, waited, lifting their feet up to let a man with a heavy floor polishing machine wax the already shining floor.

  "Doesn't that make it slicker than a frog's belly?" John asked.

  Bill looked at him. "Nobody has ever found out why the Navy polishes the floors in its hospitals so smooth that people are always falling down and breaking something. But they keep right on polishing em.