Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (10 page)

Suddenly Bud realized his error. "What a dope I am!" he snarled, and switched his flashlamps off. As he had anticipated, he could now detect Tom’s own flashlamps off in the distance.

"Tom!" he cried, forcing his way forward. He could make out the bulk of Tom’s suit, standing placidly with its arms extended to full length but hanging limply. As Bud approached the other suit, he was overcome with dread—no one was visible inside the view-dome!

He can’t have gotten out!
Bud’s confused thoughts shouted.
Nothing can have gotten in—could it?

He rapped upon the side of Tom’s Fat Man with his arm. Then, eerily, the rap was repeated in perfect rhythm—and not by Bud!

Despite the gyros Bud almost fell backwards as Tom rose into view behind the dome. His forehead was bloodied, and he had clearly been crumpled at the bottom of the suit below the dome’s lower edge.

"Tom, can you hear me?" Bud shouted into his suit mike. Immediately, Tom nodded. But when he tried to respond, no message came through.

"Okay, skipper," Bud said in calmer tones. "Something’s wrong with your sonophone. You can hear me, but I can’t hear you." As both boys knew ASL—American Sign Language—they were able to communicate visually.

I’m okay now,
Tom signed.
There was a shock and I hit my head.

"I’ll help you come back in," Bud responded.

No, need to finish. Come along if you want,
was Tom’s reply. He would clearly brook no further discussion.

Overcoming his trepidation, Bud followed along as Tom completed his brief survey of the
Vostok
. Much of the craft was inaccessible, but they were able to visit the reactor room, engine room, and what appeared to be a communications room, outfitted with dials and rows of old-fashioned monitor screens that weirdly reflected their suit lights. Everywhere they found the pitiful signs of humanity interrupted without warning.

As they were about to leave, Tom tapped on Bud’s suit and gestured at a portion of the bulkhead. Bud could make out a light-colored streak, about a yard long and a few inches wide, completely devoid of aquatic growth.

Visitors,
signed Tom.
Recent.

They jetted back to the
Nemo
. Exiting the airlock and quickly stripping off his Fat Man, Bud hastened to free Tom. He accomplished this in a few moments. The young inventor grinned in relief.

"Wow!
That
was a close one," he said. "Thanks for the rescue. I mightn’t have come to for a long time if you hadn’t come knocking."

"Looks like old Davy Jones doesn’t like intruders." Bud managed a grin. "But what happened in there?"

"A couple things," replied Tom. "First, I think I must have been having some trouble with the oxygen feed—probably something minor, but I recall feeling strange and lightheaded. Then, in the missile storage bay, I disturbed something when I was flailing around."

"You mean you knocked something over?"

"No, I mean I got one of the bay’s homesteaders good and mad! Suddenly something long and dark, about as thick as your arm, came whipping out toward me. I remember a sort of tingling all through my body, and my muscles seized-up—and then you awoke me."

Bud whistled. "An electric eel!"

"Or something like it," agreed Tom. "And oversized, too."

"Is that what caused that mark you showed me?" asked Bud.

Tom shook his head. "No way. It was caused by metal against metal, probably within the last six months. We’re not the first topsiders to have entered the
Vostok
since she sank, Bud. And it looks to me her uranium stores are a little below what Dr. Nemastov was expecting."

"The Sea Snipers!"

"More than likely," said Tom. "I think we’d better head over to Spaniel Island and hope we’ve beat out the opposition!"

This time Tom didn’t blow the ballast tanks but set off at jet speed, angling the hydraulic jets and adjusting the gyros so that the
Nemo
would climb toward the surface. As the craft cleared the edge of the undersea river valley, Tom turned her prow toward tiny Spaniel Island and throttled forward. The jetmarine was off like a shot.

Bud munched a sandwich, reading the expression on Tom’s face. "I get it," Bud said. "You wanted more time to study that valley."

Tom gave a rueful grin. "I’m always on the lookout for new ways to get into trouble. I was just thinking the valley might a good spot to solve the problem of the phantom bottom."

"You mentioned that before," Bud said. "It’s news to me that phantoms
have
bottoms!"

Tom laughed. "Well, you asked for it, so here it is. For years, when fathometers on ships have been taking depth soundings, they often pick up a false bottom before getting the actual depth. This phantom bottom is like a mass that lies somewhere between the real bottom and the surface."

"What’s the mass made of?"

"Some scientists say fish," Tom explained. "Others shrimp, and still others squid. I’m a ‘squid’ man myself."

Bud looked blank but interested. "Why?"

"Because the phantom bottom can change its position in the span of one day from three hundred to eighteen hundred feet or more," Tom explained. "The squid are better able than fish or shrimp to make this great shift. Change in pressure doesn’t bother them. And they have their own jet-propulsion system, too—like the
Nemo
’s."

"I see," said Bud.

"With this sub," Tom went on, "we can go to any depth and find out for ourselves. But it’ll have to wait."

The two submariners fell silent as the
Nemo
glided along at a moderate depth.

"Sonar showing something up ahead," said Bud presently.

Tom checked the readings. "It’s the island."

"Will we surface right away?"

"No," Tom replied. "We can pull in close, but I want to look it over by periscope first."

Although the jetmarine’s Tomasite coating would prevent its being picked up on sonar or radar, Tom was concerned that a sensitive hydrophone might detect the whir of the
Nemo
’s engines. After picking up some speed, he rose to within a few feet of the surface and cut the engines, allowing the craft to coast closer to the island on momentum. He then raised the periscope—a braid of optical fibers enclosed within a Tomasite tube that was no thicker than a soda straw. When small capillaries in the tube were pressurized, it became as rigid as a steel beam.

Tom leaned into the binocular eyepiece and adjusted the focus. He could see, in a single glance, the whole of Spaniel Island. It was exactly as described—a flat mass of rock and grasses dotted with a few wild palms, and no sign of habitation. The island was surrounded by tumbled sea boulders, sending up plumes of feathery spray when the waves dashed against them.

Seeing nothing, and detecting no sign of electrical activity with their instruments, the boys decided to surface and go ashore. This turned out to be a difficult project, as the seabed around the island was too shallow for miles around to accommodate the
Nemo
. But they finally discovered one area where a rocky outcropping on the island plunged down into a long and deep seabed ravine that formed a suitable access channel for the jetmarine.

The
Nemo
inched up close to shore and surfaced. Tom anchored the sub. As they were still separated from the beach by a strip of water, Tom deployed a bridge-like gangway that the jetmarine carried folded compactly next to the Fat Man suits. They crossed over and set foot on the warm, pebbly sand.

"You’re
sure
this is the resort with the tennis courts and free massage?" remarked Bud ironically, looking around.

"Welcome to Spaniel Island!" said Tom.

They walked the perimeter of the islet, then criss-crossed through the middle. There was no sign that any human being had ever left a footprint on the sands.

"Bermuda it’s not," Bud commented.

"I
was
expecting a little more," acknowledged Tom, "like a helicopter pad and maybe a shed to keep the odd torpedo out of the sun."

"The Snipers could still base their sub here, Tom," Bud pointed out. "That cut in the seabed that we’re floating in looks mighty deep. Maybe there’s an underwater opening into a secret sub base beneath the island!"

"Could be," Tom said. "It happens in
books
. For the sake of Hank Sterling, we ought to take a look. So it’s down we go, matey!"

Tom and Bud reentered the
Nemo
, and prepared to descend. But Tom suddenly called Bud to the sonarscope.

"The phantom bottom!" Tom said excitedly. "Like an overlay on top of the echoes from the real bottom. We’ll solve the mystery after all!"

The jetmarine began a slow descent, and Tom noticed that the "bottom" was keeping its distance.

"They’re probably afraid of the sea lamp," he declared, switching it off. The boys waited for their eyes to grow accustomed to the semi-darkness of the narrow crevice, allowing the sonar system to guide the craft safely.

"What’s that?" called out Bud. Tiny patches of light, all moving together like Christmas bulbs on a string, were appearing out of the darkness all around them, swaying this way and that.

Suddenly the hull reverberated with a strange sound, as if something were being dragged across it. Tom switched on the exterior lamp and the two gasped in unison.

"It’s a giant squid!"
Tom cried. "More than one!"

"Big as a submarine," Bud groaned. "Look at the size of its eye—like a barrel top! We’d better rise up and out of here!"

Tom mused for a second. "Despite their proportions, these creatures aren’t usually aggressive. I think it’ll just get out of our way."

"You’re a nice guy, Tom," Bud said fearfully, "but aren’t you carrying your love of animals too far? This thing could’ve been trained as an attack squid!"

Tom touched the controls at his finger tips and the jetmarine started forward.

"I think this will scare him," Tom said coolly. But he had not reckoned on the reaction of the creature to being cornered within the ravine. With a vicious, lightninglike movement the squid lashed a tentacle against the nose of the
Nemo
. The jetmarine shuddered under the impact, throwing both boys to the floor.

"He’ll break through!" Bud cried as the monster closed in around the bow-dome with all its crushing tentacles. Using its own water-propulsion jet to twist and pivot, the squid seemed intent on slamming the
Nemo
against the craggy, unyeilding walls of the undersea crevice!

TOM AND BUD braced themselves, fully expecting to hear the protest of metal against rock. But to their shocked surprise, the squid released the craft and continued its turn.

"I don’t get it," Bud whispered as the weird sea creature jetted away out of sight.

Tom switched off both the exterior and interior lights. The
Nemo
was in darkness. The jetmarine’s cockpit was illuminated only by the faint glow of the instrument panel. "The squid’s thrown us into some kind of cave," Tom said, examining the sonarscope monitor. "It extends on a little ways, then widens out."

"An underwater base!"

"We’ll see."

Tom cautiously applied the hydraulic jets, looking for a sign of light either above or in front of them. But there was only complete darkness.

"We’re in the open area now," he said presently. "The surface is ten feet above us."

"Ten
feet?" challenged Bud. "We went down a lot further than that!"

"Yep—which means
this
surface is the bottom of some kind of trapped air bubble underneath Spaniel Island," said Tom with growing excitement. "Bud, you may have been right! And this may be where the Sea Snipers have imprisoned Hank Sterling!"

The
Nemo
broke the surface and floated motionlessly in the utter blackness. "The air pressure’s high," Tom noted, reading the instruments. "It has to equal the pressure of the water it’s pushing aside, of course. But it won’t hurt us if we spend some extra time in the compression chamber both coming and going."

Presently, their lungs and bodies prepared for the change in pressure, Tom and Bud climbed out through the topside hatch. All was darkness.

"These guys must have imported some L.A. smog to make them feel at home," whispered Bud. The air was breathable but permeated by a pungent petroleum-like odor and thick with moisture.

"Probably trapped exhaust fumes from the engines of their sub," Tom replied softly. "And I’m glad to smell it, because it means the Snipers aren’t in residence at the moment—or they’d have turned on their air-pump system."

Ready to throw themselves back in the jetmarine at the first sign of hostility, Tom and Bud switched on their portable flashlamps. The lamps could be adjusted to produce an illuminated area of almost any diameter, even at great distances, though their beams did not dazzle the eye.

Playing the beams back and forth they began to create a mental picture of their surroundings. The
Nemo
had surfaced in a small lagoon, completely enclosed by an arching ceiling of rock. Though the main part of the cavern appeared to be natural, it was obvious that a section of the wall had been hollowed out artificially, producing a flat shelf only a foot above the still, glassy waters. Docking equipment, including cranes, lined the shelf; further back were several small sheds and piles of containers, including barrels of diesel fuel. An electric generator stood among the other items.

"Nobody home!" Bud said.

"But I’ve got the distorter on just in case," Tom commented. "Now let’s pay a visit to shore."

The young inventor had set the jetmarine’s controls to respond to a remote-control transmitter which he held in his hand. At his signal, the
Nemo
moved toward the dock area a foot at a time, turning its length parallel to it just before gently bumping against it. The boys easily jumped down onto the surface of hewn rock.

They quickly surveyed what they could of this subsurface pirates’ cove, but they found little of use.

"I’d say this was mostly just a warehouse for them," Bud observed. "Maybe a place to refuel and repair their sub."