Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (8 page)

"You mean besides the usual? Nothing."

"Exactly," said Tom. "And yet it hasn’t been two months since the
Sky Queen
was stopping traffic for miles around. It’s amazing how quickly people can adapt to things they used to think were impossible!"

After they had gained ten thousand feet of altitude, Tom applied forward thrust and the plane headed for its destination. Within half an hour the dim grayness of the Atlantic came into view.

"We’re almost there," Bud chuckled, "and believe me, the sooner we get this precious baby down in dry dock, the better."

Tom gave Bud an apologetic look. "Actually, pal, we’ve got more than an hour of flying left before we set down."

Bud’s eyebrows leapt upward in surprise. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"I meant to tell you right after we took off. Dad and I decided to launch the jetmarine from our Key West facility, where Graham Kaye’s videophone setup is located. No one else was to know until after the
Queen
was underway."

"I guess it makes sense," Bud acknowledged. "You’re really keeping Dansitt and his goons in the dark!"

"Dad and I hate to mislead the hundreds of Swift employees who are dependable," Tom said, "but it’s obvious that information about our plans is getting out
somehow
."

Tom’s further thoughts were interrupted by a voice in his flight headset. "Swift control to
Sky Queen!"

"This is
Sky Queen,
Swift control."

"Tom, an Admiral Krevitt is asking to be patched through to you."

"Go ahead," said Tom.

The Admiral came on line, relayed from ONDAR headquarters in Washington DC, which the
Sky Queen
was now approaching in its southward flight. "Tom, we’ve come up with some significant information on this person Chilcote. Dr. Herman Chilcote was a British national who worked on a joint British-American defense project in the early 80’s. After three years, he plain disappeared without a trace one day! Not a sign of him since."

"What was the nature of the project?" Tom asked.

"Do you recall my mentioning that the government had once worked on blackout technology? Well, this project was what I had in mind. Stimulation of the brain centers from a distance by phased electromagnetic pulses! But they could never make it work, and in fact the people involved came to believe that Chilcote had falsified some of his reported findings. He was on the verge of dismissal when he disappeared."

"I see," said Tom. "It sounds like he wasn’t entirely bogus after all."

"Apparently so," agreed Krevitt. "Now as to the other reference you gave us, Rosello, we have quite a number of people by that name in our files—and of course several whole countries are full of ’em! But nothing stands out in the present connection."

Tom thanked the Admiral and broke contact. The young inventor felt he was slightly ahead of the game—but not by much.

"The answer’s down on the bottom of the sea, I guess," said Bud. "But we’ll find it, Tom!"

Occupied with his thoughts, the time seemed to pass quickly for Tom. He was almost startled when Bud noted that the Flying Lab had crossed the long string of the Florida Keys and was ready to begin its approach to Key West. Five minutes later the crew were debarking onto the tarmac of the small private airfield maintained by Swift Enterprises at their Key West facility, the Swift Oceanic and Nautical Research Center. Even making a delicate vertical touchdown, the
Sky Queen
barely fit into the minute airfield.

After greeting Graham Kaye and the Director of SONRC, Dr. Eileen Mattengar, Tom turned to the task of the unloading and emplacement of the jetmarine.

"Shall we unload immediately, Tom?" one of the men asked.

"The quicker the better. We’ll get the jetmarine into the dry dock and slap on that camouflage before people are awake."

The young inventor watched with satisfaction as the special cranes, quickly reassembled, deftly slid the atomic submarine from the hangar of the plane, swung it across the sand that bordered the airfield, and cradled the jetmarine in the dry dock.

At that moment the camouflage crew sprang into action, unrolling prepared tarps from the Flying Lab. Minutes later Bud cried admiringly:

"Jetz! That covering looks just like a piece of seashore."

Tom agreed. "Any roving pirate will miss it."

After dismissing the unneeded Swift employees, who were to pilot the
Sky Queen
back to Shopton, Tom spent the balance of the day personally checking parts and supplies on his submarine. A quonset hut was set up next to the dry dock for the protected storage of parts, and to serve as temporary quarters. As usual, Chow was on hand to provide a tasty lunch, sumptuous supper, and tart advice. A call to Harlan Ames revealed that the incarcerated carjackers had volunteered no information, but were demanding legal representation.

In the evening Tom reviewed with Bud the intricate handling of the submarine. Standing before the myriad-lighted control panel, Tom said finally:

"Enough for now, pal, or we’ll see blinking lights in our dreams. Come on topside. Let’s hit the sack."

"Not me," Bud protested. "I’m sleeping right here—baby sitter for your brain child." He stroked the periscope handle and grinned.

"Okay, if you want to," Tom replied. "I’m just as bad—I’m sleeping in the shack twenty feet away!"

"Adios!"

The SONRC compound was afforded both radar and sonar protection that encompassed the inlet as well, and Tom felt that he had set up reasonable security. Two roving guards, equipped with televoc pins tuned to Tom’s receiver, were instructed to awaken him if they saw anything suspicious.

Tom kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of his bunk. Except for the steady breathing of the other remaining employees from Shopton, it was just as quiet inside as out. The stars were a glowing milky tapestry, and the sea murmured not far away from the inlet where the dry dock had been set up.
So far, things have gone well,
Tom thought.
My enemies have been shaken off, or at least they’ve lost the trail.
He stretched out on the bunk.
Maybe we’ll still find Hank Sterling alive. Maybe.

In a short time Tom was asleep, thoroughly exhausted.

It was after midnight when Tom jolted upright on his bunk. An alarm was blaring in the distance! He shook his head, trying to clear it.

His televoc beeped and a frantic voice came on. "Tom Swift!" shouted the startled voice of one of the patrolling guards. "I see something—something’s out there!"

"Where?" Tom demanded.

"In the water, the ocean—it’s moving this—"

The warning was cut short by an earth-shaking explosion as a crimson flash illuminated the shore. The ground under the quonset hut shook as if it had been caught up in the fierce anger of an earthquake, and the canvas floor was lifted like the back of a spitting cat. Tom and his friends were knocked from their bunks by the concussion.

Had the jetmarine exploded?

The quonset hut was full of confused exclamations. "What happened? Anybody hurt?" the men cried.

"I’m OK, OK here!" came a chorus of replies, but none of them revealed the cause of the explosion.

"Follow me!" Tom ordered, grabbing a powerful flashlamp. "But keep low! The jetmarine! Oh, I hope Bud—"

Tom frantically scrambled out of the hut ahead of the others and aimed his flashlamp toward the dry dock. A dark curving shape was illuminated. The sub was unharmed!

"Good night, what was—?"

"Get down, Bud!" cried Tom, seeing Bud pushing through the flap in the camouflage which covered the topside hatchway of the jetmarine. Bud ducked, rolled, took a leap, and in an instant was crouched at Tom’s side.

"Tom, is everyone all right?" It was Dr. Mattengar on the televoc, calling from the lab compound a quarter-mile distant. "Some fast-moving object penetrated our radar-sonar perimeter and exploded inside the inlet. It must have been a torpedo!"

So that was the alarm,
Tom thought. He reassured Dr. Mattengar, then attempted to contact the two roving guards, remembering that one had been cut off in mid-sentence.

"We’re both fine," was the reply. "I’m the one who saw it out in the water—Eduardo. Just a thick white streak of foam heading toward the shore."

As the minutes passed and no further intrusions occurred, Tom decided to risk illuminating the area so as to survey the damage. Arv Hanson clicked on a floodlight atop a nearby pole. The yellow glow spread over a wide area. As the group fanned out to investigate further, Tom and Bud peered beneath the camouflage.

"Is she all right?" Hanson called out.

Tom waved back at him and shouted, "Looks fine!"

"But what caused the explosion, Tom?" Bud asked in a quiet voice.

"We don’t know yet," Tom said grimly. "But it was definitely some kind of attack!"

The other searchers presently informed Tom that they had found the site of the blast. It was down the shore of the inlet a short distance. One of the men trotted back to the hut and led the way along the inlet, toward the sea. Soon they came to the mouth of a narrow reed-filled creek. Tom could see that black mud had been showered all over the banks.

"There’s the spot!" Tom declared, spotting a gaping hole in the creek bank. Scattered about were innumerable shrapnel-like pieces of metal, some bearing traces of letters and numbers.

"A torpedo, all right!" exclaimed Bud.

Tom clenched his fists and looked out toward the dark ocean. "It seems the enemy doesn’t just want the sub," he said. "They want it in pieces!"

Arvid Hanson and the Swift Enterprises crew urged the two boys to get some sleep, but this proved to be impossible to do. Both Tom and Bud tossed restlessly until dawn. Finally Tom arose and hurried out to the jetmarine, near to which Bud Barclay was pacing up and down.

"Bud," he said, joining his friend, "I have an idea. Let’s assume that it
was
the pirate sub that fired the torpedo at us, the same sub they use to attack the ships. She’s probably of conventional design, not an atomic; the use of contraband atomic materials would expose the Snipers to too much risk of being traced. If they have a base on or around Spaniel Island, the jetmarine’d beat her with ease and be there waiting for her!"

"Terrific idea!" Bud agreed with enthusiasm. "We might even find Hank Sterling there! When do we leave?"

"Within the hour," Tom replied. "By the way, I’ve plotted a course that will take us right over the
Vostok
’s estimated position. If we make good time, as I expect, it won’t hurt to pause for a couple hours to carry out that part of our mission. And it might be an important thing to do."

"Why?" Bud asked.

"Because I’m sure these things are all tied together somehow—the sunken sub and the blackout attackers. It might be wise to pick up some clues before we confront the pirates."

Making miracles with a portable propane cookstove, Chow Winkler had prepared breakfast for them. As they were eating, the cook answered the ringing telephone. "It’s fer you, Tom," he said. "I’ll keep the flapjacks warm."

The caller proved to be Harlan Ames, who had received Tom’s preliminary report on the torpedo explosion and was calling for additional details.

"It throws me that they know our every move," Tom said hotly. "The only way they could know we were launching from Key West would be from one of the small group of trusted Swift employees that flew here with us, or the SONRC people, and I just can’t accept that."

"I know how you feel," remarked Ames sympathetically. "On our end here, there’s nothing new. As you know, Sidney Dansitt and his jet have completely flown the coop."

"How about Chilcote and Rosello?"

"We still don’t know who or what ‘Rosello’ might be. All I have on Chilcote is a very old report that he was thought to be purchasing electronic equipment in Trinidad. Not much—but it does suggest that he’s been working in your general part of the world."

Before boarding the jetmarine, Tom made one final call from a computer terminal in the SONRC building. Despite the earliness of the hour, he wanted to see if Rita Scheering had any new information for him.

"I wish I did, hon," she said over their webcam connection, clad in a robe. "So where are you now? That’s not your lab in the background."

"I’m where we’re launching the new sub," Tom replied. "We’ll be taking a look at your mystery area."

"What if they hit you with that blackout machine of theirs?"

"I don’t think their method will work under water," said Tom. "And when we surface, I’ll be protected by a new invention of mine, a distorter that should jam their pulsator."

She wished Tom luck.

Half an hour later Tom and Bud were ready to commence their voyage and hastened to the submarine. To their surprise, Chow had arranged for a christening. He stood with a large bottle of ginger ale in his hand, a broad grin on his broad face.

"This here li’l ole sub’s jest
got
to have a name," he announced. "I mean, ‘SE117JM’ is not the sort o’ thing a mother’d call her baby. How’s the
Seaweed Stallion
sound to you, Tom?"

Not wanting to offend Chow, Tom hesitated. Seeing his dilemma, Wesley Beale spoke up.

"Say, Tom, if you’re taking suggestions, how about calling her the
Atomic Squid?"

This set off a good-humored competition. Several other names even less likely were tossed around. Finally Tom held up his hands. "Folks, I think I’ll just go with the name I had in mind all along. I want to call her the
Nemo,
after the captain of the submarine
Nautilus
in the Jules Verne novel."

The announcement was met with applause, and Chow handed the bottle to Tom. But the young inventor, grinning, returned it and said:

"You do the christening, Chow."

Proudly the loyal cook stood by as Tom and Bud shook hands with Dr. Mattengar, Graham Kaye, several members of the SONRC staff, and Tom’s own friends from Shopton. Then, with a final wave, Tom and Bud climbed aboard, squeezing their way past the Fat Man suits to the transparent-walled control cabin at the prow. The camouflage cover having already been removed, the lines were cast aside. Tom’s atomic submarine was ready to start her maiden voyage!