Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (11 page)

"Guess so," said his companion, disappointment in his voice. "Let’s look in that last shed, then get out of here."

The last shed was made of metal like the others, and about seven feet square. Using some tools from the jetmarine the boys pried open its lock and stepped inside. There was only a single item within it, but that item made Tom’s heart leap—a cot!

"I’m sure someone was imprisoned here!" he exclaimed.

"If it was Hank Sterling, I’ll bet he found a way to leave a message!" Bud said encouragingly. They frantically scanned the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, and Tom pulled the cushion off the metal frame of the cot and examined it. "Nothing!" he said in disgust.

"Wait, Tom…" cautioned Bud. He was examining a flange in the cot frame that had been covered by the pad. "Look here!"

Some marks had been scratched into the rusty frame, as if by the edge of a coin or the point of a nail. They read "HASNTC" and were followed by several numerals.

"HA S—Hank Sterling!" cried Tom. "And NTC could stand for
Nantic
!"

Bud clapped Tom on the back. "Here’s some more good news, skipper—those numbers match the date the
Nantic
was attacked!"

They returned to the
Nemo
in a run. Now at last they knew Hank Sterling had survived the sinking of the
Nantic
and was probably being held captive, perhaps on the Sea Snipers’ submarine!

After careful decompression, the boys guided the jetmarine back into the underwater channel.

"What if we run into our pal Tentacle Tim again?" asked Bud.

"All we can do is try to slip through his grip," Tom answered.

The darkness suddenly lessened as they emerged from the cave into the aqua-ravine. Before, the crevice had been mostly in shadow, but now the sun was shining down into it, filling it with deep blue-green.

"Oh no!" gasped Bud.

Dozens of giant squid floated, whirled, or jetted through the abyss, their vivid brown and red colorations making them stand out all the more against the charcoal-colored rock. Like the outlaw patrons of a wild west bar, the creatures turned their vast oval eyes toward the intruding
Nemo
. Bud could almost hear the clicking of their parrotlike beaks.

One fellow, the largest of all, darted toward them. In fact, he seemed intent on taking a bite out of the jetmarine’s nose-dome! Bud flinched back—but so did the squid at the same instant, retreating a few yards.

"Am I just plain ugly, or—?"

"I turned up the sonar waves to full blast," explained Tom. "We can’t hear them, but they can
feel
them."

"Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, skipper," said Bud. "I think the squid squad is getting a little perturbed!" Though Bud was joking in his usual way, the situation was like something from a horror movie. The multi-armed creatures began swirling about, as if positioning themselves for a massed attack. Though Tom and Bud knew that the sea-dwellers were almost brainless, the effect was still unnerving.

"Here comes Daddy Longlegs again!" Bud groaned.

At that moment a new player entered the game! A sleek, ribbonlike form shot through the line of squid, aiming directly at the giant menacing the
Nemo
.

"Electric eel!" Tom exclaimed.

At the touch of the eel the squid jerked back and then whirled about, beak snapping furiously. The pointed, daggerlike teeth of the eel raked the squid’s tentacle, and soon the water was turned to a froth of blood and squid-ink.

Tom’s eyes were glued to the sonarscope. "Hang on, Bud," he called. He adjusted the gyros and the deck of the
Nemo
took on an extreme slant, tilting more and more until the jetmarine was almost vertical, nose toward the sky. Tom and Bud were forced to stand on the handrail supports.

Suddenly the sonarscope showed that the battle of the monsters had taken them off to the side for a moment; there was now a clear path through the other squid up to the surface.

Tom gunned the hydraulic jets.
"We’re outta here!"

THE JETMARINE took off like a rocket—literally! She roared upward through the momentary gap in the "squid squad" line, turning the rock face of the undersea channel to a blur. Through the observation dome the glimmering surface above seemed like a crystalline wall which the
Nemo
was approaching at race-car speed.

The craft broke the surface like a leaping dolphin, jetting a full twenty feet into the sunlight before sliding back down, tail first, into the waters of the Gulf. If not for the gyros and the automatic guidance program Tom had punched in, the jetmarine might have landed in a belly-flop that could have broken it apart.

As it was, the shock was powerful and Tom and Bud almost lost their grip. But the sub reentered the waters smoothly and leveled itself. Tom hove about, speeding out of the Spaniel Island subsurface channel, and in moments the
Nemo
was again cleaving the waves—from beneath them!

The two submariners caught their breaths, exchanging glances but no words. But presently Bud said, "Tom, that eel—do you suppose—?"

"The same one," Tom declared, "the one from the
Vostok
. It must have followed along in our wake."

"It must’ve liked you, pal!"

"Sure," responded Tom, "as a snack."

Amazingly, only a few hours had yet passed since the launching of the sub at Key West. Before leaving, Tom had told the others at SONRC that he would be maintaining radio silence for security purposes, not wishing to give away his position. Now, however, he saw no harm in surfacing and radioing that all was well and the jetmarine’s shakedown cruise a success.

"Tom, that’s just fantastic!"
came the radioed response from Kaye
. "Any sign of… anything?"

"Just a lot of water," replied Tom evasively. "But listen, Graham, I think I’ll spend a few more days testing out the
Nemo
in this area before we head back up north. Could you relay the message to my father? I’ll contact him directly later in the day."

"Sure will,"
Kaye responded.
"You won’t have any trouble reaching him when you do—he’s flying down on the jet that was to bring your remaining workers back to Shopton."

This news surprised Tom, as it hadn’t been a part of their original plans. Was there a new development?

"Where to now, squid kid?" asked Bud after Tom had signed off.

"Except for Guantanamo in Cuba, the nearest U.S. military presence in these waters is in Puerto Rico," said Tom. "I think it would be safest to berth the jetmarine there for the night. It’d also make it easier to give the details of what we’ve found to the authorities without broadcasting them openly."

"I know," Bud commented.
"And
you don’t want to leave the area and miss a chance to rescue Hank Sterling."

Tom nodded; his best friend knew him well. "But I wonder if Dad intends for me to meet him at Key West?" he added.

Tom piloted the jetmarine south through the Yucatan Channel, southeast past the Cayman Islands and Jamaica, then almost due west, skirting Haiti and the Dominican Republic en route to Puerto Rico. Nearing the southwestern coast of the American island, the
Nemo
surfaced again and Tom radioed his father, who had arrived at SONRC.

"I’ve invited the Enterprises employees who remained at Key West for the jetmarine launch to fly with me to Kingston, Jamaica, for a short vacation at company expense," Damon Swift explained.

"What a great idea!" Tom burst out. "They really deserve it."

"I’d like you to join me there, Tom," Mr. Swift continued. "Your jetmarine should be secure in Puerto Rico—I understand you’ve already made arrangements with the Coast Guard facility at Punta Brea. You and Bud can unwind while you tell me about your experimental findings. Plenty for your Mom and the girls to do, too."

"Girls?"

"Oh, I thought I mentioned it—Sandy invited Bashalli Prandit to join us. I assumed you wouldn’t mind."

"No, no, of course not," said Tom, "but Dad—"

"What’s that, son? Sorry… losing your signal…"

Tom hung up the microphone, looking both amused and chagrined. "Guess he’s on to
that
trick," Tom remarked with a mock grumble. Bud only laughed.

Tom and Bud spent the night at Punta Brea, berthing the
Nemo
at the secure and guarded Coast Guard facility, now operated by the new Department of Homeland Security. They spent much of the evening at a hastily arranged meeting with Commander Adland, the facility’s commanding officer, and officials from the U.S. Navy and the FBI, recounting their exploration of the Sea Snipers base—including the all-important finding that Hank Sterling had survived the sinking of the
Nantic
and presumably was being held captive. Tom also contacted Admiral Krevitt before retiring. The Admiral promised he would relay Tom’s news concerning the
Vostok
to Dr. Nemastov.

The next morning Tom and Bud were flown by Navy jet to Kingston, Jamaica. At the Kingston International Airport, colorful and bustling with activity, they were greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Swift, Sandy, and Bashalli.

"It’s good to see you, Bash," said Tom warmly. "I’m glad you could join us."

"And
I
am glad to be joined," she replied. "My little nephew Rafir will take my place at The Glass Cat. The coffee will not suffer much."

On the way back to the hotel where the entire Shopton party was staying, Tom and Bud provided a carefully abbreviated version of their morning adventures, not wishing to raise false hopes regarding Hank. But at the hotel Tom spoke at length to his father and provided the omitted details.

"It’s wonderful—unbelievable—that Hank may still be alive!" exclaimed Tom’s father. "But he’s still in terrible danger."

"Will you telephone Mrs. Sterling, Dad?"

"Not just yet," Damon Swift replied after a pause. "Let’s allow the authorities 48 hours to act, now that they have at least a notion of the route of our enemies. I think we’ll know a great deal more very soon."

As Tom and Mr. Swift chatted, they greeted the various members of the Shopton party, including Arvid Hanson, Wes Beale, and, at length
and
breadth, Chow Winkler.

"Chow," said Mr. Swift, "we’ve only been in Jamaica for a couple of hours, and it looks like you’ve already shopped Kingston through and through!"

"What, this?" asked Chow with a lopsided grin, gesturing at his shirt of iridescent colors. "Weren’t nothin’ to it! Bought it at a stand smack inside the terminal."

"I hope you wear it a lot, pard," said Tom.

"Ya like it?"

"Sure," he responded. "It reminds me of some colorful long-armed friends we made down on the bottom of the sea."

"Hmm," said Chow uncertainly. "If you mean fish, I’m gonna take that as a compliment. I love fish, fixed up Texas-style."

Tom and his father relaxed together in the lobby for another hour, sipping refreshments. Then a young bellboy in a snappy uniform came up to them and flashed a broad smile. "Mister Sirs, are you the Swifts?" he asked.

"Yes," Tom responded.

"There is a man in the lounge who asks to see you, both two."

"A man?" repeated Tom’s father. "Did he give his name?"

"Yes he did," said the boy. "And I should tell you, it is called Mister Dansitt."

The two Swifts looked at one another in amazement.
"Sidney Dansitt here!"
exclaimed Damon Swift. "Does he think he’ll be safe from the authorities?"

"He may be just taunting us," Tom said. "But the lounge is a pretty public place, Dad—it might be worth our whiles to see what he wants. Maybe he knows by now that we’ve been to Spaniel Island."

"Yes!" agreed Mr. Swift. "He may want to offer some sort of deal." He turned to the boy. "Please tell the man we will see him right away. Here is something for your trouble." He gave the boy some coins.

"Thank you, sir," said the boy, hurrying off.

After a whispered discussion, Tom and his father crossed the lobby and entered the lounge. Though not crowded, several other guests were present, as well as a bartender.

"I don’t see him," said Tom.

"Say there, over here!" came a voice across the room. A tall, middle-aged man waved them over to an empty table. He rose and stuck out a hand in the direction of Mr. Swift. "George Dansitt!" he said heartily. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Then you’re—" began Tom.

"That’s right, Sid’s old man. McIntosh and Dansitt Shipping. Come sit down, you two."

Tom and Mr. Swift settled down at the table with Mr. Dansitt. They were more than a little dazzled by this turn of events.

Dansitt leaned forward on the table, looking at each of them in turn. "I know my boy has caused you some trouble," he said. "You have my apology. I want to make amends however I can."

"Then you’re aware of Sidney’s behavior?" Tom asked.

"I am. It’s really something, isn’t it?" Dansitt let out a long sigh. "His mother and I can’t account for it. Suddenly he stopped calling, stopped writing, stopped visiting. Even changed to a different program at school. But who can understand kids, eh?"

"Was there any sign of trouble at school?" inquired Mr. Swift. "Anything in his personal life?"

"Nothing I can think of," replied George Dansitt. "He has a good life—always happy."

"Sometimes," Tom began cautiously, "problems develop that are hard to talk about, even to—"

"Sid had a great relationship with me, and with his mother!"

"Yes, sir!" Tom gulped. "I’m sure he did."

Mr. Dansitt tapped on the table with his thumb for a moment. "People have been going around asking questions about him," he said. "Under the circumstances I suppose that’s appropriate—but I wish you had come to me first."

"I don’t know which ‘people’ you’re referring to," Mr. Swift retorted coolly, "but you must realize that your son has behaved recklessly, and even endangered my son’s life!"

"Yeah, I know," replied Dansitt, his voice dropping. "And the FBI came to our home in Baltimore to grill us. Sidney is suspected of being part of that blackout gang, apparently. No one will tell us why, exactly."