Cassidy jumped for the battle phone and pressed the switch. “This is Cassidy. After torpedo room—taking on water.”
The order came back right on top of his own words: “Seal off all stern compartments! Close all vents!”
The two controllermen pulled the watertight door shut and spun the wheel. Cassidy saw a face pressed to the sight glass, anxiously watching his next move. He called through the phone again. “Captain, it looks like an accident with tube number eight.”
Captain Frank screamed down the hatchwell: “Blow main ballast tank number seven and the after trim tank! Blow it!”
Roybell complied.
Air blasted away around them, and Cassidy lost his balance again as the stern Whipped up out of the sea. “Stop all engines!” Cassidy hollered back into the phone. Then he jumped to help the two torpedomen. The water stopped coming in for a moment, and they got the door shut. He thought he heard a funny metal click as they did.
“Son of a bitch! He did it on purpose!” One of the torpedomen had Hardy in an armlock. The Professor’s head was whipping from side to side. Cassidy ran back to the battle phone. “Aft torpedo here. We’re secure.”
“On my way,” the Captain hollered back.
It wasn’t more than ten seconds before the dogs on the watertight door spun and it popped open. Captain Frank stepped through.
“What happened?” he asked.
The torpedoman nodded at Hardy. “Slug test—fired the wrong tube—tried to blow up the damned boat, sir!”
Suddenly Cassidy knew what that click was.
“Jesus!” he yelled, and reached for the inner door on tube eight. He pulled the locks. The door blasted open and more water rushed in, accompanied by a blast of steam. Cassidy swung to one side and pulled himself up on the tube until he could get his head down and see into it. Through the sheets of water and the blinding steam he could see the stern of the torpedo.
The prop blades were spinning madly, churning up the water—the steam was escaping gas.
“The blades are running!” he yelled. Frank looked ‘ stunned. “Tell Roybell to keep blowing ballast! Get me a crowbar!”
Those blades only had to spin the equivalent of four hundred yards and the torpedo would be fully armed. He could assume that the torpedo’s nose was pressed up against the damaged outer door. That meant the warhead was already making contact. If this thing spins four hundred yards, he screamed to himself, the whole ass end of this boat will go sky-high!
So that was Hardy’s great plan!
You son of a bitch! He cursed him out in his mind, then screamed for the crowbar again. A torpedoman ran forward and flung it to him.
Fighting the water, he pushed the crowbar into the tube and tried to shove it between the blades to disrupt the revolution mechanism. He knew he had only seconds. He missed. He jabbed again and again—he couldn’t see through the churning water—then he heard another click. The water stopped churning.
But that crowbar would never stay. He needed something smaller. “Pair of clippers and a wrench!”
Cassidy strained all his muscles holding the crowbar in place until the torpedoman returned. “Hold the bar,” he told the torpedoman, who grabbed it and stood right behind the open door. Cassidy clutched the wrench lengthwise in the jaws of the clippers. Then he squeezed part of his head and shoulders over the top of the tube and into it. He extended the wrench and the clippers inside, attempting to jam the wrench in where the crowbar was.
The water came back as the stern crashed down into the sea. With his free hand Cassidy clutched the tube.
The torpedoman yelled; he was caught full in the face by a stream of water. Cassidy took a chance, jabbed in the wrench, and felt it drop into place.
“Pull the crowbar!”
Gladly the torpedoman yanked. The wrench snapped in—there was a metallic crunch—and the props were still.
The incredible, deafening sound of rushing water stopped. They stood in it to above their knees, but they stood there, alive, all breathing hard, and regarding each other with the look of survivors who know at last what a brush with death means. “Okay,” said Cassidy. “We’re secure now.”
Frank had a tight look frozen on his face.
Hardy was still in the torpedoman’s grip. His eyes met Cassidy’s, and his lips parted to speak. He couldn’t. He was still afraid. His hand went out and touched the Captain’s arm. “It was an accident.”
The silence became as deafening as the rushing tons of water had been. There was only the slop-slop against their knees.
Hardy quivered with frustration. Cassidy stared at him blankly. And Frank? The Captain shriveled him with a sneer, then whirled on Cassidy.
“Damage?”
“Uh... the fish is stuck in there, but she’ll hold. We can pull her out later and dismantle. We’ll need a repair crew topside to fix that door—probably two guys in rubber suits.”
“You’re in charge,” Frank barked, then turned back to Hardy. “You’re relieved. Confined to quarters,” said Frank. He stepped to the battle phone and pressed the switch. “This is the Captain. The aft torpedo room is secure. Start the bilge pumps, switch on the vents, secure from emergency, open all compartments. Repair crews will be formed under Chief Walinsky.” He paused, then glared right at Hardy as he spoke: “We have sustained a damaged torpedo tube. The fault lies with Mr. Hardy. He has been relieved of duties and confined to quarters.”
The watertight door had swung open. Dorriss stepped through.
“Mister Bates, I want this man manacled to his bunk with a twenty-four-hour guard.”
Dorriss nodded, and the torpedoman holding Hardy gave him a yank and dragged him through the water to the exit. Hardy stumbled to stay on his feet. He flung: a look to Cassidy—a plea for help. Cassidy stood rooted to the spot. Hardy threw him a blast: “Someone’s got to help me! You can’t all be crazy!”
As he was pulled through the hatch, Dorriss gave him a grin of satisfaction. “You’re all washed up, Jack.”
Cassidy’s hand shook as he pulled out his sopping kerchief and wiped his brow. He was sweating.
He had heard the Captain refer to him as Walinsky, and he had known the difference—because Hardy had told him. I know who I am. He stared at the men around him: Do they know who they are? He realized the truth:
He was an island of sanity in a madhouse. Even Hardy had finally gone around the bend. Cassidy could hear him screaming obscenities at the crew as he was hauled back to his quarters. He listened to the voice diminish.
I know who I am, he thought. And I’m alone.
0330 hours.
Nothing was going according to schedule. Cassidy coughed into his jacket and rubbed his hands. He ignored the sweeping sheets of rain and the unsteady plunging of the afterdeck. He gripped the antenna-cable stanchion and watched the repair crew at work around the stern vanes. The engines were off; the screws were not turning. The Candlefish rolled in a surging sea, taking a powerful buffeting every few seconds as the squall roared around them.
Two motor machinist’s mates had donned rubber suits and jumped off the stern; they had been bobbing up and down around the vanes for the last forty-five minutes. Three more motor machinist’s mates were lashed to the vanes, passing tools down. But Cassidy could tell it was fruitless. The outer door on number eight tube should be taken off, sent to a forge, and straightened. They would never be able to effect repairs from topside.
One of the divers popped up and grabbed the vanes. He ripped off his mask; his nose was bleeding.
“What’s the matter?” Cassidy shouted.
“It’s the altitude,” the man gasped. “Can’t take the heights.”
Cassidy shook his head grimly. “It’s too dangerous. Get your buddy and get below.”
Cassidy went forward, letting go the antenna cables and striding uncertainly up the center of the top deck.
He would have to report to the Captain. And it was a good excuse to bring up the matter of Hardy; an appea
l of some sort was worth a try. He climbed to the cigarette deck and glanced toward the first wisps of dawn. Soon the submarine would be visible, if anybody was looking. He would promise the Captain to have a crew at work tonight when they surfaced again, but they would work from within.
He went down the conning-tower hatch. Adler was on duty. “Captain’s in his quarters.”
“Thanks.” Cassidy started down the control room ladder.
“Uh, Chief... can we get moving again? Captain wants to make up lost time.”
“Sure. Just as soon as those men get below— Wait a minute! Don’t we have to dive?”
“Captain wants speed.”
He schucked his dripping jacket and went forward to the officer’s head. He borrowed a towel and dried himself off. The sound of irritated voices drew him to the corridor. They were coming from the CPO quarters.
It was Dorriss reading Hardy the riot act.
Cassidy winced. It was a disgrace. Dorriss was pouring it on, and there was no response from Hardy. A royal shit-kicking, he thought, and wished that the tables could be reversed, that he could outrank that skinny lieutenant, if only for five minutes.
He flung the towel back to Stigwood or Stanhill or whatever he was calling himself now, and knocked on the Captain’s door.
“Who is it?”
“Cas—” He hesitated. “Chief Walinsky to see you, sir.”
“Come in.”
Cassidy stepped in and waited for Frank to look up. The Captain was very busy composing a report. The fountain pen moved swiftly, spreading chicken scratches all over a sheet of paper.
“What is it?”
“The repairs, sir.”
“Oh, yes.” Frank looked up. “All fixed?”
“No, sir,” said Cassidy. “It’s not going to work that way. We should...”
“What?”
“Return to Pearl.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Walinsky. You know we can’t do that.”
“Then we’ll have to run with a bad tube.”
Frank leaned back and scratched his stomach. He seemed oddly composed for someone who had just suffered a setback.
“You’ll fix it, Mr. Walinsky. You will take your repair crew aft and fix it from the inside. Understood?”
“Sir, the best we can do is pull that fish out of there and seal it up. You can’t use it again—not on this—this patrol.”
Frank thought a moment, then nodded. “All right. Do that.”
“Look, Captain, in my opinion it’s the worst of a bad set of options.”
“Go on.”
“To work on that tube at all, we’re going to have to stay on the surface. Daylight’s coming, and the storm won’t last forever. We’ll be sitting ducks. The repair crew will drown trying to fix that damned tube. And another thing: If we don’t get it fixed right away, and you push this boat to the limit on the surface, there’s going to be an awful lot of pressure coming down that tube through that bad outer door. There’s no guarantee she’ll hold—”
“Goddammit, Walinsky!” Frank flew to his feet, eyes blazing. “That’s exactly what that bastard wanted! To force us into turning back. I will not! There is too much at stake, do you hear me? Too much!”
“Sir, it was an accident—”
“The hell it was!” Frank’s eyes narrowed. He advanced on Cassidy, holding two fingers up in his face. “For two years Hardy’s been a thorn in my side, and now I’ve had it! For the duration of this patrol we’ll just forget about Mr. Hardy. He can stay right where he is. I don’t want him interfering when things become crucial—”
“Crucial?” asked Cassidy. “How much more crucial can things get?”
Frank stepped to the door and held it open for him. “Get your ass aft and get busy on those repairs. We’ll lie to until you’ve finished. As soon as you have that fish out of there, notify Bates.”
There was nothing more to be said.
Cassidy moved away and went aft, ducking through the control room hatch and pausing there to think. Why risk everything over one tube? It was the delay that was costly to them, wasn’t it? And the fact that they might have to sit on the surface in broad daylight while repairs were effected.
No. There was something bigger afoot, and Cassidy knew he wasn’t in on it.
0440.
The Candlefish sat hove to in the Pacific over the area known on the charts as the Ramapo Depth. The squall had moved on, leaving the submarine dangerously visible in the center of a spreading dawn. Adler was on duty on the bridge, nervously shifting from port to starboard to cover the horizon with binoculars.
Down in the after torpedo room, Cassidy and the repair crew were sweating like pigs. The compartment was sealed off, the vents were closed, and water kept pouring in through tube number eight. What had been pumped out earlier had been rapidly replaced. They were up to their knees again.
They had chains attached to the aft fins of the torpedo jammed into tube number eight. Cassidy had tied off the prop blades so they couldn’t move again. There was seemingly no danger of the fish exploding, but no one was breathing easy.
They were attempting to pry the torpedo free by sheer manpower. Cassidy did not participate; he had already contributed his share of muscle. Now he was the brains of the operation.
“Oh, shit! My back!” The complaint came from Clampett.
“Come on, Corky, you lazy bastard—lay into it!”
So Clampett was now called Corky. Oh, well, thought Cassidy. Let ‘em call each other what they want He glanced at his watch, hoping the operation would take another hour. That would gain them the time Hardy had wanted.
But it was over in ten more minutes.
The torpedo gave an answering jerk and slid back in the tube. The men let out a yell of triumph. Using the chains as tackle, they hauled it back, foot by foot, and transferred it to the forward skid. When it was lashed in place, Cassidy told them to take a break. They drifted back out of the way.
Another surge of water came through the open tube, but nobody moved to close it. Cassidy was more interested in the damaged fish that lay on the skid at hip level. He leaned over to examine the crumpled warhead. The nose was dented, pushed back out of shape, as if somebody had clobbered it in a frantic basketball game. The paint had chipped off all around the head.
Then something very peculiar began to happen. Cassidy’s stomach reacted first, then his eyes, bulging—
The torpedo’s warhead returned to its original shape: The nose popped back, the dents disappeared, the paint smoothed back into place.
It was as if the damage had never occurred.
Cassidy turned to see if the other men had witnessed the transformation.
Most of them were gone. They had left the compartment. The hatch was open—though no one had given the order. The vents were on; the pumps were going; the water was disappearing into the bilges. The few men who were still around were calmly smoking cigarettes and chatting.
It was as if nothing had occurred.
Cassidy pointed a shaking finger at the torpedo and was about to say something—but no one seemed the least bit interested.
Then something else struck him.
The tube.
The door to tube number eight was still open. But there was no water coming out.
Cassidy stuck his head in the tube, but he couldn’t see clearly. He turned and fumbled for a battle lantern.
The beam settled on the outer door. It was closed. How had it closed? There was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement: the rippling of metal, the spreading of paint. The dents were smoothing out by themselves—the paint reappearing over the damaged section—
Cassidy felt the breath constrict in his windpipe.
Was it happening to him now, too? Was he going crazy like Hardy? He managed to belch out a loud groan. His breath came back. He sucked in great lungsful.
The diving alarm came like a pair of shrieks in his ear. The klaxon roared twice. Then the Captain’s voice over the speaker: “
Clear the bridge. Dive! Dive!”
He heard the rush of footsteps, then the pfush of compressed air escaping, the whirr and clank of machinery starting up. But he hadn’t even reported the repairs to the Captain!
Cassidy stumbled to the hatch and out of the after torpedo room. He was all the way up to his station before it got to him.
He gripped the overhead piping on main engine number one, stared at the bulkheads, at the shining, glossy gray paint, the curve of the overhead—and for the first time in his life aboard submarines, he felt claustrophobic. He lunged forward, and then so did his last meal—all over Brownhaver’s freshly swabbed deck.
CHAPTER 22
December 11
Hardy lay quietly in the gloom of his bunk. The drawn curtain blocked out most of the light He moved his foot and winced as sharp needles of pain shot up his leg; it was asleep. Gently he shifted his weight, rolling onto his side. The looped chain rattled as the links grated over the metal bunk frame, then grew taut, pulling on his handcuffs. Once again he felt the biting pressure from the steel clamped around both his wrists.
Voices filtering in through the closed cabin door distracted him. He couldn’t pick out words, but he did recognize Dorriss’s guttural chuckle. He strained to hear the conversation, but the door was too thick.
His eyes roamed upward, to the shadowy outline of Elena’s photograph clipped to the bottom of the upper bunk. He groaned and tore his gaze away, eyes circling and homing in on the calendar taped to the bulkhead at his side.
The first ten days of December were crossed off, leaving the circled eleventh day standing out like a silent scream.
Not much longer, he thought, taking comfort—not much longer...
The Captain glared at the two officers across the plotting table. His fingers rapped on the table surface like hoofbeats on a wooden bridge.
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