Алистер Маклин - Ice Station Zebra

‘All laid down in the book of rules,’ Hansen said. ‘The only time the two doors can be opened at the same time is when we’re actually loading the torpedoes.’ He checked the position of metal handles at the rear of the tubes, reached up, swung down a steel-spring microphone and flicked a switch. ‘Ready to test tubes. All manual levers shut. All lights showing green?’

‘All lights still green.’ The answering voice from the overhead squawk box was hollow, metallic, queerly impersonal.

‘You already checked,’ I said mildly.

‘So we check again. Same old book of rules.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, my grandpa died at ninety-seven and I aim to beat his record. Take no chances and you run no risk. What are they to be, George?’

‘Three and four.’ I could see the brass plaques on the circular rear doors of the tubes, 2, 4 and 6 on the port side, 1, 3 and 5 on the starboard. Lieutenant Mills was proposing to use the central tubes on each side.

Mills unhooked a rubber torch from the bulkhead and approached number 3 first. Hansen said: ‘Still no chances. First of all George opens the test cock in the rear door which will show if there is any water at all in the tubes. Shouldn’t be, but sometimes a little gets past the bow caps. If the test cock shows nothing, then he opens the door and shines his torch up to examine the bow cap and see that there is no obstruction in the tube. How’s it, George?’

‘O.K., number three.’ Three times Mills lifted the test cock handle and no trace of water appeared. ‘Opening the door now.’

He hauled on the big lever at the rear, pulled it clear and swung back the heavy circular door. He shone his torch up the gleaming inside length of the tube, then straightened. ‘Clean as a whistle and dry as a bone.’

‘That’s not the way he was taught to report it,’ Hansen said sorrowfully. ‘I don’t know what the young officers are coming to these days. Right, George, number four.’

Mills grinned, secured the rear door on number 3 and crossed to number 4. He lifted the test cock handle and said: ‘Oh-oh.’

‘What is it?’ Hansen asked.

‘Water,’ Mills said tersely.

‘Is there much? Let’s see?’

‘Just a trickle.’

‘Is that bad?’ I asked.

‘It happens,’ Hansen said briefly. He joggled the handle up and down and another spoonful of water appeared. ‘You can get a slightly imperfect bow-cap and if you go deep enough to build up sufficient outside pressure you can get a trickle of water coming in. Probably what has happened in this case. If the bow-cap was open, friend, at this depth the water would come out of that spout like a bullet. But no chances, no chances.’ He reached for the microphone again. ‘Number four bow-cap still green? We have a little water here.’

‘Still green.’

Hansen looked down at Mills. ‘How’s it coming?’

‘Not so much now.’

‘Control centre,’ Hansen said into the microphone. ‘Check the trim chit, just to make sure.’

There was a pause, then the box crackled again.

‘Captain here. All tubes showing “Empty”. Signed by Lieutenant Hansen and the foreman engineer.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Hansen switched off and grinned. ‘Lieutenant Hansen’s word is good enough for me any day. How’s it now?’

‘Stopped.’

‘Open her up.’

Mills tugged the heavy lever. It moved an inch or two, then stuck. ‘Uncommon stiff,’ he commented.

‘You torpedomen never heard of anything called lubricating oil?’ Hansen demanded. ‘Weight, George, weight.’

Mills applied more weight. The lever moved another couple of inches. Mills scowled, shifted his feet to get maximum purchase and heaved just as Hansen shouted: ‘No! Stop! For God’s sake, stop!’

He was too late. He was a lifetime too late. The lever snapped clear, the heavy circular rear door smashed open as violently as if it had been struck by some gigantic battering ram and a roaring torrent of water burst into the for’ard torpedo room. The sheer size, the enormous column of water was staggering. It was like a giant hosepipe, like one of the outlet pipes of the Boulder Dam. It caught up Lieutenant Mills, already badly injured by the flailing sweep of that heavy door and swept him back across the torpedo room to smash heavily against the after bulkhead; for a moment he half-stood there, pinned by the power of that huge jet, then slid down limply to the deck.

‘Blow all main ballast!’ Hansen shouted into the microphone. He was hanging on to a rear torpedo door to keep from being carried away and even above the thunderous roar of the waters his voice carried clearly. ‘Emergency. Blow all main ballast. Number four tube open to the sea. Blow all main ballast!’ He released his grip, staggered across the deck trying to keep his balance in the madly swirling already foot-deep waters. ‘Get out of here, for God’s sake.’

He should have saved his energy and breath. I was already on my way out of there. I had Mills under the arms and was trying to drag him over the high sill of the for’ard collision bulkhead and I was making just no headway at all. The proper trim of a submarine is a delicate thing at the best of times and even after these few seconds the nose of the Dolphin, heavy with the tons of water that had already poured in, was beginning to cant sharply downwards: trying to drag Mills and at the same time keep my balance on that sloping deck with knee-high water boiling around me was more than I could do; but suddenly Hansen had Mills by the feet and I stumbled off-balance, tripped over the high sill and fell backwards into the confined space between the two collision bulkheads, dragging Mills after me.

Hansen was still on the other side of the bulkhead. I could hear him cursing steadily, monotonously and as if he meant it as he struggled to unhook the heavy door from its standing catch. Because of the steep downward pitch of the Dolphin’s deck he had to lean all his weight against the massive steel door to free the catch, and with his insecure footing among the swirling waters on that sloping slippery deck he was obviously having the devil’s own time trying to release it. I let Mills lie, jumped over the sill, flung my shoulder against the door and with the suddenly added pressure the latch clicked free. The heavy door at once swung half-shut, carrying us along with it and knocking us both off our feet into the battering-ram path of that torrent still gushing from number 4 tube. Coughing and spluttering we scrambled upright again, crossed the sill and, hanging on to a clip handle apiece, tried to drag the door shut.

Twice we tried and twice we failed. The water boiled in through the tube and its level was now almost lipping the top of the sill. With every second that passed the downward angle of the Dolphin increased and with every extra degree of steepness the task of pulling that door uphill against the steadily increasing gravity became more and more difficult.

The water began to spill over the sill on to our feet.

Hansen grinned at me. At least, I thought for a moment he was grinning, but the white teeth were clamped tightly together and there was no amusement at all in his eyes. He shouted above the roar of the water: ‘It’s now or never.’

A well-taken point. It was indeed now or never. At a signal from Hansen we flung our combined weights on to those clip-handles each with one hand to a clip while the other braced against the bulkhead to give maximum purchase. We got the door to within four inches. It swung open. We tried again. Still four inches and I knew that all our strength had gone into that one.

‘Can you hold it for a moment?’ I shouted.

He nodded. I shifted both hands to the lower corner clip, dropped to the deck, braced my feet against the sill and straightened both legs in one convulsive jerk. The door crashed shut, Hansen jammed his clip home, I did the same with mine and we were safe. For the moment we were safe.