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Authors: Alistair MacLean
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like the icing on a wedding cake: forty inches and we get a very sore head indeed.’ He nodded across to Swanson. ‘Doesn’t look so good. That grip he’s twisting is to tilt the periscope lens upwards and that button is for focusing. Means he’s having trouble in finding anything.’
Swanson straightened. ‘Black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,’ he said conversationally. ‘Switch on hull and sail floodlights.’
He stooped and looked again. For a few seconds only. ‘Pea-soup. Thick and yellow and strong. Can’t see a thing. Let’s have the camera, shall we?’
I looked at Hansen, who nodded to a white screen that had just been unshuttered on the opposite bulkhead. ‘All mod cons, Doc. Closed circuit TV. Camera is deck mounted under toughened glass and can be remotely controlled to look up or round.’
‘You could do with a new camera, couldn’t you?’ The TV screen was grey, fuzzy, featureless.
‘Best that money can buy,’ Hansen said. ‘It’s the water. Under certain conditions of temperature and salinity it becomes almost completely opaque when floodlit. Like driving into a heavy fog with your headlights full on.’
‘Floodlights off,’ Swanson said. The screen became quite blank. ‘Floodlights on.’ The samedrifting misty grey as before. Swanson sighed and turned to Hansen. ‘Well, John?’
‘If I were paid for imagining things,’ Hansen said carefully, ‘I could imagine I see the top of the sail in that left corner. Pretty murky out there, Captain. Heigh-ho for the old blind man’s buff, is that it?’
‘Russian roulette, I prefer to call it.’ Swanson had the clear unworried face of a man contemplating a Sunday afternoon in a deck-chair. ‘Are we holding position?’
‘I don’t know.’ Raeburn looked up from the plot. ‘It’s difficult to be sure.’
‘Sanders?’ This to the man at the ice-machine.
‘Thin ice, sir. Still thin ice.’
‘Keep calling. Down periscope.’ He folded the handles up and turned to the diving officer. ‘Take her up like we were carrying a crate of eggs atop the sail and didn’t want to crack even one of them.’
The pumps started again. I looked around the control room. Swanson excepted, everyone was quiet and still and keyed-up. Raeburn’s face was beaded with sweat and Sanders’s voice was too calm and impersonal by half as he kept repeating: ‘Thin ice, thin ice,’ in a low monotone. You could reach out and touch the tension in the air. I said quietly to Hansen:
‘Nobody seems very happy. There’s still a hundred feet to go.’
‘There’s forty feet,’ Hansen said shortly.‘Readings are taken from keel level and there’s sixty feet between the keel and the top of the sail. Forty feet minus the thickness of the ice — and maybe a razor-sharp or needle-pointed stalactite sticking down ready to skewer the
Dolphin
through the middle. You know what that means?’
‘That it’s time I started getting worried too?’
Hansen smiled, but he wasn’t feeling like smiling. Neither was I, not any more.
‘Ninety feet,’ the diving officer said.
‘Thin ice, thin ice,’ Sanders intoned.
‘Switch off the deck flood, leave the sail flood on,’ Swanson said. ‘And keep that camera moving. Sonar?’
‘All clear,’ the sonar operator reported. ‘All clear all round.’ A pause, then: ‘No, hold it, hold it! Contact dead astern!’
‘How close?’ Swanson asked quickly.
‘Too close to say. Very close.’
‘She’s jumping!’ the diving officer called out sharply. ‘80, 75.’ The
Dolphin
had hit a layer of colder water or extra salinity.
‘Heavy ice, heavy ice!’ Sanders called out urgently.
‘Flood emergency!’ Swanson ordered — and this time it was an order.
I felt the sudden build-up of air pressure as the diving officer vented the negative tank and tons of sea-water poured into the emergency diving tank, but it was too late. With a shuddering jarring smash that sent us staggering
Swanson straightened. ‘Black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,’ he said conversationally. ‘Switch on hull and sail floodlights.’
He stooped and looked again. For a few seconds only. ‘Pea-soup. Thick and yellow and strong. Can’t see a thing. Let’s have the camera, shall we?’
I looked at Hansen, who nodded to a white screen that had just been unshuttered on the opposite bulkhead. ‘All mod cons, Doc. Closed circuit TV. Camera is deck mounted under toughened glass and can be remotely controlled to look up or round.’
‘You could do with a new camera, couldn’t you?’ The TV screen was grey, fuzzy, featureless.
‘Best that money can buy,’ Hansen said. ‘It’s the water. Under certain conditions of temperature and salinity it becomes almost completely opaque when floodlit. Like driving into a heavy fog with your headlights full on.’
‘Floodlights off,’ Swanson said. The screen became quite blank. ‘Floodlights on.’ The samedrifting misty grey as before. Swanson sighed and turned to Hansen. ‘Well, John?’
‘If I were paid for imagining things,’ Hansen said carefully, ‘I could imagine I see the top of the sail in that left corner. Pretty murky out there, Captain. Heigh-ho for the old blind man’s buff, is that it?’
‘Russian roulette, I prefer to call it.’ Swanson had the clear unworried face of a man contemplating a Sunday afternoon in a deck-chair. ‘Are we holding position?’
‘I don’t know.’ Raeburn looked up from the plot. ‘It’s difficult to be sure.’
‘Sanders?’ This to the man at the ice-machine.
‘Thin ice, sir. Still thin ice.’
‘Keep calling. Down periscope.’ He folded the handles up and turned to the diving officer. ‘Take her up like we were carrying a crate of eggs atop the sail and didn’t want to crack even one of them.’
The pumps started again. I looked around the control room. Swanson excepted, everyone was quiet and still and keyed-up. Raeburn’s face was beaded with sweat and Sanders’s voice was too calm and impersonal by half as he kept repeating: ‘Thin ice, thin ice,’ in a low monotone. You could reach out and touch the tension in the air. I said quietly to Hansen:
‘Nobody seems very happy. There’s still a hundred feet to go.’
‘There’s forty feet,’ Hansen said shortly.‘Readings are taken from keel level and there’s sixty feet between the keel and the top of the sail. Forty feet minus the thickness of the ice — and maybe a razor-sharp or needle-pointed stalactite sticking down ready to skewer the
Dolphin
through the middle. You know what that means?’
‘That it’s time I started getting worried too?’
Hansen smiled, but he wasn’t feeling like smiling. Neither was I, not any more.
‘Ninety feet,’ the diving officer said.
‘Thin ice, thin ice,’ Sanders intoned.
‘Switch off the deck flood, leave the sail flood on,’ Swanson said. ‘And keep that camera moving. Sonar?’
‘All clear,’ the sonar operator reported. ‘All clear all round.’ A pause, then: ‘No, hold it, hold it! Contact dead astern!’
‘How close?’ Swanson asked quickly.
‘Too close to say. Very close.’
‘She’s jumping!’ the diving officer called out sharply. ‘80, 75.’ The
Dolphin
had hit a layer of colder water or extra salinity.
‘Heavy ice, heavy ice!’ Sanders called out urgently.
‘Flood emergency!’ Swanson ordered — and this time it was an order.
I felt the sudden build-up of air pressure as the diving officer vented the negative tank and tons of sea-water poured into the emergency diving tank, but it was too late. With a shuddering jarring smash that sent us staggering
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