down gradually. The pressure would break me in two if I walked out
there now."
"Then how about a bomb?"
"We could get that outside, but it's hard to tell where it will go off.
If it's too close to the hull, it might crush us and you know the
answer to that."
Commander Ford nodded. "We'll try it again."
He returned to the control room where the motors were raced first ahead
and then in reverse, but the _S-18_ failed to rise out of the muck and
instead seemed to be burrowing its way further into the soft stuff.
Commander Ford ordered the motors cut out and called the crew into the
control room.
"We're in a jam," he said. "You know as well as I do that we can't
expect help from the surface in time to do us any good. If we escape
we've got to do it ourselves and there's only one way. That's by using
one of the special depth bombs and hoping it will jar us loose. There's
a chance the explosion may crush our own hull, but that's a risk we'll
have to take."
"Let's get it over with," put in the chief electrician. "I was on the
bottom of the English channel for twelve hours in a sub during the war
and this waiting is awful."
The rest of the crew voiced the sentiments of the chief electrician.
Pat was placed in charge of the control room while Commander Ford and
Charlie Gill and Russ Graham, the divers, and Joe Gartner, the torpedo
man and gunner, went ahead to make preparations to explode the bomb.
The explosive was dangerous stuff and none of them relished handling
it, but in it they saw their one chance of escape. The bomb was in a
special steel case with a small aperture in which the timing device was
located. The fuse was set for five minutes and the bomb placed in the
diving chamber.
Tim's nerves felt shaky. The bomb was going now. In just five minutes
the deadly blast would go off. If they didn't get it out of the diving
chamber and against the derelict, there wouldn't be a ghost of a chance
for them.
But Charlie Gill and Russ Graham were versatile men. They had been in
plenty of tight places before. Working quickly and surely, they opened
the outer door of the diving chamber. At that depth a terrific spray of
water shot into the inner chamber and the bomb bobbed from side to
side. Then the force of the water pushed it outside the hull of the
submarine. In the glow from the searchlight they saw the bomb drift
away from the side of the submarine. The same current which was holding
the _S-18_ fast against the derelict was driving the bomb against it.
Commander Ford, watch in hand, was counting the seconds.
"Better close the outer door of the diving compartment," he told
Charlie Gill. "There's little more than a minute left."
The Commander of the _S-18_ hurried back to the control room.
"On the alert," he told the men. "Everyone be ready for double quick
action. There's thirty seconds left before the bomb explodes." Tim
glanced around the room. Erich Gaunt and Forman Gay were bent over the
levers which controlled the ballast tanks. Pat was tense at the diving
rudders while back in the motor room George Gadd stood by to help the
chief electrician. The crew of the _S-18_ was ready.
The flying reporter was fascinated as the second hand of his own watch
ticked off the precious seconds. It might be ticking life and death for
all aboard the _S-18_, 205 feet below the surface of the sound.
Ten, seven, five, three seconds left.
A muffled explosion shook the hull of the _S-18_.
"Motors full ahead!" shouted Commander Ford.
The powerful electrics leaped into action. The steel deck beneath them
quivered.
They were moving! It was slow at first, but the _S-18_ was shaking the
slime of the bottom off its hull.
Then, with a sickening leap, they shot upward, motors on full, diving
planes at the sharpest angle.
Men tumbled around in the control room like dry leaves before an autumn
gale. The _S-18_, out of control, was shooting toward the surface.
Pat managed to scramble to his feet and seized the wheel which
controlled the forward diving rudders. With a quick twist he lessened
the sharp angle of their ascent.
Before the other men could crawl back to their stations, the grey nose
of the submarine shot above the surface of the sound. It must have
risen ten feet out of water, then as the rest of the sub came to the
surface, slapped back into the water with a resounding crash. Everyone
aboard was jarred by the shock.
"Tanks clear of water, diving planes normal?" Questions shot from the
lips of Commander Ford.
Before the main hatch was opened and the sunlight streamed in, he made
sure that the _S-18_ had not been seriously damaged by its sudden rise.
In spite of the great pressure, not a seam in the hull had been opened
and the crew scrambled out on deck for a breath of fresh air.
The seaplane was still circling overhead and with a shock Tim realized
they had been on the bottom less than half an hour. It had seemed a
lifetime.
To the veteran submarine men the harrowing experience on the bottom of
the sound seemed all in the day's work, but to Tim it was an incident
he would remember all the rest of his life.
"No more garbage scows for mine," grinned Pat. "That was a little too
close for comfort."
"I'd just as soon fly down to the Caribbean," said Tim as he watched
the seaplane gracefully circling overhead.
Commander Ford joined them.
"After that test there's no question about the seaworthiness of the
_S-18_. We're putting back to the Laidlaw yard at once. We'll start
south sometime tomorrow."
That was news and Tim went below and dictated a story to Ike Green, who
sent it to the Journal station. It was the first story sent directly
from the _S-18_.
That night when they were back in the yard, a truck lumbered through
the main gate, a winch on the dock clattered noisily and a long,
cigar-shaped object came slowly down. A forward hatch was opened and
the torpedo locked securely in its rack. After that a case of shells
for the four-inch gun and three machine guns and a half dozen automatic
rifles and sixteen revolvers with plenty of ammunition were lowered
from the dock.
"We're going to be something of a floating arsenal," chuckled Pat.
"Believe me, if we get in a jam old Joe Gartner is a handy man with the
four-inch gun."
"What about Sladek and his expedition?" Tim asked.
"Commander Ford told me this afternoon they were ready to sail at a
moment's notice. We'll be slipping away tomorrow night which may cause
them a little trouble in following us."
The next day Tim went to the Sea King factory on Long Island and made
sure his plane was ready. Then he wrote the final stories of plans for
the departure and sent them to both the New York Journal and the _News_
at home, with release dates for the next day, when they would be well
out to sea and off the Jersey coast.
A subdued air of excitement gripped the crew of the _S-18_. This was
the big night. Before midnight they would be headed down the East
river, bound for the open sea and the start of the big adventure.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Missing Cook
Across the East river the lights of Manhattan glowed brightly while in
the Laidlaw yard last minute preparations for the voyage of the _S-18_
were being rushed. Supplies were being checked and every possible test
of equipment was made.
In the radio room Ike Green got in contact with the New York Journal
station and Tim filed his last story. The next would be sent when the
_S-18_ was out to sea.
A whistle shrilled on the deck overhead and Tim mounted the ladder and
climbed through the main hatch. Riding lights of the submarine were on.
Yard workers were casting off the lines which held the _S-18_ to the
towering dock.
The huge Diesels came to life and the submarine pulsated gently to
their song of power. Commander Ford was at his station in the conning
tower while near him at the auxiliary controls was Pat Reynolds. Half a
dozen other members of the crew were on deck.
Down in the inky waters at the rear of the _S-18_ the propellers
churned. Slowly the submarine nosed away from the boatyard, heading out
toward the East river. There was no sound from the workers on the dock;
no sound from the men on deck. This business of hunting sunken
treasures was deadly serious.
There was little traffic on the river after the midnight hour and the
_S-18_ felt its way out into mid-stream and then dropped down toward
the open sound.
Somewhere behind them a ferryboat hooted dismally and a tramp steamer,
just swinging out of its wharf, answered.
"Any chance that that vessel may be Sladek's?" Tim asked Pat.
"There's more than a chance. It probably is," replied the first officer.
The submarine moved down the bay at a steady eight knots an hour and
Tim watched the lights of Manhattan fading into a haze. They stood well
down the bay for the Sea King factory was on the south shore of Long
Island.
Above him in the conning tower Tim could hear Commander Ford conversing
with Pat. Then the commander leaned over the edge of the tower and
called to the men on deck.
"Everyone down below," he said. "We're going to submerge and run
underwater to the Sea King plant. That may throw Sladek's ship off our
trail."
They tumbled below, the main hatch was sealed, and Pat checked every
gauge before Commander Ford gave the order to submerge. The _S-18_ went
down twenty feet and then levelled off, the electric motors pushing it
smoothly underwater.
With his eyes glued to a periscope, Commander Ford scanned the surface
of the sound for another craft. At almost an instant's notice the
_S-18_ was ready to dive lower.
At the microphones, Ike Green was listening intently for the beat of
the propeller of the tramp steamer. He grinned as Commander Ford
entered the tiny room.
"They're puzzled," said the radio man, "and they're zig-zagging all
over the lower bay."
The _S-18_ continued to run underwater at a bare four knots an hour. It
was three hours later when they came to the surface and the sky was
lighter in the east. Sunrise was less than half an hour away. To their
left was the factory of the Sea King company and the _S-18_ nosed
slowly toward the dock.
As the sky brightened they saw the smudge of a steamer well out to sea.
"Unless I miss my guess there goes Jack Sladek and his treasure-hunting
expedition," grinned Pat.
The seaplane purchased for their trip was on the dock ready and it took
less than half an hour to load the craft on the deck of the _S-18_ and
make it fast.
"There'll be no more diving with that sky-hopping bug on deck," said
Pat.
"Which will suit me all right," replied Tim. "Anytime you want to do a
little exploring under water in this tin fish just let me know and I'll
cruise around in the clouds for a couple of hours."
"You may have to do that when we get down into the Caribbean if we find
Sladek too close to our trail," put in Commander Ford who had come up
behind them. "He's going to be a hard customer to lose and he'll
probably use that seaplane of his to do a lot of scouting."
Breakfast was served by Al Hardy, who was the cook, and they enjoyed
the morning meal before casting loose from the Sea King dock. Then,
with all hands on deck and a bright sun shining down on them, the
_S-18_ resumed its southward voyage. The next port of call was to be
Key West, where the fuel tanks would be replenished for the voyage
across the Caribbean.
Once out to sea, half of the crew turned in, for there had been no
sleep aboard the _S-18_ during the hours they had been submerged. The
Jersey coast gradually dropped from view and they moved southward at a
steady ten knots an hour.
Tim sought his bunk in the after quarters. Ahead the Diesels pounded
steadily, but the air was clean and sweet and in spite of the noise he
was soon asleep.
The clatter of pans as Al Hardy prepared the noon meal awoke him and he
rejoined Pat in the conning tower. Commander Ford was down in the
diving room talking with the chief divers and Tim and Pat were alone.
"Do you think we're going to be in for trouble before we get through?"
Tim asked as he watched the sharp bow of the _S-18_ cut through the
gentle swells.
"Commander Ford told me this morning that Sladek had rounded up about
the prize gang of cutthroats on the New York waterfront. You'll get all
of the excitement you want before this shindig ends."
"Just give me time enough to get aloft in the plane and I'll be ready
for anything that comes along," said Tim, nodding toward the trim
seaplane lashed securely on the forward deck.
Mess was served in relays that noon and shortly after that Tim sighted
the seaplane winging up from the south.
"Company coming," he informed Pat, who was back in the conning tower.
Commander Ford was summoned and they watched the approach of the fast
craft. The plane was flying high, but as it neared the _S-18_, the
pilot put it into a dive.
"That fellow knows how to handle a plane," said Tim, half to himself.
The seaplane came out of the dive at a thousand feet and circled the
_S-18_.
"The answer to that is plain," said Commander Ford grimly. "That's
Sladek's ship and it won't be long until his dirty old tramp steamer is
on our trail again."
The seaplane winged away again and in less than two hours they saw a
smudge of smoke on the horizon. Before sundown the tramp steamer, the
_Iron Mate_, was riding a half mile off their port bow.
"There's no use trying to sneak away from them now," said the
commander. "When we get out of Key West and head across the Caribbean
we'll find some way to give them the slip."
Down the east coast the _S-18_ made its leisurely way with the _Iron
Mate_ a constant companion. The sky was clearer, the air warmer, as
they neared the southern tip of Florida and nosed into the harbor at
Key West. The Iron Mate stood out to sea, waiting for the return of the
_S-18_, for Sladek was taking no chances on getting into trouble with
federal officials.
The _S-18_ replenished its fuel oil tanks, fresh supplies were taken
aboard, and the crew stretched its legs before the voyage into the
Caribbean.
Pat and Tim strolled along the wharfs. It was a picturesque city and
they enjoyed the walk at the sunset hour.
A small boat was coming in from the sea. They watched it curiously for
the men at the oars were particularly vicious looking.
"I wouldn't want to meet them on a dark night," said Pat.
When they returned to the _S-18_, Commander Ford divulged his plans for
eluding the _Iron Mate_ and its crew of cutthroats.
"Tim," he said, "we'll hoist your seaplane overboard at once. Then
we'll slip out of the harbor and run submerged until we are well away
from the coast. You fool around here all day tomorrow. The next morning
hop early and rejoin us at this joint." The commander indicated a spot
in the Caribbean approximately two hundred miles west of Key West.
"Sladek will probably set his pilot to watching you when he finds we've
given him the slip, but I'll expect you to elude him and join us at the
rendezvous without being followed. A great deal will depend upon your
success."
"It may take some time to shake him off my trail," promised Tim, "but
I'll see that he doesn't follow me too far."
"That's good," said Ford. "Now we'll drop your seaplane overboard and
prepare to slip out of the harbor. I've special clearances which will
allow our departure at any hour we care to leave."
Tim directed the unloading of the Sea King and made sure that trim
little craft was fast to the dock before he returned to the deck of the
_S-18_.
Pat was checking over the crew list. Everyone answered present except
Al Hardy, the cook.
"Anyone see Al?" demanded Pat.
"He left just before sundown to get some supplies he needed," said
Erich Gaunt. "He should have been back half an hour ago."
"We'll wait a few minutes more," said Pat, hurrying below to inform
Commander Ford that the cook was missing.
A half hour elapsed and Al was still among the missing. At Commander
Ford's Order, the crew scattered along the docks, seeking their missing
cook. By ten o'clock, with still no trace of Al, the commander gave the
order to clear the lines. The _S-18_ was going without its cook.
"Maybe you can find him in the hoosegow in the morning," Pat told Tim.
"If you do, load him in your plane and bring him along. We need a good
cook."
"I'll do my best to find him," promised Tim as the _S-18_ slipped away
from the dock.
Tim watched the submarine until its lights faded into the night. He
made arrangements with the watchman at the dock to keep an eye on the
seaplane. Then he turned away from the waterfront. He was unfamiliar
with the city and he stumbled along a poorly lighted street. From an
alley to his right came a groan. Tim hesitated. It sounded like a human
being in agony, but it might be a waterfront trap of thugs to lure him
from the street.
The sound came again. There was no mistaking it this time. Someone was
in great pain. Tim ducked into the alley. Along one wall was a huddled
form. He bent down and lifted the man's head. It was too dark to
distinguish the features and Tim lugged the man to the head of the
alley where the rays from a street lamp half a block away gave him some
light.
He bent down again and looked into the battered face of Al Hardy, the
missing cook.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Warning Note
The cook of the _S-18_ had been badly beaten and Tim realized that he
was in need of immediate medical attention. He managed to get the
unconscious Hardy over his shoulders and he staggered down the block
until he was under the street light.
Glancing up and down the street, Tim saw that he was alone. He lowered
the cook from his shoulders and laid him on the walk under the light.
Then he raced down the street toward a cluster of lights several blocks
away, where he was fortunate enough to find a night patrolman on duty
there and the officer summoned an ambulance.
When the ambulance reached the lonely street, they bundled the cook
aboard and Tim climbed up in the front seat beside the driver while the
interne rode inside.
It was after midnight before the cook regained consciousness and
another two hours before he was strong enough to see Tim.
When the flying reporter entered the hospital room the cook looked out
at him from beneath a mass of bandages.
"He's got lots of endurance," said the doctor on duty, "or he wouldn't
have been able to live through the terrific beating he got. Don't talk
to him any longer than necessary."
Tim sat down by the bed.
"Tell me what happened, Al."
The cook's voice was little more than a whisper and Tim leaned over to
catch the words.
"I was on my way back to the wharf, when they ganged me and dragged me
into a deserted warehouse."
Even one sentence had visibly sapped his strength and the cook rested
before continuing.
"They wanted to know our destination. When I wouldn't tell them they
beat me."
Tim's eyes blazed with anger. There was no question in his mind who the
"they" Al was referring to meant. It was the boatload of ruffians he
and Pat had seen rowing in from the open sea. Undoubtedly they were
from the _Iron Mate_, Sladek's ship.
"I went almost crazy with the pain." There was a choked sob in the
cook's voice. "They burned the bottom of my feet with cigarettes."
There was a long pause and Tim waited patiently, wondering whether Al
Hardy had finally given away the secret of their destination.
"They were going to kill me," the cook went on, each word an obvious
effort. "Finally, finally I told them it was an island off the coast of
Yucatan, but no one but the commander knew what one."
"Did they believe you?" asked Tim.
"They must have. That's all I remember until I came to in the hospital.
I'm sorry I talked."
"Don't worry about that, Al," said Tim, gripping the cook's hand
firmly. "Any of the rest of us would have talked a lot sooner. I'm
going to leave you now. I've got to contact the _S-18_ with the
seaplane in the morning. I've made arrangements for them to take good
care of you here. By the time you're well we'll be on our way back and
you'll have a good share of the treasure."
Before leaving the the floor, Tim stopped at the desk.
"Just how badly is he injured?" he asked the doctor.
"An average man would die from shock, but he looks like he has a fine
constitution. I believe he'll pull through."
"See that he has everything he needs," said Tim. "In case of an
emergency you can communicate with Commander Ford's representative in
New York for further instructions."
The information Al Hardy had given made Tim change his plans
completely. Sladek and his crew knew the _S-18_ was bound for the coast
of Yucatan and Tim felt sure they would abandon any attempt to follow
the _S-18_ across the Caribbean. Instead they would use their own
seaplane to locate Commander Ford's expedition after it reached the
island which held the secret of the Southern Queen.
To Tim it seemed the most important thing was to get in touch with
Commander Ford and appraise him of the sudden turn in events. Instead
of waiting to keep the rendezvous on the following day, he would
attempt to overtake the _S-18_ as soon as dawn broke.
On his way back to the waterfront Tim stopped at an all-night
restaurant and ate a hearty breakfast. The watchman at the dock lent a
willing hand and by dawn Tim had the Sea King ready to take the air.
"I don't like the looks of the sky," said the watchman. "There's wind
and a nasty sea in them clouds."
"I'll risk it anyway," said Tim. "It's important."
"Then keep an eye on a handy cay where you can find shelter in the
lee," advised the watchman as Tim started the motor of the Sea King.
The powerful engine ran true and sweet and after getting it thoroughly
warmed up, Tim scudded across the gray water and lifted the dripping
pontoons into the sky.
He knew the _S-18_ would be following the course to the rendezvous set
for the next day and he charted a compass path through the air.
Key West dropped from sight in the greyness of the morning and he
winged a solitary way out over the Caribbean. Below the swells were
sharper. It wouldn't be easy landing and getting the Sea King aboard
the _S-18_.
For nearly an hour Tim bored into the west. He should be near the
_S-18_ and he scanned the surface of the ocean with anxious eyes. For
half an hour he circled in wide swoops. The wind was freshening and the
sea beneath him was choppy when he finally sighted the conning tower of
the submarine.
Tim dropped down until he was just above the surface of the water. The
nose of the _S-18_ was plowing through the swells and there were only
two huddled figures in the conning tower. Tim recognized them as he
flashed by, Commander Ford and Pat. They waved wildly as Tim gauged the
strength of wind and wave. It was too risky to attempt a landing and he
scrawled a note on a sheet of paper and crammed it into an old tobacco
can he had found along the waterfront and brought along for just such a
purpose.
With his motor almost idling, he swept down on the _S-18_ again.
Watching his speed carefully, he hurled the tin can toward the
submarine. It landed well in front and bobbed restless on the water.
Commander Ford and Pat had seen the can strike the surface and under
their skillful hands the submarine was brought to a halt. A wave washed
the tin alongside where another member of the crew, who had emerged
from the control room, retrieved it, and handed the can up to the
conning tower.
Pat signalled that they understood the contents of Tim's message, and
the flying reporter zoomed the Sea King sharply in a farewell salute as
he opened the throttle and roared back toward Key West. On the way back
he sighted the _Iron Mate_ far to his right and a good thirty miles
behind the _S-18_. If anything, the submarine was a good two knots and
hour faster than the _Iron Mate_ when it was running on the surface.
Tim reached Key West safely, saw that the Sea King was refueled and
ready to go on short notice, and then went to the hospital to see the
cook. Al Hardy was sleeping soundly and Tim continued to a hotel where
he went to bed to get some much needed rest.
It was late afternoon before he awoke. He made another call at the
hospital, but was advised not to see the cook. After supper he went to
a movie and then turned in early for with the dawn would come another
long flight.
During the night the wind subsided and ideal flying weather greeted Tim
when he reached the waterfront. The sun was casting a rosy hue over
red-tiled roofs and Tim welcomed the chance to soar into the cool,
sweet morning air.