When he unlocked the door he saw that the room was dark, that the chambermaid had neglected once again to turn on the light. This was a normal occurrence and he thought little of it as he closed the door and groped for the switch and threw it. Nothing happened. The electricity must be off again, he thought, the coal-fired generating plant was hideously inefficient. Yet the lights had been on in the lobby. Puzzling over this, he had just turned back to the door when the sudden glare of an electric torch burned into his eyes, the first intimation he had had that he was not alone in the room. Whoever his secret visitor might be, he was certainly here for no good end, that was Gus’s instant thought, and he turned to hurl himself at the light source. He was stayed from attacking by the silent appearance of a man’s hand in the beam, a hand clutching a nickel-plated and very efficient-looking revolver.
“You are here to rob me?” said Gus, coolly.
“Not exactly,” the secret visitor answered in what were obviously American tones. “Let us say I wished first to see who you were, then to make sure you were alone, and lastly the gun, if you will excuse its presence, to ensure you did nothing hasty in this darkened room as, I believe, you were starting to do."
“Here is my wallet, take it and leave. I have nothing else of value to you in the room."
“Thank you, no,” said the voice in the darkness, a hint of laughter to the words. “You misconstrue my presence” There was a rattle and a clatter at the lighting fixture, though the torch stayed steadily on Gus all the time, and the lights finally came on.
==========
The nocturnal visitor was a man in his middle thirties garbed in the almost traditional dress of the American tourist abroad, colorful, beaded Indian shirt, peaked fisherman’s cap with a green plastic visor that was studded all over with badges and patches indicating places he had been, knee-length shorts, and sturdy, hobnailed boots. Around his neck was slung his camera and ancillary photographic apparatus and from his belt there hung the required wire recorder that lectured him day and night on what he was seeing. His face was cheerful enough when he smiled, as he was doing now, but it hinted that in repose the icy blue eyes were stern, the wide jaw set, the broken, hooked, sharp nose might resemble the predatory bill of a hawk.
Gus examined the man slowly and carefully, standing motionless under the ready threat of the revolver, looking for an opportunity to turn the tables. That this would not be necessary was proven an instant later when the stranger touched the bottom of his wire recorder so that the case fell open and a secret compartment was disclosed. Into this opening he pushed the gun while, at the same time, he removed a smaller object. The leather case sealed again with a click as, still smiling, he passed over the extracted metal shield.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Washington. My name is Richard Tracy and I am manager of the New York office of Pinkerton’s. That is my shield you have in your hand and I was instructed, as further identification, to give you this note."
The sturdy envelope was closed with sealing wax, with Sir Winthorp’s seal upon it, and showed no signs of being tampered with. Inside was a brief note in Rockefeller’s own hand which Gus recognized at once. The message was succinct.
This will introduce R. Tracy, Esq., whom I have retained privately. He is to be trusted absolutely in the matter to hand. W. Rockefeller.
“Do you know the contents of this letter?"
“Just the gist of it, that I am conducting an investigation and only you are to know about it. I was advised to inform you that Sir Winthorp has engaged me personally, out of his own private funds, and that you are the only other person who knows of my existence."
“I suppose you wouldn’t care to tell me just what it is you are investigating?"
“Just getting to that, sir. Sabotage it is, a very nasty business indeed. I can cite instances you know of, and still more that you don’t."
“Such as the mysterious lack of fuel in the helithopter in Canada?"
“True enough. And the cut cable on the tunnel section of the last part to the Grand Banks Station, the collapsing shed in the rail yard, and many others. I have been here on the island for a little time now and have made an investigation in depth. There is a strong organization that is actively operating against the success of this tunnel. They are well financed and ruthless and will stop at nothing."
“But, who is doing this—and why?"
“At this stage I could only guess, and guessing is a thing I prefer not to do, being a man of facts and facts alone. Perhaps that is one of the things we will soon discover, for I have approached you now for your aid. I and my operatives have been investigating here for some months…"
“I had no idea!"
“Nor should you have, for my men are of the best. You have seen some of them working on the tunnel, I’ll wager, because I have managed to get them into a number of places. And now one of them, he is called Billygoat because he is as ugly and nasty as one, has been approached by the saboteurs and has agreed to aid them. That is where I need your help. You must supply me with a place to commit willful and expensive sabotage so that Billygoat will be admitted to their ranks. Once I know who they are we can swoop and grab the lot."
“It will take some thinking, but I know we can come up with something. I’ll talk to-"
“No one, sir, no one if you will, for I value my life dearly."
“I miss your meaning."
“I will be frank. Other investigators have been hired in the past and they either failed in their tasks or were found dead under mysterious circumstances. Sir Winthrop believes, and I agree heartily, that someone within the company is in league with the saboteurs."
“It cannot be!"
“But it is. Someone with much special knowledge, perhaps more than one person. Until we find out we take no chances, that is the reason why I came to your room in this strange manner. Other than yourself and Sir Winthrop, no one knows I am on the job."
“Surely I can tell-"
“No one! It must be that way."
It was agreed, no one else was to know. A system of passwords and means of contact were agreed upon, and an exuberant kind of sabotage worked out. When all was done the secret investigator flipped open what appeared to be an identification bracelet on his wrist, but which proved to be a two-way radio with which he spoke to a confederate who disclosed that the room was not being watched. Armed with this knowledge he turned off the lights and slipped out the door to vanish as mysteriously as he had appeared.
Though Gus worked late upon his papers and should have had all of his attention there, his thoughts kept returning to the mysterious saboteurs. Who were they—and who inside the company was part of the plan?
He found it hard to sleep when finally he retired, for his thoughts went around and around this bone of knowledge and worried at it unceasingly.
Part III
Washington faced the hostility of his erstwhile mentor and would-be father-in-law, plus the skullduggery of evil men who wanted the Transatlantic Tunnel stopped, at all costs. But these paled into insignificance when compared to the awesome task of spanning the midoceanic trench.
SYNOPSIS
The time is now, the year 1972, but this is not the familiar world that we know. It is a parallel world, a "what if?" world. The golden days of the British Empire seem destined to continue forever. Europe is a collection of quabbling monarchies and New York is the major city in the American colonies. After the Battle of Lexington—which the British won—General George Washington was shot as a traitor. His descendant, AUGUSTINE WASHINGTON, has a secret ambition to clear his ancestor's name, an ambition he never forgets as he works on the construction of the Transatlantic Tunnel.
The genius behind the design and construction of the tunnel is SIR ISAMBARD BRASSEY-BRUNEL.
WA SHINGTON, although a fine engineer in his w right, is proud to work for SIR ISAMBARD. But the tunnel is in financial trouble, more backing is needed and the American colonies are looked to to supply th
e money. With this in mind WASHINGTON is placed in complete charge of the American end of the tunnel construction, a position which makes him more SIR ISAMBARD’s equal than his employee. SIR ISAMBA RD is greatly put out by this and refuses WASHINGTON access to his home and, at the same time, sees to it that the engagement between his daughter, IRIS, and WASHINGTON is broken.
Undaunted, WASHINGTON goes right to work, and flies to the American colonies in the giant coal-fired airplane, the Queen Elizabeth. While in flight there is an assassination attempt on his life which he foils, killing one of his attackers in the bargain. Apparently great forces are working against the tunnel and he must he on his guard.
In New York, despite opposition, he is put in charge of the tunnel. The work will go on! Despite assassins, rich Tories who hate the traitorous name of Washington, money and design problems—and the tragedy of his personal life. This, the greatest physical feat mankind has ever attempted, will he done.
A tunnel will be built under the water of the Atlantic Ocean, linking London and New York City by rail.
Despite the opposition of SIR ISAMBARD, WASHINGTON is building the American section tunnel by dropping preformed sections of tunnel into a trench dug on the ocean floor. This technique is many times faster than the one used on the British end of the tunnel. After many difficulties the tunnel is built out from the end of Long Island all the way to an artificial island in the Grand Banks that stands at the edge of the slope that drops to the abyssal plain many miles below. As the last section is put into place WASHINGTON begins an epic voyage that will show to the world how fast the American section of tunnel was constructed. Almost as quickly done as the British end—but nearly three times as long.
WASHINGTON leaves the Grand Banks Station in a Royal American Coast Guard hovercraft. This takes him to the end of the tunnel on Long Island. From here he proceeds by electric train back to the Grand Banks Station where a helithopter is standing by to fly him to Gander where a bomber is waiting to fly him to England. But there is sabotage and narrowly averted disaster and the helithopter has a forced landing. WASHINGTON is too late, he never will reach London in time to board the special train in the morning.
But hope is not lost. An English rocket engineer, CAPTAIN CLARKE, readies a mail rocket to carry a human cargo for the first time. At the risk of his life WASHINGTON blasts off for London and reaches the train just as it is leaving. This goes to Point 200, the end of the British Tunnel, an artificial island that is both a sophisticated resort and commercial port. The two ends of the tunnel are done, all is successful, only the last and deepest sections remain to be built.
But all does not go smoothly. SIR ISAMBARD takes back his offer of friendship again, along with permission for WASHINGTON to resume his engagement with IRIS, when WASHINGTON reveals that the tunnel should be built to his plan, not SIR ISAMBARD's. The tunnel will go south to the Azores, then turn west and cross the great mid-Atlantic canyon by means of an underwater bridge.
This work is begun and WASHINGTON has his base in the city of Angra do Heroismo in the Azores. But there is more trouble, accidents, the work goes badly. Why this is so is revealed by a secret visit to WASHINGTON by the master detective, RICHARD TRACY. There is sabotage afoot. A trap is set for the saboteurs and WASHINGTON does his part in setting it.
X
Not a sound disturbed the sunlit afternoon, not a word was spoken that could be heard, not a hammer struck metal, no sound of footstep, or motor, or any other man-made noise contrived to break the near perfect stillness. Yes, waves could be heard slapping against the seawall while gulls cried overhead, but these were natural sounds and independent of man, for it was the men and their machines who were quiet all through the immense spread of the tunnel works as everyone had ceased his labor and climbed to some point of vantage to watch the drama being played out before their eyes. Every wall and roof and crane had men hanging from it like clusters of grapes, human fruit wide-eyed and silent in the presence of tragedy, staring fixedly at the small humpbacked submarine that was churning its way out of the harbor at top speed. Only at the highest vantage point of the Control Office was there any movement and sound, one man, the radio operator, throwing switches and touching his dials, clutching his microphone tightly, speaking into it, while great drops of perspiration rolled down his forehead and dropped unheeded onto the bench.
"Repeat, this is a command from Captain Washington. Repeat, you must abandon ship at once. Do you read me, Nautilus, do you read me?"
The speaker above his head crackled and sputtered with static, then boomed out with an amplified voice. "Sure and I can't read you, you not being a book and all, but I can hear you that well as if you were sittin' at me shoulder. Continuing on course."
A sound, something between a gasp and a sigh was drawn from the listening men while Gus pushed past them and seized the microphone from the operator and flipped the switch to speak.
"Washington here—and this is an order, O'Toole. Lock your controls at once and bail out of that thing. I'll have the launch pick you up. Over." The airwaves hissed and crackled.
"Orders are meant to be obeyed, Captain Washington, but begging your pardon, sir, I'm thinking just not hear this one. I've got the old Naut here cranked up for more knots than she ever did before in her rusty life and she's going along like Billy-be-damned. The red's still rising on the meter but she'll be well out to sea before it hits the danger mark."
"Can't you damp the pile?"
"Now I'm afraid I'll have to answer that in the negative, sir. When I turned on the power the damping rods just pulled all the way out and I haven't been able to get them back in, manually or otherwise. Not being an a-tomic engineer I have no idea how to fix the thing so I thought it best to take her out to sea a bit."
"Lock the controls and leave—"
"Little late, Captain, since everything is sizzling and sort of heating up in the stern. And the controls can be set for a level course and not for a dive, and dive is what I'm doing. Take her as deep as possible. So I'll be signing off now since the radio doesn't work underwater . . ." The voice thinned and died and the microphone fell from Gus's hand with a clatter. Far out to sea there was a flurry of white as the sub went under. Then the ocean was empty.
"Call him on the sonarphone," said Gus.
"I've tried, sir, no answer. I don't think he has it turned on."
Silence then, absolute silence, for the word had been passed as to what was transpiring and everyone there now knew what was happening, what one man was doing for them. They watched, looking out to sea, squinting into the sun where the submarine had gone down, waiting for the final act of this drama of life and death being enacted before their eyes, not knowing what to expect, but knowing, feeling, that although this atomic energy was beyond their comprehension, its manifestations would be understandable.
It happened. Far out to sea there was a sudden broiling and seething and the ocean itself rose up in a hump as though some ancient and evil denizen of the deeps was struggling to the surface, or perhaps a new island coming into being. Then, as this evil boil upon the ocean's surface continued to grow, a fearful shock was felt that hurled men from their feet and set the cranes swinging and brought a terrible clangor from the stacked sheets of steel. While all the time, higher and higher the waters climbed until the churning mass stood hundreds of feet in the air and then, before it could fall back, from the very center there rose a white column, a fiercely coiling presence that pushed up incredibly until it was as high as the great peak on the nearby island of Pico. Here it blossomed out obscenely, opening like a hellish flower until a white cloud shot through with red lightning sat on top of the spire that had produced it. There it stood, repellent in its concept, strangely beautiful in its strangeness, a looming mushroom in the sky, a poisonous mushroom that fed on death and was death.
On shore the watchers could not take their eyes from the awful thing, were scarcely aware of the men beside them, yet, one by one, they removed their hats and held them
to their chests in memory of a brave man who had just died.
"There will be no more work today," said Gus, his voice sudden in the silence. "Make the announcement and then you all may leave."
Out to sea the wind was already thinning and dispersing the cloud and driving it away from them. Gus spared it only one look then jammed on his topee and left. Of their own accord his feet found the familiar route to the street and thence to El Tampico. The waiter rushed for his wine, brought it with ready questions as to the strange thing they had all seen, but Gus waved away bottle and answer both and ordered whiskey. When it came he drained a large glass at once, then poured a second and gazed into its depths. After a number of minutes he raised his hand to his head in a certain gesture and the guardian form of the great Indian appeared in the doorway behind and approached.
"Nobody here to give the bum's rush to," said Sapper.
"I know. Here, sit and have a drink."
"Red-eye, good stuff." He drained a tumbler and sighed with satisfaction. "That's what I call real firewater."
A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! Page 15