Nevil Shute - On The Beach

They surfaced again at four in the morning, just before dawn, a little to the north of Grays Harbor. No lights were visible on shore, but as there were no towns and few roads in the district that evidence was inconclusive. They went down to periscope depth and carried on. When Dwight came to the control room at six o’clock the day was bright through the periscope and the crew off duty were taking turns to look at the desolate shore. He went to breakfast and then stood smoking at the chart table, studying the minefield chart that he already knew so well, and the well-remembered entrance to the Juan de Fuca Strait.

At seven forty-five his executive officer reported that Cape Flattery was abeam. The captain stubbed out his cigarette. "Okay," he said. "Take her in, Commander. Course is zero seven five. Fifteen knots."

The hum of the motors dropped to a lower note for the first time in three weeks; within the hull the relative silence was almost oppressive. All morning they made their way southeastwards down the strait between Canada and the United States, taking continuous bearings through the periscope, keeping a running plot at the chart table and altering course many times. They saw little change on shore, except in one place on Vancouver Island near Jordan River where a huge area on the southern slopes of Mount Valentine seemed to have been burned and blasted. They judged this area to be no less than seven miles long and five miles wide; in it no vegetation seemed to grow although the surface of the ground seemed un disturbed.

"I’d say that’s an air burst," the captain said, turning from the periscope. "Perhaps a guided missile got one there."

As they approached more populous districts there were always one or two men waiting to look through the periscope as soon as the officers relinquished it. Soon after midday they were off Port Townsend and turning southwards into Puget Sound. They went on, leaving Whidbey Island on the port hand, and in the early afternoon they came to the mainland at the little town of Edmonds, fifteen miles north of the centre of Seattle. They were well past the mine defences by that time. From the sea the place seemed quite undamaged, but the radiation level was still high.

The captain stood studying it through the periscope. If the Geiger counter was correct no life could exist there for more than a few days, and yet it all looked so normal in the spring sunlight that he felt there must be people there. There did not seem to be glass broken in the windows, even, save for a pane here and there. He turned from the periscope. "Left ten, seven knots," he said. "We’ll close the shore here, and lie off the jetty, and hail for a while."

He relinquished the command to his executive, and ordered the loud hailer to be tested and made ready. Lieutenant Commander Farrell brought the vessel to the surface and took her in, and they lay to a hundred yards from the boat jetty, watching the shore.

The chief of the boat touched the executive officer on the shoulder. "Be all right for Swain to have a look, sir?" he inquired. "This is his home town." Yeoman First Class Ralph Swain was a radar operator.

"Oh, sure."

He stepped aside, and the yeoman went to the periscope. He stood there for a long while, and then raised his head. "Ken Puglia’s got his drugstore open," he said. "The door’s open and the shades are up. But he’s left his neon sign on. It’s not like Ken to leave that burning in the daytime."

The chief asked, "See anybody moving around, Ralph?"

The radar operator bent to the eyepieces again. "No. There’s a window broken in Mrs. Sullivan’s house, up at the top."

He stood looking for three or four long minutes, till the executive officer touched him on the shoulder and took the periscope. He stood back in the control room.

The chief said, "See your own house, Ralphie?"

"No. You just can’t see that from the sea. It’s up Rainier Avenue, past the Safeway." He fidgeted irritably. "I don’t see anything different," he said. "It all looks just the same."

Lieutenant Benson took the microphone and began hailing the shore. He said, "This is U. S. Submarine Scorpion calling Edmonds. U. S. Submarine Scorpion calling Edmonds. If anybody is listening, will you please come to the waterfront, to the jetty at the end of Main Street. U. S. Submarine calling Edmonds."

The yeoman left the control room and went forward. Dwight Towers came to the periscope, detached another sailor from it, and stood looking at the shore. The town sloped upwards from the waterfront giving a good view of the street and the houses. He stood back after a while. "There doesn’t seem to be much wrong on shore," he said. "You’d think with Boeing as the target all this area would have been well plastered."

Farrell said, "The defences here were mighty strong. All the guided missiles in the book."

"That’s so. But they got through to San Francisco."

"It doesn’t look as though they ever got through here." He paused. "There was that air burst, way back in the strait."

Dwight nodded. "See that neon sign that’s still alight, over the drugstore?" He paused. "We’ll go on calling here for quite a while—say, half an hour."

"Okay, sir."

The captain stood back from the periscope and the executive officer took it, and issued a couple of orders to keep the ship in position. At the microphone the lieutenant went on calling; Dwight lit a cigarette and leaned back on the chart table. Presently he stubbed out the cigarette and glanced at the clock.

From forward there was the clang of a steel hatch; he started and looked round. It was followed a moment later by another, and then footsteps on the deck above them. There were steps running down the alley, and Lieutenant Hirsch appeared in the control room. "Swain got out through the escape hatch, sir," he said. "He’s out on deck now!"

Dwight bit his lip. "Escape hatch closed?"

"Yes, sir. I checked that."

The captain turned to the chief of the boat. "Station a guard on the escape hatches forward and aft."

There was a splash in the water beside the hull as Mortimer ran off. Dwight said to Farrell, "See if you can see what he’s doing."

The executive dropped the periscope down and put it to maximum depression, sweeping around. The captain said to Hirsch, "Why didn’t somebody stop him?"

"I guess he did it too quick. He came from aft and sat down, kind of biting his nails. Nobody paid him much attention. I was in the forward torpedo flat, so I didn’t see. First they knew, he was in the escape trunk with the door shut, and the outer hatch open to the air. Nobody cared to chase out there after him.’’

Dwight nodded. "Sure. Get the trunk blown through and then go in and see the outer hatch is properly secure."

From the periscope Farrell said, "I can see him.

He’s swimming for the jetty."

Dwight stooped almost to the deck and saw the swimmer.

He stood up and spoke to Lieutenant Benson at the microphone. The lieutenant touched the volume control and said, "Yeoman Swain, hear this." The swimmer paused and trod water. "The captain’s orders are that you return immediately to the ship. If you come back at once he will take you on board again and take a chance on the contamination. You are to come back on board right now."

From the speaker above the navigation table they all heard the reply, "You go and get stuffed!"

A faint smile flickered on the captain’s face. He bent again to the periscope and watched the man swim to the shore, watched him clamber up the ladder at the jetty. Presently he stood erect. "Well, that’s it," he remarked. He turned to John Osborne by his side. "How long would you say he’ll last?"

"He’ll feel nothing for a time," said the scientist. "He’ll probably be vomiting tomorrow night. After that—well, it’s just anybody’s guess, sir. It depends upon the constitution of the individual."