Read Online Ice Station Zebra by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online
Authors: Alistair MacLean
Ads: Link
like a chicken chasing its own tail just so we don’t miss it. It makes us very popular with the crew, especially when they’re drinking coffee or soup.’
We passed into the control room. Commander Swanson, flanked by the navigator and another man, was bent over the plotting table, examining something intently. Farther aft a man at the surface fathometer was reading out ice thickness figures in a quiet unemotional voice. Commander Swanson looked up from the chart.
‘Morning, Doctor. John, I think we may have something here.’
Hansen crossed to the plot and peered at it. There didn’t seem to be much to peer at — a tiny pin-point of light shining through the glass top of the plot and a squared sheet of chart paper marked by a most unseamanlike series of wavering black lines traced out by a man with a pencil following the track of the tiny moving light. There were three red crosses superimposed on the paper, two very close together, and just as Hansen was examining the paper the crewman manning the ice-machine — Dr Benson’s enthusiasm for his toy did not, it appeared, extend to the middle of the night— called out ‘Mark!’ Immediately the black pencil was exchanged for a red and a fourth cross made.
‘“Think” and “may” are just about right, Captain,’ Hansen said. ‘It looks awfully narrow to me.’
‘It looks the same way to me, too,’ Swanson admitted. ‘But it’s the first break in the heavy ice that we’ve had in an hour, almost. And the farther north we go, the poorer our chances. Let’s give it a go. Speed?’
‘One knot,’ Raeburn said.
‘All back one-third,’ Swanson said. No sharp imperatives, not ever, in the way Swanson gave his orders, more a quiet and conversational suggestion, but there was no mistaking the speed with which one of the crewmen strapped into the diving-stand bucket seat leaned forward to telegraph the order to the engine-room. ‘Left full rudder.’
Swanson bent over to check the plot, closely watching the tiny pin-point of light and tracing pencil move back towards the approximate centre of the elongated quadrangle formed by the four red crosses. ‘All stop,’ he went on. ‘Rudder amidships.’ A pause then: ‘All ahead one-third. So. All stop.’
‘Speed zero,’ Raeburn said.
‘120 feet,’ Swanson said to the diving officer. ‘But gently, gently.’
A strong steady hum echoed in the control centre. I asked Hansen: ‘Blowing ballast?’
He shook his head. ‘Just pumping the stuff out. Gives a far more precise control of rising speed and makes it easier to keep the sub on an even keel. Bringing a stopped sub up on a dead even keel is no trick for beginners. Conventional subs never try this sort of thing.’
The pumps stopped. There came the sound of water flooding back into the tanks as the diving officer slowed up the rate of ascent. The sound faded.
‘Secure flooding,’ the diving officer said. ‘Steady on 120 feet.’
‘Up periscope,’ Swanson said to the crewman by his side. An overhead lever was engaged and we could hear the hiss of high-pressure oil as the hydraulic piston began to lift the starboard periscope off its seating. The gleaming cylinder rose slowly against the pressure of the water outside until finally the foot of the periscope cleared its well. Swanson opened the hinged handgrips and peered through the eyepiece.
‘What does he expect to see in the middle of the night at this depth?’ I asked Hansen.
‘Never can tell. It’s rarely completely dark, as you know. Maybe a moon, maybe only stars — but even starlight will show as a faint glow through the ice — if the ice is thin enough.’
‘What’s the thickness of the ice above, in this rectangle?’
‘The sixty-four thousand dollar question,’ Hansen admitted, ‘and the answer is that we don’tknow. To keep that ice-machine to a reasonable size the graph scale has to be very small. Anything between four and forty inches. Four inches we go through
We passed into the control room. Commander Swanson, flanked by the navigator and another man, was bent over the plotting table, examining something intently. Farther aft a man at the surface fathometer was reading out ice thickness figures in a quiet unemotional voice. Commander Swanson looked up from the chart.
‘Morning, Doctor. John, I think we may have something here.’
Hansen crossed to the plot and peered at it. There didn’t seem to be much to peer at — a tiny pin-point of light shining through the glass top of the plot and a squared sheet of chart paper marked by a most unseamanlike series of wavering black lines traced out by a man with a pencil following the track of the tiny moving light. There were three red crosses superimposed on the paper, two very close together, and just as Hansen was examining the paper the crewman manning the ice-machine — Dr Benson’s enthusiasm for his toy did not, it appeared, extend to the middle of the night— called out ‘Mark!’ Immediately the black pencil was exchanged for a red and a fourth cross made.
‘“Think” and “may” are just about right, Captain,’ Hansen said. ‘It looks awfully narrow to me.’
‘It looks the same way to me, too,’ Swanson admitted. ‘But it’s the first break in the heavy ice that we’ve had in an hour, almost. And the farther north we go, the poorer our chances. Let’s give it a go. Speed?’
‘One knot,’ Raeburn said.
‘All back one-third,’ Swanson said. No sharp imperatives, not ever, in the way Swanson gave his orders, more a quiet and conversational suggestion, but there was no mistaking the speed with which one of the crewmen strapped into the diving-stand bucket seat leaned forward to telegraph the order to the engine-room. ‘Left full rudder.’
Swanson bent over to check the plot, closely watching the tiny pin-point of light and tracing pencil move back towards the approximate centre of the elongated quadrangle formed by the four red crosses. ‘All stop,’ he went on. ‘Rudder amidships.’ A pause then: ‘All ahead one-third. So. All stop.’
‘Speed zero,’ Raeburn said.
‘120 feet,’ Swanson said to the diving officer. ‘But gently, gently.’
A strong steady hum echoed in the control centre. I asked Hansen: ‘Blowing ballast?’
He shook his head. ‘Just pumping the stuff out. Gives a far more precise control of rising speed and makes it easier to keep the sub on an even keel. Bringing a stopped sub up on a dead even keel is no trick for beginners. Conventional subs never try this sort of thing.’
The pumps stopped. There came the sound of water flooding back into the tanks as the diving officer slowed up the rate of ascent. The sound faded.
‘Secure flooding,’ the diving officer said. ‘Steady on 120 feet.’
‘Up periscope,’ Swanson said to the crewman by his side. An overhead lever was engaged and we could hear the hiss of high-pressure oil as the hydraulic piston began to lift the starboard periscope off its seating. The gleaming cylinder rose slowly against the pressure of the water outside until finally the foot of the periscope cleared its well. Swanson opened the hinged handgrips and peered through the eyepiece.
‘What does he expect to see in the middle of the night at this depth?’ I asked Hansen.
‘Never can tell. It’s rarely completely dark, as you know. Maybe a moon, maybe only stars — but even starlight will show as a faint glow through the ice — if the ice is thin enough.’
‘What’s the thickness of the ice above, in this rectangle?’
‘The sixty-four thousand dollar question,’ Hansen admitted, ‘and the answer is that we don’tknow. To keep that ice-machine to a reasonable size the graph scale has to be very small. Anything between four and forty inches. Four inches we go through
Similar Books
