Samuel Edwards - Neptune

Suddenly an alarm bell broke the silence, and a dark mass appeared on a radar screen.

‘A Russian submarine!’ Adrienne exclaimed. ‘It slipped through our net!’

Porter shook his head. ‘Impossible. The escort ships would have picked it up on their sonar long before this.’

Richards apparently felt the same way, and they followed him on to the deck, hurrying aft as the alarm bell continued to sound.

Porter caught a glimpse of a silver-grey flash off the starboard side. ‘Shark!’

‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Richards said. ‘A whole school of grey-fins.’ There was no need for him to mention that if the sharks cut any of the vital lines to the submersible, Project Neptune would be ruined.

Plans had been made for even this contingency, and several men ran below, returning quickly with cylinders that looked like hand-operated fire extinguishers. Hurrying aft on the starboard side they aimed these at the sharks, at least a dozen of which were circling the lines directly below the surface. Thin streams of a colourless liquid squirted out, and began to boil and foam as they hit the sea.

The sharks thrashed wildly, and dark shapes darted away. Within minutes the crisis seemed to have been averted.

As the foam subsided, however, one huge creature, at least twenty-five feet long, remained near the hydroelectric cables, its powerful tail breaking the surface repeatedly.

It appeared to be staying in one place.

‘My God!’ Richards was pale beneath his tan. ‘The creature is caught on the lines!’

Even as he spoke, three divers were hastily donning their scuba gear. Every member of the Project Neptune team had been drilled so thoroughly that it was unnecessary to give orders.

Suddenly the three divers were joined by a fourth.

Porter blinked in astonishment. ‘Marie Richards!’

Adrienne stared at the slender girl who was heading towards the rail, where a ladder had already been lowered over the side. Marie’s participation was unnecessary and a trifle absurd. The professional divers knew their business, and didn’t need the help of the society wife of one of the world’s wealthiest, most talented men.

Others in the company obviously agreed with Adrienne, and several ran to the rail.

‘Come back, Mrs Richards!’ one shouted. ‘That’s a killer shark!’

Only Richards himself was unperturbed. ‘Marie can handle herself in the water with greater ease than anyone I know,’ he said to no one in particular, and raced aft for a word with his wife before she vanished down the ladder.

Adrienne closed her eyes for an instant. Marie’s gesture was sheer bravado, useless and foolish. But even millionaires were entitled to express their emotions. In their own ways.

Porter came to the same conclusion, smiled wryly and shook his head.

‘I don’t like this,’ Adrienne said, ‘but I don’t know how we can stop her.’

Porter shook his head. ‘To think I didn’t trust her,’ he murmured.

Marie was the first in the water, and approached the shark warily.

The creature became aware of her proximity, and thrashed more violently.

The other divers hit the water and spread out in a semi-circle, swimming slowly.

Marie approached the imprisoned shark from the left, two others drew nearer on the right, and one diver, acting as a decoy, remained several yards from the creature’s snout.

‘Now!’ Marie called, disappearing below the surface with a long knife in her hand.

Almost simultaneously the divers on the shark’s right went under the water, and only the decoy stayed on the surface.

It was difficult for those on the deck to see what was happening. The sea foamed almost as heavily as it had when the repellent had been poured in, and it was evident that the shark was straining to break loose.

A thin trickle of blood that spread on the surface to the shark’s left indicated that Marie had been the first to attack.

The maddened shark made a supreme effort and broke free of the cables.

Marie was its obvious target, but she faced it valiandy, not retreating, and struck at it repeatedly with her knife.

The other divers came to her aid, and all three of the men slashed and stabbed at the grey-fin until their arms were weary.

The boiling sea grew even more agitated, and Adrienne, who could look into the muzzle of a gun without fear, leaned against Porter, afraid she would be sick.

All at once the sea grew calm, and the divers hastily swam to the ladders. Marie was the first to ascend. There was a long rip in her rubber diving suit, but she appeared to be unharmed.

Even as the divers left the water other members of the expedition harpooned the dying shark and hauled it on board the Neptune before its still-spreading blood attracted the rest of the pack and it became necessary to use more repellent.

Marie embraced her husband. Then, finally sheathing her knife, she looked at the ugly foe she had killed. Reverting to her role of the giddy society hostess, she spoke lightly. ‘I’ve always wanted a pair of genuine shark’s tooth earrings,’ she said, and went off to the master suite to change her attire.

Shortly before noon the sonar system was activated, and an intermittent buzzing sound indicated that the submersible was on target. The volume of the sound increased, its duration lengthening, and when the float’s rate of descent picked up speed as it reached a depth approaching three miles, the atmosphere in the operations centre crackled with suspense.

The underwater television cameras still revealed little other than an occasional fish, but the monitors assigned to these units peered more intently at their screens. The sonar operators fine-tuned their listening devices, adjusting and readjusting the knobs on their auditing sets. The hydroelectric generator, working at full capacity, hummed loudly, and no one spoke.

High clouds appeared overhead, moving from south to north, and gradually they thickened until, at about i.oo p.m., the sun vanished behind a thick, grey blanket. Adrienne noticed the ominous change, and silently called it to Porter’s attention. If Franklin Richards was aware of the approaching storm he gave no indication, and concentrated his full attention on the control panel.

Stewards brought sandwiches and cold meats, coffee, and soft drinks to those who wanted to eat, but few were interested. The hour of climax was at hand, and food would have to wait.

At 1.22 p.m. the buzzing of the sonar became constant and filled the operations centre, obliterating the equally steady hum of the generator.

‘Submersible is approaching target,’ Richards said over an intercom, and his voice was less than calm.

The television screens continued to reveal nothing of consequence.

At 1.24 p.m. Richards announced, ‘Submersible has touched bottom. Switch to manual controls.’

Two of the operators pulled large levers. No one else moved.

Richards pushed forward on a metal stick resembling a gearshift on an automobile, and the huge float crept along the ocean floor.

It was astonishing, Porter thought, that a man sitting on the surface of the sea could manipulate a bulky object located almost twenty thousand feet beneath him.

The buzzing of the sonar stopped for a moment.

Richards instantly reversed the movement of the submersible. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and Marie, who stood beside him, wiped his face with a towel she had brought to the centre for the purpose.

The sound of the sonar rose again.

‘There’s the sub!’ one of the supervisors shouted.

Gradually the sunken Zoloto came into view on the television screens, her cigar shape increasingly visible. Observers with good eyesight could even make out the numbers on her rust-streaked grey hull: 14-2967.