Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (3 page)

"But what’s there? What’s the significance?"

"Nothing’s there! Just a few uninhabited rocks and a lot of water. As to the significance—that’s the mystery." Tom waited quietly as she lit a cigarette and exhaled a plume of white smoke. "And there’s more, Tom."

"What else?"

"Here’s the clincher," Rita declared excitedly. "Despite the impression that’s gotten around, only a small percentage of the passengers on the boarded ships had anything stolen from their cabins. But
every one
of my ‘targetees’ was a theft victim!"

"Except in the case of the
Nantic
—where they scuttled the ship." Tom’s forehead bowed under the weight of the puzzle. "What could it mean? What are the Sea Snipers looking for?"

Miss Scheering gave a smug smile and waved her cigarette nonchalantly. "I was hoping that genius head of yours might have some ideas."

Tom shrugged. "There’s no interest in the people themselves, it seems. Hank Sterling is the first kidnapping…"

"So we can safely rule out some mad scientist out to collect the best brains on earth."

"What we can rule
in
is the idea that the Snipers are looking for something that a person just might
happen
to have, because of where they traveled. Maybe something in a travel photo that somebody, some group, finds threatening. It could be the other thefts are just a blind."

"That’s where I’d got to too, Tom," remarked Rita. "Pretty cloak-and-daggery."

Tom rubbed his chin, as was his habit when a problem resisted conquest. "Guess I’ll have to let it percolate."

After promising to keep in touch with one another, Rita ended the call and the monitor went blank. Tom called up his father and then Harlan Ames, carefully detailing the conversation to each of them.

"I’d say your Miss Scheering is a pretty imaginative thinker," Ames commented, "but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong. I’ll pass her findings along to the authorities investigating the attacks—including Admiral Krevitt at ONDAR."

"Thanks, Harlan," Tom said. "Don’t forget that I gave my word that she would get an exclusive at the end of the process."

"I won’t. And by the way," continued the security chief, "I’ve doped out some info on Sidney Dansitt. Just as you suspected, he’s a grad student at Grandyke, in the Marketing Department. Lives off-campus in a rented house; stows his jet at a private airfield used by executive types outside Torrington. I chatted with his graduate advisor, who got
very
chatty after we warmed up."

"What did he have to say?"

"Basically that Sid is a sad case. He had top grades as an undergraduate in Maryland, and continued to do well when he was admitted to the architecture program at Grandyke. Then last year he moved off-campus and got himself switched to Marketing."

"That’s quite a change of direction," Tom remarked.

"Sure is," Ames agreed. "His attendance and course work started falling apart, and there were complaints about him. I was able to get a rap sheet on our boy—he’s been repeatedly stopped by the Walderburg police for various road violations. And this is
all
in the last year or so."

"Sounds like he’s spinning out of orbit," said Tom. "I almost feel sorry for him."

Ames snorted. "Don’t feel
too
sorry, Tom. Remember, his personal drama almost cost you your life!"

TOM DECIDED that his plan for finding out more about Sidney Dansitt would have to be postponed temporarily. He had an appointment with one of the engineers, Sid Baker, for eleven that morning to test the maximum pressure which the hull of the jetmarine could withstand. It was already ten fifteen.

"Better get a move-on," he murmured to himself.

Leaving the underground hangar area, Tom hopped into his electric "nanocar," picked up Sid Baker, and drove across the grounds to the testing complex. Beaming his electronic key at the massive sliding door, he waited for it to open, then walked into the buzz of machinery and calm, yet intense, voices. Here all aspects of the jetmarine, and other inventions in the early stages of development, were being tested.

"They’ve lowered the sub into the big tank already," said Baker after consulting with the test foreman. "We’re ready to go when you are, Tom."

Concentrating on the important test, Tom was about to switch on the tank’s high-speed immersion pumps when he was startled by a booming voice coming from behind him.

"Hey, Tom!" the unmistakable voice cried. "How’s about a Texas snack afore you sink that new sub o’ yours?"

Tom turned about and laughed. "Chow Winkler, you ole Texas panhandler! You know a feller ain’t s’posed to eat when he’s about to go in the water!"

Chow stopped so abruptly the submarine sandwich in his hands almost jolted to the concrete floor. "Why, thet’s right, boss! You fixin’ to get inside that thing?"

The arrival of the former chuck-wagon cook, who was now chef for the Swifts, was always an "occasion," any time, any place. One of Tom’s closest friends, the roly-poly man was known equally for his outgoing manner and his predilection for gaudy western-wear.

As Tom walked over to greet him, the cook. said:

"How come you talkin’ Texas talk, Tom? If’n you’re makin’ fun o’ the Lone Star State, I may jest cut your tabasco ration!"

"Don’t do that, Chow," Tom cried. "I need the tabasco to give me the strength to look at your shirts!"

"Now this’n here," said Chow, "this’n comes from a li’l old shirtmaker outside o’ Pampa. Ordered it off the Net." The shirt featured rows of highly reflective silver scallops against a background of robin’s-egg blue.

Tom pretended to cover his eyes, but Chow continued unfazed. "So’re you really goin’ into the submarine today?"

"Sure am," Tom replied. "First comes the big pressure test. Then if we haven’t sprung any leaks, I’m going to scuba down to her and test the underwater hatchway, which has an emergency mechanism for opening it by hand."

As the tank was filling, Tom had a few bites of the special submarine sandwich the colorful cook had prepared. Though he wasn’t especially hungry, he didn’t want to hurt Chow’s feelings.

"Wanna know the secret of that
yew-
nique flavor, boss?"

"Sure."

"To th’ peanut butter I added jest the littlest scootch o’ chili powder. Mighty rich, if’n you ask me."

"Definitely!" said Tom wanly.

"Now Tom," continued the Texan, "you told me all about your jetmarine, an’ it’s a honey all right, but look here, if you’re goin’ to scout around the Gulf and the Caribbee, won’t you need a galley on board an’ a cook to work her?"

"Sure would like to have you with us, Chow," Tom said affectionately. "But you’d better stay ashore holding a line to pull us out!"

The banter ceased when Sid Baker called out to Tom that the tank was full and ready for pressurization.

"Let’s get started," Tom said excitedly. He then used his televoc to get in touch with two of his special friends in the plant, Arvid Hanson, head of the model-making division, and Wesley Beale, metallurgical engineer and chief of the materials science section. Both had expressed an interest in observing the test and interpreting the results. He also alerted Bud and Mr. Swift that the crucial test was about to begin.

While the others were making their way to the test complex, an overhead crane had lowered the multi-ton steel "lid" onto the tank, which was now filled with water that matched the composition of the oceans. With the lid latched into place by powerful motors, a carbon-steel piston was gradually forced into the waters of the tank by means of a screw-motion ramrod thick as a tree trunk. As more and more water was displaced by the piston, the pressure within the tank rose with aching slowness.

"Pressure equivalent, 500 feet down," Sid called out as Mr. Swift joined the knot of observers gathered next to Tom.

"Everything A-OK?" he asked his son, who gave a vigorous nod in reply.

The pressure climbed, punctuated by Sid’s periodic announcements. One-quarter mile…one mile…two miles…

Wes Beale looked wide-eyed. "How much load do you plan to put on the sub?"

"Well, I
could
shoot for the equivalent of seven miles deep—the bottom of the Mariana Trench!" responded the young inventor. Then, as Wes’s jaw dropped in amazement, he added, "But today I’ll content myself with four miles, about 21,000 feet."

"So how do you know the jetmarine doesn’t look like a squeezed-out toothpaste tube about now?" challenged Bud. "There’s no window on the tank, and no TV monitor."

"We didn’t want to introduce a weak spot into the wall of the tank, and a conventional camera wouldn’t withstand the maximum pressure," Tom explained. "But we’re getting a feed from various instruments inside the jetmarine."

"For example, criss-crossed lasers will tell us if the hull bows-in by as little as three angstroms," added Arv Hanson.

"A hair-breadth?" guessed Bud.

"Try
three ten-billionths
of a meter," said Mr. Swift with a smile.

"Look at it this way, Bud," Tom said. "At the degree of pressure we’re dealing with, by the time you can
see
any deformation of the hull, it’s way too late to do anything about it. The entire jetmarine could be turned into a metal pancake in a few milliseconds."

Bud gulped. "Carry on, Captain!"

A hush fell over the watching group as the pressure levels approached the maximum.

"Brand my fish fritters!" muttered Chow. "Whether or not the sub can take the pressure, I ain’t so sure
I
can!"

"What’s the verdict, Sid?" Tom asked softly.

"Tom," he replied, "the needles haven’t budged from nominal all morning. Are you sure we remembered to plug ’em in?"

The group cheered loudly at Tom’s success.

The first test over, the pressurizing process was reversed. Tom suited up into a scuba suit with airtanks. When the big tank had finally reached near-surface pressure, he awkwardly climbed a ladder onto a catwalk and lowered himself through a sealable access hatch in the tank lid, plunging down into the cool water.

"All okay in there?" came Arv Hanson’s voice over Tom’s mini-headset.

"All okay," Tom answered.

He switched on a pair of tiny flashlamps attached to either side of his faceplate. The jetmarine jumped out of the darkness at him like a lunging shadow. There was no light from its transparent nose, as the interior lights would have compromised the laser setup.

His weight belt keeping him on the bottom of the tank, Tom trudged slowly toward the secondary hatchway in the side of the craft, where he was to test the emergency manual mechanism. He was reaching for the spring-activated latch cover when he paused. A strange sensation swept over him. His right arm seemed stuck in place, floating limply in the water. His lungs seemed unable to draw a full breath.

What’s wrong with me?
he thought, alarmed. With surprising effort, he lifted his left arm. Attached to his forearm were a number of instrument indicators, which Tom glanced over. He gasped—one indicator was in the red zone!

"Hey guys!" Tom exclaimed into his microphone. "The tank pressure’s almost tripled! Ease off!"

He repeated his message several times, increasingly frantic as his legs grew numb and inert. But there was no answer! Tom tried to pivot and make his way to a position beneath the tank hatchway. To his horror his feet refused to respond.

And the tank pressure continued its slow, inexorable rise!

TOM’S BODY was failing him under the effects of pressure, but his mind remained clear.
I can’t make it to the lid hatch,
he thought.
Besides, with this pressure difference the automatic safety lock will have cut in.

He considered the possibility of somehow blocking the pressure piston. But he had nothing available strong enough to resist it—and at any rate, his feet could no longer carry him the required distance.

I can still move my left arm a little,
his thoughts continued.
If I’m going to get out of this alive, it will be with something already in arm’s reach.

Repeating his urgent plea to the surface over and over—but pausing frequently to catch his breath—Tom resumed his original task. By wrenching his shoulder blades and curving his back, he found it easier to lift his left arm and force his hand against the spring release. Working the release with fingers dead as sausages was hard enough, but the real trial came when he had to grasp and pull down the lever behind the protective panel. There seemed to be no way to curl his hand around it. Finally, releasing the tension in his leg muscles, he allowed himself to fall forward against the hull. As hoped the action crunched his fingers against his open palm, with the lever in between.

That’ll have to do,
he thought desperately.
Now the make-or-break test!

With the last of his fading strength, he wrenched his slumping body into a turn. It wasn’t much of a turn, but it managed to pry the hatch lever down and away from its holding clasp. The reward was immediate as a dark, inch-wide strip appeared at the edge of the secondary hatchway, next to the lever mechanism.

It seemed like a journey of a thousand years and a thousand miles to reach that strip of darkness. Tom was able to squeeze his right elbow into it, forcing the hatch to open further. Then came his shoulder; then his chest.

I’m blacking out!
he thought. But just at that moment he realized that his whole body was now within the emergency airlock. The controls were near his faceplate, and he could nudge the system into operation with small movements of his head.

If he didn’t lose consciousness first.

Topside, Bud Barclay forced his eyelids open. His drifting thoughts slowly congealed:
That’s the test complex ceiling.
He groaned and sat upright, the back of his head throbbing from its rendezvous with the concrete floor. Staggering to his feet, he saw Wes Beale leaning against a pylon nearby, barely conscious. The others were littered about the floor like discarded manikins—Damon Swift, Arv Hanson, Chow Winkler, Sid Baker, and several other Swift workers.