Алистер Маклин - Ice Station Zebra

‘Where?’ Swanson demanded.

‘Starboard bulkhead.’

‘How much?’

‘A pint or two, just trickling down the bulkhead. And it’s getting worse. It’s getting worse all the time. For God’s sake, Captain, what are we going to do?’

‘What are you going to do?’ Swanson echoed. ‘Mop the damn’ stuff up, of course. You don’t want to live in a dirty ship, do you?’ He hung up.

‘She’s stopped. She’s stopped.’ Four words and a prayer. I’d been wrong about every eye being on the loudspeaker, one pair of eyes had never left the depth gauge, the pair belonging to the youngster at the console.

‘She’s stopped,’ the diving officer confirmed. His voice had a shake in it.

No one spoke. The blood continued to drip unheeded from Hansen’s crushed fingers. I thought that I detected, for the first time, a faint sheen of sweat on Swanson’s brow, but I couldn’t be sure. The deck still shuddered beneath our feet as the giant engines strove to lift the Dolphin out of those deadly depths, the compressed air still hissed into the diesel and fresh-water tanks. I could no longer see the depth gauge, the diving officer had drawn himself up so close to it that he obscured most of it from me.

Ninety seconds passed, ninety seconds that didn’t seem any longer than a leap year, ninety interminable seconds while we waited for the sea to burst into our hull and take us for its own, then the diving officer said: ‘Ten feet. Up.’

‘Are you sure?’ Swanson asked.

‘A year’s pay.’

‘We’re not out of the wood yet,’ Swanson said mildly. ‘The hull can still go – it should have gone a damn’ long time ago. Another hundred feet – that means a couple of tons less pressure to the square foot – and I think we’ll have a chance. At least a fifty-fifty chance. And after that the chances will improve with every foot we ascend; and as we ascend the highly compressed air in the torpedo room will expand, driving out water and so lightening ship.’

‘Still rising,’ the diving officer said. ‘Still rising. Speed of ascent changed.’

Swanson walked across to the diving stand and studied the slow movement of the depth gauge dial. ‘How much fresh water left?’

‘Thirty per cent.’

‘Secure blowing fresh-water ballast. Engines all back two-thirds.’

The roar of compressed air fell away and the deck vibration eased almost to nothing as the engine revolutions fell from emergency power to two-thirds full speed.

‘Speed of ascent unchanged,’ the diving officer reported. ‘One hundred feet up.’

‘Secure blowing diesel.’ The roar of compressed air stopped completely. ‘All back one-third.’

‘Still rising. Still rising.’

Swanson took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and neck. ‘I was a little worried there,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘and I don’t much care who knows it.’ He reached for a microphone and I could hear his voice booming faintly throughout the ship.

‘Captain here. All right, you can all start breathing again. Everything is under control, we’re on our way up. As a point of interest we’re still over three hundred feet deeper than the lowest previous submarine dive ever recorded.’

I felt as if I had just been through the rollers of a giant mangle. We all looked as if we’d just been through the rollers of a giant mangle. A voice said: ‘I’ve never smoked in my life, but I’m starting now. Someone give me a cigarette.’ Hansen said: ‘When we get back to the States do you know what I’m going to do?’

‘Yes,’ Swanson said. ‘You’re going to scrape together your last cent, go up to Groton and throw the biggest, the most expensive party ever for the men who built this boat. You’re too late, Lieutenant, I thought of it first.’ He checked abruptly and said sharply: ‘What’s happened to your hand?’

Hansen lifted his left hand and stared at it in surprise. ‘I never even knew I’d been scratched. Must have happened with that damn’ door in the torpedo room. There’s a medical supply box there, Doc. Would you fix this?’

‘You did a damn’ fine job there, John,’ Swanson said warmly. ‘Getting that door closed, I mean. Couldn’t have been easy.’

‘It wasn’t. All pats on the back to our friend here,’ Hansen said. ‘He got it closed, not me. And if we hadn’t got it closed–’

‘Or if I’d let you load the torpedoes when you came back last night,’ Swanson said grimly. ‘When we were sitting on the surface and the hatches wide open. We’d have been eight thousand feet down now and very, very dead.’

Hansen suddenly snatched his hand away. ‘My God!’ he said remorsefully. ‘I’d forgotten. Never mind this damned hand of mine. George Mills, the torpedo officer. He caught a pretty bad smack. You’d better see him first. Or Doc Benson.’

I took his hand back. ‘No hurry for either of us. Your fingers first. Mills isn’t feeling a thing.’

‘Good lord!’ Astonishment showed in Hansen’s face, maybe shock at my callousness. ‘When he recovers consciousness–’

‘He’ll never recover consciousness again,’ I said. ‘Lieutenant Mills is dead.’

‘What!’ Swanson’s fingers bit deeply, painfully into my arm. ‘ “Dead,” did you say?’

‘That column of water from number four tube came in like an express train,’ I said tiredly. ‘Flung him right back against the after bulkhead and smashed in the occiput – the back of his head – like an eggshell. Death must have been instantaneous.’

‘Young George Mills,’ Swanson whispered. His face had gone very pale. ‘Poor young beggar. His first trip on the Dolphin. And now – just like that. Killed.’

‘Murdered,’ I said.

‘What!’ If Commander Swanson didn’t watch out with his fingers he’d have my upper arm all black and blue. ‘What was that you said?’

‘ “Murdered,” I said. “Murdered,” I meant.’

Swanson stared at me for a long moment, his face empty of expression, but the eyes strained and tired and suddenly somehow old. He wheeled, walked across to the diving officer, spoke a few words to him and returned. ‘Come on,’ he said abruptly. ‘You can fix up the lieutenant’s hand in my cabin.’

‘You realise the seriousness of what you are saying?’ Swanson asked. ‘You are making a grave accusation–’

‘Come off it,’ I said rudely. ‘This is not a court of law and I’m not accusing anyone. All I say is that murder has been done. Whoever left that bow-cap door open is directly responsible for the death of Lieutenant Mills.’

‘What do you mean “left the door open”? Who says anyone left the door open? It could have been due to natural causes. And even if – I can’t see it – that door had been left open, you can’t accuse a man of murder because of carelessness or forgetfulness or because–’

‘Commander Swanson,’ I said. ‘I’ll go on record as saying that you are probably the best naval officer I have ever met. But being best at that doesn’t mean that you’re best at everything. There are noticeable gaps in your education, Commander, especially in the appreciation of the finer points of skulduggery. You require an especially low and devious type of mind for that and I’m afraid that you just haven’t got it. Doors left open by natural causes, you say. What natural causes?’

‘We’ve hit the ice a few hefty smacks,’ Swanson said slowly. ‘That could have jarred it open. Or when we poked through the ice last night a piece of ice, a stalactite, say, could have–’

‘Your tubes are recessed, aren’t they. Mighty oddly-shaped stalactite that would go down then bend in at a right angle to reach the door – and even then it would only shut it more tightly.’