Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (2 page)

"Tell me more. I’d like to get the full pitch on the jetmarine and help you try it out, since we’ll have to wait a while until the rocket is finished for our trip into space."

Some time before, an artificial meteorlike object had plunged into the Swift Enterprises grounds, as if directed there with uncanny precision. On the missile’s side were mathematical symbols. When Tom and his father had deciphered the code, they discovered that it contained a message from the inhabitants of another planetary civilization who appeared to have a base on Mars. Ever since, Tom had dreamed of visiting these space beings. He didn’t know that very soon, in an adventure to be recounted in
Tom Swift and His Rocket Ship,
he would make the important first step toward that goal—but first his newest invention, the jetmarine, must be perfected.

Tom’s two-person submarine was to be manufactured and sold as a speed craft for safe ocean travel, opening the possibility of underwater commuter traffic to distant points such as Africa and Australia. The submarine was to operate on an entirely different principle of propulsion from the standard propeller type. A stream of water forced through special tubes under great pressure would be its means of propulsion.

"A hydraulic jet," Tom explained.

"Give it to me in first-grade science," Bud begged, renewing Tom’s laughter.

"Remember when we were kids and filled balloons with water, then let go of them? Same kind of propulsion."

"All I got was a soaking!" Bud remarked. "But I get the general idea."

Tom took the jetmarine model from Bud and opened it up, pointing to its various features. The young inventor explained that the craft contained an atomic reactor utilizing Veranium, the scientifically baffling radioactive isotope which the Swifts had discovered in South America.

"As you can imagine, pal, it took a
lot
of doing to get permission to put even a midget reactor on an experimental high-speed sub," Tom noted. "But without it we wouldn’t have the power to run the engines."

In order to protect the occupants of the jetmarine from deadly radiation, the whole power plant had been encased in a three-inch thickness of Tomasite. This strong, durable plastic with silicoid-ceramic characteristics had been developed by Tom and Mr. Swift on the basis of their spectrometric studies of the impenetrable shell of the space missile. Tom’s mother had named the new substance in honor of Tom’s namesake, his famous great-grandfather. Tomasite was not only light in weight but almost totally impervious to destructive gamma rays, and to infra-red heat rays as well. Furthermore, the complex molecules of the material had been artificially "sculpted" into interlaced microscopic cells that absorbed radar-frequency pulses and acted as a baffle for the sound frequencies used in sonar.

"Sounds terrific," Bud reflected. "But it
looks
like a wild genetic experiment to me—like a flattened cucumber, sitting upright on its narrow side, trying to give birth up front to a glass egg!"

"Right. With the small end of the egg facing forward, to decrease water resistance," Tom continued. "The nose is molded of transparent Tomasite." The outer hull was also sheathed in Tomasite, to prevent reflection of sound waves. Thus, the jetmarine could not be detected by sonar devices.

"This is wonderful, genius boy," said Bud, grinning. "But you still haven’t told me what makes your water baby go."

Tom laughed. "I haven’t? Well, ionizing radiation in the atomic pile charges up a set of semiconductor plates, producing a powerful electrical potential."

"Mucho electricity, in other words."

"Very mucho. It takes a lot of current to drive my new hydro-turbine, which has to attain extreme rates of rotation. The turbine sucks in water through intake vents in the front of the jetmarine, above and beneath the view-dome, and then flings the water out the rear thrust tubes at bullet speed."

"I’ll take a dozen!" Bud quipped. "Is there room for me in that thing?"

"There’ll always be room for you, Bud," said Tom seriously. "And thanks for lifting my spirits—I needed it."

Tom showed Bud the full-sized jetmarine, which was all but finished. Then, supper time coming on, the two left the underground hangar and headed toward the private dining room used by Enterprises management.

Suddenly Tom paused in midstep and touched a small, nondescript silver pin attached to his collar. "Tom here," he said, responding to the alert signal from his collar televoc pin. After a brief conversation with several glances skyward, completely inaudible to Bud, Tom signed off and turned to his friend. "The control tower has a small private jet on our radar approaching Enterprises. The pilot says he can’t make the city airfield and needs to set down here!"

A caravan of emergency vehicles was already rushing onto the field, alerted by the control tower.

"There he is!" Bud cried, pointing.

A tiny speck in the eastern sky grew rapidly into the form of a compact single-engine commuter jet, which Tom and Bud recognized as a Harrigan Eaglet.

"Pretty high-class," Bud commented enviously.

The jet was descending in a broad, lazy circle that did not suggest any emergency situation, but the boys knew better than to attempt to judge the circumstances on such superficial evidence. They watched, fascinated, as the plane set down gently on runway four.

"He’s not braking!" Tom exclaimed. "He’ll run down the emergency crew!" The jet seemed to swerve toward the phalanx of vehicles, crossing several runway lines. Then, at the last possible moment, the little jet swerved the opposite way again and screeched to a halt, sitting crosswise on runway eight.

"That stunt looked deliberate," muttered Tom angrily. Before Bud could respond, his friend had trotted off toward runway eight with clenched fists.

As the young inventor approached the Eaglet, he was surprised to see the shimmering heat signature above the engine exhaust. The pilot hadn’t even cut his engine! As Tom came within thirty feet of the craft, the pilot throttled up and the jet rumbled off, keeping its distance as if mocking Tom. Through the cockpit dome Tom could see a sneering, youthful face under a flight helmet.

That crazy pilot!
Tom thought.
I’ll wrap his wings around his neck!
With a bound Tom broke into a full run, and in seconds was only a few yards from the plane.

"What do you mean, coming in—" he shouted out, but did not finish. Without warning the jet throttled up and pivoted, its deadly tail-blaze shooting straight at Tom!

Bud stared horrified at the drama playing out on runway eight. There was no time for Tom to dodge out of the way!

Tom threw himself down flat on the runway tarmac. The jet’s blazing exhaust passed above him, singeing his hair and the back of his t-shirt. He gasped for breath, his lungs burning with the pungent odor of jet fuel. Yet the worst was already over. The mystery jet accelerated away from Tom’s prostrate form and in seconds was airborne on an eastward heading.

Bud ran up just as Tom was struggling to his feet. He steadied his friend. "You’re all right?"

Tom coughed violently, wincing. "I’m okay," he gasped, "no thanks to that juvenile jet jockey!"

"Juvenile?"

"He looked about as young as you or I," Tom responded, "plus he acted like a spoiled kid with a toy. I had the impression this was all some sort of prank."

"Unbelievable!" Bud exclaimed. "He could have killed you, Tom. There
must
be more to this than meets the eye!"

"At any rate, the tower will have electronically recorded the jet’s registration number, so we’ll know shortly who our friend is—unless the plane’s stolen!"

Proceeding to the control tower, Tom and Bud were soon in possession of the desired information. The Harrigan Eaglet was owned by the McIntosh and Dansitt Shipping Company of Baltimore. Its registered pilot: Sidney Dansitt.

"Sidney Dansitt," mused Bud. "Co-owner of the company?"

"More likely the co-owner’s son or grandson," Tom commented.

A check of the Internet in Tom’s office revealed that Sidney Dansitt, formerly of Baltimore, was now a resident of Walderburg, New York.

"Just down the highway," Bud commented.

Tom nodded. "College town—Grandyke University."

"You think old Sid is a student at the University?"

"He looked about the right age," Tom replied. "I’ll ask Harlan to find out what he can. If Dansitt is registered there, I’ll have him served with a complaint for his recklessness." Harlan Ames, a former Secret Service agent, was Swift Enterprises’ reliable chief of security.

No longer in the mood to work late at the plant, Tom drove home to have dinner with his family, joined by Bud. An unexpected but pleasing dinner guest was Bashalli Prandit, whom Tom had just begun getting to know.

Bashalli’s dark eyes flashed as Tom told of the trials and adventures of the day. "What a wonderful thing it must be, to be a part of the Swifts!" she exclaimed. "When your hair is not being parted by falling meteors, you can be kidnapped, or roasted by a jet engine—who can resist such a life? But of course, with your friend missing, that is no joking matter," Bashalli added quickly.

"I call him Uncle Hank," said Sandy, Tom’s sister, "even though he’s just a few years older than I am. He always laughed." Sandy’s eyes began to fill with tears.

Seeing that Tom’s father was silent with his thoughts, Tom’s mother spoke up. "His family has played a great role in all our lives. Lauren is taking the situation bravely, but Jonny is quite shaken—and Lauren has the new baby now." Lauren was Hank’s wife, and Jonny his gradeschool-age son.

"I know Jonny," Bashalli commented. "He comes into The Glass Cat for coffee, and to ask me out. Skateboarding, you know." At this Tom looked up from his mashed potatoes. "But unfortunately he is not to my preference," Bashalli added.

"That little boy drinks coffee?" asked Mrs. Swift.

"No, he comes in
for
coffee—in a bag, to take home, with a fist of money."

"He’s ‘not to your preference,’ Bashi?" asked Sandy with a mischievous gleam. "Why’s that?"

"Alas," replied the Pakistani, "he is not very clever. Perhaps he will improve in fifth grade. I rather think people get along best with people who do not seem
stupid
to them. Is that not a good rule?"

"Sounds good to me, Bash," Bud responded with a wink.

All eyes turned to Tom.

"I don’t think you can make rules about who matches who," said the young inventor with a smile. "It’s sort of a chemical thing."

Sandy rolled her eyes, but Bashalli said, "Absolutely! A
very
chemical thing." After a calculated pause, she added, "And so, perhaps you can turn the problem over to your chemical department."

Everyone joined in the laughter that ensued.

Working on some stubborn jetmarine problems in the hangar annex the following morning, Tom took a call from an unfamiliar name.

"This is Tom Swift."

A woman’s voice came on. "Tom, you won’t have heard of me—though everyone has heard of
you,
of course—but my name is Rita Scheering. I’m a reporter for
Backgrounder
magazine. You’re familiar with
Backgrounder?"

"Who isn’t?" Tom retorted. "The magazine has been around since my great-grandfather’s time."

"That’s true—technically. We call ourselves the nation’s leading news-weekly. Now, I’m not calling you for an interview—"

"Good, Miss Scheering, because I haven’t the time."

"It’s just that…well, I’ve come across some information that might have bearing on the Sea Snipers. And I know Hank Sterling is a family friend…"

Tom frowned, suspecting a hoax. "If you’re trying to exploit this for some sort of personal gain, Miss Scheering—"

"Oh no," said the other party smoothly. "Well, maybe a
bit
of a gain, in that I want you to
promise
me exclusive rights to any interviews that might come about. You know, that sort of thing. And call me Rita."

Tom sighed. "For the sake of Mr. Sterling, I’ll keep talking. But I like to see who I’m talking to."

There was a brief pause. "I’m at my computer, Tom, and I have a webcam. I’m sure you do too. We can talk that way."

"Very well."

The computer link was established, and in a few minutes Tom was able to look his caller in the eye. Rita Scheering turned out to be a robust, handsome woman of middle age, resembling a high school teacher more than a news reporter.

After Tom had acquiesced to her conditions, Rita resumed the discussion. "Now then, the Sea Snipers. Everyone wonders how they do it and where they go. But I started wondering:
How do they pick their victims?
Why those particular ships?"

"Wrong place at the wrong time, I guess," said Tom.

"Maybe—a crime of opportunity. But what if it’s something else? What if it doesn’t have to do with the ship and its location, but with the
passengers?"

Tom shook his head impatiently. "You should read your own magazine. The FBI and the other investigators have been all over that angle. The various ship passengers and crew have nothing in common. Different home towns, different vacation destinations, different employers—nothing matches. Even the stolen goods are pretty much random, whatever can be carried off quickly and resold for value."

Rita smiled. "Yes. And here we see the difference between a reporter’s mind and a police-type. Reporters are used to probing the backgrounds of things, to looking into all the dark—"

Tom interrupted her. "Please. Let’s cut to the chase."

"Okay, the chase. Nine ships have been boarded. Every one of those ships had
one passenger
who had traveled through a particular spot of ocean some time within the preceding year and a half. Not during the cruise that was attacked, you understand, but a separate previous trip."

Suddenly intrigued, Tom squinted at the monitor screen. "What ‘spot of ocean,’ Rita?"

"A small one. I can give you the precise coordinates, but it’s basically a little thirty-mile-square section in the Gulf of Mexico, in the Yucatan Channel just west of the extreme northwestern tip of Cuba. It’s not on the common routes, but lately some of the shipping companies and cruise lines have taken to passing through it."