the _S-18_ was going to be undermanned, but then the only diving they
intended to do would be at the actual scene of the salvage operations.
"This torpedo compartment will be made into a diving room," went on
Pat. "A special bulkhead will be built to reinforce the regular one and
a door cut in the side of the hull through which the diver can walk
when we settle down on the bottom beside the Southern Queen. If we find
the treasure it can be placed directly in this special room, the diver
can climb in after, and up we'll go."
The description sounded simple enough but Tim had misgivings that the
actual operation might be a little more complicated.
They left the forward torpedo room and started back to the control
room. In the former crew's quarters, Pat tapped the steel deck.
"The storage batteries which operate the electric motors are under
here. It's just too bad for us if water gets to them while we're down
in the bottom. Then there's chlorine gas and unless we get up in a
hurry, the party's over."
"You're certainly painting a cheerful picture of this trip," said Tim.
"I'm making it just as bad as I can," grinned Pat, "but you don't seem
to scare much."
"It's a good thing you can't see how fast my pulse is running. Just one
more thing I want to know right now. Where do we eat aboard this tin
fish?"
"A newspaper reporter would think of that," chuckled Pat, "As a matter
of fact the galley will be installed in the rear torpedo room. The
entire crew will eat and sleep there and rations won't be anything
fancy."
A watchman at the shipyard boarded the _S-18_ and informed Tim that Mr.
Ford wanted to talk to him by telephone.
Tim hastened out of the submarine and followed the watchman to his
shanty near the main gate of the big yard.
"I'm at the office of the Sea King Airplane Company on Lower Broadway,"
said Ford. "Come over as soon as possible and we'll make the final
decision on the type of plane we're going to take with us."
Tim promised to get across the river as rapidly as possible and ran
back to the _S-18_. Shouting down the main hatch, he informed Pat that
he was leaving. Then he hastened outside, flagged a cruising taxi, and
sped toward the office of the airplane company.
The head of the expedition was waiting for him in the main show room,
where several seaplanes were on display. He introduced Tim to the
company's sales manager and they plunged into a discussion of detail.
"What do you think of this type of plane?" Ford asked Tim, pointing to
the nearest one on the floor.
"It looks sturdy enough to me," replied the flying reporter. "What
about the speed?"
"It will cruise comfortably at 130 and can be pushed up to around 145,"
replied the sales manager. "The wings are hinged and can be folded back
along the fuselage."
"Which will mean a saving of space, an important factor with us," put
in Ford. "Can you give us an actual demonstration?"
"It's a little late to reach the plant out on Long Island in time for
trial flights this afternoon. Couldn't we arrange it tomorrow morning?"
Ford agreed and they arranged to meet at the office again at nine the
next day.
"We'll take that type if it proves up to expectations after Murphy has
made several test trips," he said.
"I've a great many things remaining on my list to do for today," said
Ford as they left the office, "and I'm a little hesitant about leaving
Pat alone on the _S-18_ all night. Of course the Laidlaw yard has
plenty of watchmen but you never can tell what Sladek may attempt. I'd
feel a little better if you would take your duffle and go across the
river and spend the night with Pat."
"I might just as well get used to sleeping on the _S-18_ now as later,"
said Tim. "I'll get my things and be over at the yard in less than an
hour."
The flying reporter checked out of the hotel where they had registered
that morning and stopped at an army goods store where he purchased
three blankets and two kits of utensils. Then he taxied over to
Brooklyn, stopped at a food store to lay in a supply of cold meat,
bread, butter, potato chips, a sack of fruit and some small chocolate
cakes. His arms were filled when he finally reached the gate of the
shipyard and was admitted.
"You're just in time. I was getting ready to close the gate for the
night," the watchman informed him. "Mr. Ford has given strict orders
about admitting anyone after six o'clock."
"Two of us are to stay aboard the _S-18_ tonight to see that nothing
happens," said Tim.
"There'll be no one getting through this gate," said the watchman
firmly, but he was an elderly man and Tim surmised that he might enjoy
an occasional nap in the darker hours of the night.
Shouting for Pat to come on deck, Tim threw down the packages of food,
the blankets and then his own traveling bag, finally scrambling down
the ladder himself.
"You look like a land crab when it comes to getting down a ladder
gracefully," chuckled the red-haired Pat. "Of course, there's just a
chance you may learn while you're on this trip."
"You may have the laugh on me when it comes to getting around in a
submarine, but wait until I get you into the air. Believe me I'll show
you a trick or two in an airplane."
"Which is just what you won't do," countered Pat. "I know when I'm well
enough off and the _S-18_ suits me. No wings, thank you."
With dusk softening the hard outlines of the shipyard, Tim descended
into the interior of the _S-18_, where the bright glow of the electrics
dispelled the gloom.
"Ford send you back to keep me company or is he afraid we may have
visitors?" asked Pat as they placed Tim's duffle in the crew's quarters.
"Both. He isn't going to take any chances on accidents if it can be
avoided. The watchman at the main gate told me that strict orders had
been issued to admit no one after six o'clock." Pat nodded toward the
river. "They'll come from there if they come. Have you got a gun?" Tim
pulled a sturdy .38 revolver from his traveling bag.
Pat whistled. "That's a real popgun. How about a permit to carry it?
You don't want to run into trouble in New York."
From his billfold Tim produced the small card which identified him as a
member of the state police of his own state.
"Say, what are you," asked Pat incredulously, "A reporter or a
policeman?"
"I'm a reporter first of all, but once or twice I've had to serve as a
policeman," grinned Tim.
"Well, officer, let's have that grub," said Pat, opening the packages
Tim had brought.
They lowered another bunk and spread the food out on it.
"Gosh, but this tastes good," Pat said. "I forgot all about getting
anything this noon."
They were both the possessors of hearty appetites and between them they
cleaned up every bit of food Tim had brought aboard.
Pat leaned back against the steel wall.
"Anyone could come aboard now and steal the _S-18_. I'm so full of food
I wouldn't be able to move."
"I feel about the same way," conceded Tim.
But despite their sluggishness no disaster befell the _S-18_ and after
a time they bestirred themselves to make a final tour of inspection of
the submarine.
Across the East river gleamed the millions of lights of Manhattan, and
Tim, fascinated, stared at the majestic scene. A tramp steamer, outward
bound for some distant port, hooted dismally as it swung down stream.
Lights in the boatyard itself were few and far between and there was a
distinct feeling of isolation to the flying reporter on the deck of the
_S-18_.
While Tim was on deck, Pat closed all of the doors between the forward
compartments, then joined Tim in front of the conning tower.
"I'm not looking for any trouble," he said, "but I've made everything
tight. The only possible entrance will be through the main hatch and
I'm going to fix up a bunk and sleep in the control room."
They went below and rigged makeshift beds on the steel floor below the
conning tower. Pat found a trouble light with a long extension cord and
he placed this on the deck outside the main hatch. With the lights off
in the control room, it would be impossible for anyone to get down the
hatch without being silhouetted in the glow of the electric on the deck.
"I guess we can go to sleep without much worry now," said Pat, kicking
off his shoes and rolling into his blankets.
"Good night," said Tim, pulling his own blankets around him. The steel
deck was anything but comfortable but after the flight from Atkinson
and the busy day in New York, Tim soon dropped into a heavy sleep.
It was sometime after midnight when he awoke with a feeling of alarm
gripping him. He looked toward the hatch above. The light was out.
Someone was in the control room!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The First Test
There was no actual sound to which Tim could attribute his sudden
awakening, but he was certain someone was in the control room beside
Pat for he could hear the steady breathing of his companion.
Tim forced sleep from his tired brain. He needed every faculty to meet
this emergency.
His right hand moved cautiously and his fingers closed around the hard,
cold butt of his revolver. There was a slight scraping sound from the
dense blackness at the base of the ladder which came down from the main
hatch and Tim wished for a flashlight. He didn't even know where the
switch which controlled the interior lights of the _S-18_ was located.
Only the slightest of shuffling sounds warned Tim that the intruder was
coming toward him. Evidently he was in his stocking feet.
Tim managed to free his legs from the folds of his blankets and he
crouched on the steel floor of the _S-18_, ready for whatever might
happen.
The hatch which led to the main deck was visible for the sky outside
was much lighter than the black interior of the submarine. In this
circle Tim saw the head of a man peer into the control room. Unless he
did something at once, the _S-18_ soon might be swarming with unwanted
visitors.
Tim heard a slight grunt as the man coming toward him struck his head
on the lower end of one of the periscopes. That was all Tim needed.
Throwing his strength into the effort, he lunged forward, his
outstretched arms enfolding the legs of the intruder. They went down
with a crash that brought a muffled cry of alarm from the man Tim had
tackled and a real shout of agony from Pat, on whom they had fallen.
"What's going on here?" cried Pat.
"I don't know," gasped Tim, "but someone turned off the light over the
hatch and came down here. I just tackled him and there's another fellow
at the hatch about ready to come down."
The man Tim had tackled recovered suddenly from the surprise attack and
struck out with a vigor that caught the flying reporter. A powerful
foot struck Tim on the chest and sent him flying across the control
room to land on the other side curled against a maze of pipes and valve
wheels.
"Have you got him?" cried Pat.
"Not now," Tim replied. "He kicked me almost through the side of this
tin fish. You try and get him."
"I'll get him all right," vowed Pat. "You keep the boy at the hatch
from joining him and making this too much of a party."
Flame lighted the interior of the control room and their eardrums were
almost shattered by the deafening roar of a gun discharged at close
range. The man Tim had tackled was shooting at the sound of their
voices.
"Never mind trying to get this fellow," called Pat, now safely
protected by the bulkhead into the engine room. "We'll pick him off
when he tries to return to the deck."
The answer to Pat's words were written in smoke and flame as the
unknown intruder fired again.
Tim, watching the outline of the hatch against the sky, saw a head
appear. He raised his gun and fired in the general direction of the
hatch, more to scare the second man than to actually harm him. On the
echo of the crash of his gun came a scream of pain and the head
promptly disappeared.
"Good shooting!" cried Pat. "Now we'll get this fellow. He's in a cross
fire. Next time he shoots let him have it. I'll see if I can get around
to the switch and turn on the lights. This party is going to end all of
a sudden."
Tim strained his senses to detect the spot where the gunman was hidden.
He could hear cautious sounds but he didn't dare fire for fear of
hitting Pat. Tim edged near the ladder which led up to the hatch. As he
neared it he became conscious of some one crawling up the ladder and he
lunged toward the shadowy form.
Just as Tim moved, the man on the ladder lashed out viciously with one
foot. The blow caught Tim squarely on the chin and he dropped to the
deck, out cold. His gun clattered from his nerveless hands and the man
on the ladder leaped for the hatch just as the interior of the _S-18_
blazed with light.
Pat, momentarily blinded by the glare, recovered in time to see the
legs of their assailant disappearing over the edge of the hatch and
with snap aim he sent a volley of shots crashing upward.
Feet pounded along the deck of the _S-18_ and Pat heard the sudden
splashing of oars as a small boat pulled away from the hull of the sub
in great haste. Pursuit, he knew, was useless and he bent over Tim.
The flying reporter was recovering his senses, but he was still groggy
from the sharp blow on his chin. His first thought was one of self
defense and he struggled weakly to raise his fists and hammer at Pat.
"Snap out of it," said Pat, shaking Tim gently. "The show's all over
and we're still in command of the fort."
Tim smiled a little sheepishly.
"Someone certainly landed a haymaker on me."
"You mean a No. 11 shoe connected with your chin at about sixty miles
an hour," chuckled Pat. "A kick like that would have killed anyone but
an Irishman."
Tim shook himself to make sure that he was still all together and got
to his feet. He was still a little shaky.
"You stay down here while I go on deck and see what it was all about,"
said Pat. He climbed nimbly up the ladder and disappeared just as cries
sounded along the dock.
"On board the submarine," boomed a heavy voice. "What's the matter down
there?"
A beam of light cut through the night and outlined Pat as he stood on
the deck.
"Someone tried to board us and we had to call out our own riot squad,"
yelled Pat. "Looks like everything is all right now and I don't think
we'll have any more visitors tonight."
Satisfied, the watchman returned and Pat called down for Tim to hand up
another bulb to replace the one which had been taken from the light
over the hatch.
"I'm sure we won't have any more callers," he said, "but this light may
discourage them even though it didn't the first time. How in the
dickens did you happen to wake up?"
"You might call it my 'news sense' being on the job," said Tim as he
rubbed his bruised chin. "The first thing I sensed was that the light
was out. Then I knew someone was moving around in the control room and
after that I was almost too scared to move."
"Seems to me you did a pretty nice job of tackling, but the next time
don't bring your man down on top of me. It's an awful shock to awake in
the middle of the night and find a first class fight taking place right
in your midships."
Tim glanced at his wrist watch.
"It's one a.m.," he said. "What's on the schedule now?"
"We might as well try and get a little more sleep. I think the
fireworks are over for tonight."
Pat rolled back into his blankets and a minute later Tim followed his
companion's action but where Pat was soon in a deep sleep, Tim remained
awake, thinking over the attack and the dangers of their long voyage
into the Caribbean. He was glad Commander Ford had decided to take a
seaplane on the trip. It made him feel more comfortable for if anything
happened to the _S-18_ on the treasure hunt, they might be able to get
word of their plight to the world by using the seaplane.
Tim finally slept and when he awoke, sunlight was streaming down
through the hatch and Commander Ford was climbing aboard.
"Fine pair of watchmen I left," he smiled.
"You left one mighty alert one," put in Pat, and he recounted their
experiences of the night.
"Sladek is certainly losing no time in trying to hamper my plans," said
Ford. "I imagine he'll attempt to trail us all of the way to the island
but we may fool him if we decide to travel underwater for a few miles."
"But you couldn't do that with the plane on deck," protested Tim.
"We might release the plane and have you fly on ahead, meeting us at
the rendezvous on the island," suggested Ford.
If Tim thought his days on the _News_ had been busy, they were nothing
compared with the bustle of activity which settled down on the _S-18_.
For his own part, he was busy testing the seaplanes at the Sea King
factory and he finally selected the craft which the sales manager had
recommended. It was a three passenger job, light but sturdy and
exceptionally easy to handle.
For the next week Tim went to the airplane plant daily to take special
instructions in the handling of the plane and to learn the trick of
getting off choppy water for there was no telling in what kind of
weather he might be called upon to make a flight.
The fuel tanks were enlarged to give the speedy craft a cruising radius
of a thousand miles and the pontoons were especially reinforced for the
rough work which Tim and his plane might encounter.
By the end of the week great changes had been effected in the hull of
the _S-18_. Steel workers had cut out the special diving chamber in the
forward torpedo room, the galley had been installed in the rear
compartment which was the crew's quarters, a special radio set capable
of communicating instantly with the New York Journal office was in
place, and many other minor alterations necessary for the cruise had
been made. The crew was being increased daily, but it was not until the
first mess was served on board that Tim had a chance to see them
together. In all, sixteen men were to make the trip into the Caribbean
and Tim looked at them with interest as they sat around the table for
the evening meal.
At the head of the table was Commander Ford and at the other end Pat
Reynolds. Tim sat at Pat's right. Ranged up and down each side were the
other thirteen, George Gadd, the engineer, Fred Hanson, the chief
electrician, Joe Gartner, old navy torpedoman and gunner, Charlie Gill
and Russ Graham, deep sea divers, and their assistants, Earl Bell and
Roy Gould.
Ike Green was the radio operator while Forman Gay, Erich Gaunt, Sam
Schneider, Al Hardy and Tom Grandrath were former submarine men who
would assist in the general operation of the submarine. With the
exception of Pat, Tim and Ike Green, the radioman, and the divers, all
of the others had served with Ford during the war. The divers and their
assistants were old navy men who could be relied upon and Tim knew that
Commander Ford was taking every precaution against any treachery among
members of his own crew.
It was a clean, hard-bitten crew that could be depended upon in any
emergency.
The Commander, Ford was discussing final plans.
"We're going down the sound for a trial run tomorrow morning. If
everything goes well, we'll start south the day after tomorrow."
Early the next morning lines were cast off and the _S-18_, pulsating to
the clicking of her powerful Diesels, was backed slowly away from the
shipyard. A tug stood by to give any assistance needed, but the _S-18_
cleared the yard and nosed slowly down river. Overhead a seaplane
wheeled.
Tim was in the conning tower with Commander Ford and he pointed upward.
"That must be Sladek's plane, keeping track of us," nodded Ford. "I
understand his ship is ready to go at a moment's notice. He's gathered
a crew of thirty of the toughest characters on the waterfront and
promised them all a good slice of the bullion if he gets it. Knowing
Sladek as I do, I wouldn't put much faith in his word if I were a
member of that crew."
When the _S-18_ was clear of the lower bay, the warning bell sounded
and everyone on deck went below. Hatches were made fast and every
member of the crew went to his station. For Tim there was nothing to do
but stand in the control room and watch the activities of the others
for he was not experienced enough in submarine operation to be placed
at one of the important posts.
Commander Ford's commands were crisp and alert. The Diesels were silent
and only the faint humming of the big electric motors could be heard.
Then the _S-18_ moved on a slight angle and Tim knew they were going
below. He had encountered a good many queer sensations in an airplane,
but none quite so alarming as the one which gripped him now. He was
actually going under the surface with only the thin steel walls of the
submarine to ward off the destructive force of the water.
Tim glanced around the control room. Commander Ford was standing with
his eyes glued to the periscope. Pat was at the main diving rudders.
Forman Gay and Erich Gaunt were at the valves which controlled the
ballast tanks. All were silent, intent on their work.
"Are the forward ballast tanks flooded?" snapped the commander.
"Yes sir," replied Pat.
"How about the after tanks?"
"They're flooded."
"Then level off and hold her at forty feet."
The submarine resumed her even keel, but Tim knew they were forty feet
below the surface.
Commander Ford left his post and visited each compartment, making sure
that everything was functioning smoothly. When he returned, he said
calmly: "We'll go a little deeper."
The diving rudders were inclined again and the _S-18_ nosed its way
deeper into the water.
Tim watched the depth gauge, fascinated. The needle was marking the
distance steadily. Sixty, seventy, eighty feet they went. Now they were
moving downward again. Ninety, ninety-five and then a hundred.
George Gadd, the engineer, came into the control room.
"Everything's all right so far," he reported.
"Then we'll go the rest of the way," decided Commander Ford.
Tim knew what the order meant. They were going to the bottom, going
down to make absolutely sure that the _S-18_ was ready for the
Caribbean treasure hunt.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On the Bottom
The depth gauge was dropping steadily as the _S-18_ plunged downward
through the black waters. From Commander Ford on down, everyone was
tense. This was the big test. If anything went wrong--
But they couldn't think of that, that is, no one except Tim who had
nothing else to do.
"Ease off on the diving rudders," snapped Commander Ford. "We're almost
down."
"How's the bottom?" asked George Gadd.
"Charts show it to be good and firm. We'll just touch and then start up
again."
The depth gauge showed 205 feet when there was a gentle scraping sound
and the _S-18_ came to rest on the bottom of the sound. Beads of water
were standing all over the interior of the glistening white hull for
the pressure at that depth was tremendous.
Commander Ford left his post and made a thorough tour of the submarine.
When he returned he was obviously elated.
"Everything's holding fine," he said. "Now we'll get ready to return to
the surface."
Orders flew rapidly. The diving planes were readjusted and Forman Gay
and Erich Gaunt stood ready to blow the ballast from the diving tanks
and lighten the sub for the rise to the surface.
"Blow the tanks," ordered the Commander.
Compressed air hissed through the high pressure lines and Tim knew that
despite the pressure of the water at that depth the air was blowing the
ballast from the tanks. In a moment or two the _S-18_ would quiver,
come to life, and start the upward ascent.
Commander Ford was watching the gauges intently. There was no movement
of the _S-18_ and he turned toward Gay and Gaunt.
"We're giving the tanks all we've got," said Gaunt. "There's 1,500
pounds of air pressure pushing that water out."
"Hold it for a minute," ordered Ford as Charlie Gill, the chief diver,
stumbled into the room.
Charlie's face was white, strained.
"We're stuck, chief, we're stuck. This bottom is as soft as a mud pie
and the current has rammed us against the side of an old derelict.
We're settling deeper into the stuff every minute."
"Stand by your posts," cried the Commander. Grabbing Gill by the
shoulder, he hurried him forward. Tim, who had no duty to attend,
followed them into the diving compartment where a special quartz window
to observe diving operations had been placed. A powerful searchlight
had been turned on by Gill and it revealed the trap into which the
_S-18_ had settled. They were tight against the slime-encrusted hull of
an old barge, probably a garbage scow used in hauling the refuse from
New York City.
"That also explains the soft bottom," said Ford. "They've been dumping
garbage out here."
"It may make garbage of us," said Gill bitterly.
"Can you get into your diving outfit and get outside and place a bomb?"
asked the Commander.