Read Online Ice Station Zebra by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alistair MacLean
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the
Dolphin
crashedviolently into the ice above, glass tinkled, lights went out and the submarine started falling like a stone.
‘Blow negative to the mark!’ the diving officer called. High pressure air came boiling into the negative tank — at our rate of falling we would have been flattened by the sea-pressure before the pumps could even have begun to cope with the huge extra ballast load we had taken aboard in seconds. Two hundred feet, two hundred and fifty and we were still falling. Nobody spoke, everybody just stood or sat in a frozen position staring at the diving stand. It required no gift for telepathy to know the thought in every mind. It was obvious that the
Dolphin
had been struck aft by some underwater pressure ridge at the same instant as the sail had hit the heavy ice above: if the
Dolphin
had been holed aft this descent wasn’t going to stop until the pressure of a million tons of water had crushed and flattened the hull and in a flicker of time snuffed out the life of every man inside it.
‘Three hundred feet,’ the diving officer called out. ‘Three fifty — and she’s slowing! She’s slowing.’
The
Dolphin
was still falling, sluggishly passing the four-hundred-foot mark, when Rawlings appeared in the control room, tool-kit in one hand, a crate of assorted lamps in the other.
‘It’s unnatural,’ he said. He appeared to be addressing the shattered lamp above the plotwhich he had immediately begun to repair. ‘Contrary to the laws of nature, I’ve always maintained. Mankind was never meant to probe beneath the depths of the ocean. Mark my words, those new-fangled inventions will come to a bad end.’
‘So will you, if you don’t keep quiet,’ Commander Swanson said acidly. But there was no reprimand in his face, he appreciated as well as any of us the therapeutic breath of fresh air that Rawlings had brought into that tension-laden atmosphere. ‘Holding?’ he went on to the diving officer.
The diving officer raised a finger and grinned. Swanson nodded, swung the coiled-spring microphone in front of him. ‘Captain here,’ he said calmly. ‘Sorry about that bump. Report damage at once.’
A green light flashed in the panel of a box beside him. Swanson touched a switch and a loudspeaker in the deck-head crackled.
‘Manoeuvring room here.’ The manoeuvring room was in the after end of the upper level engine-room, towards the stern. ‘Hit was directly above us here. We could do with a box of candles and some of the dials and gauges are out of kilter. But we still got a roof over our heads.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. You can cope?’
‘Sure we can.’
Swanson pressed another switch. ‘Stern room?’
‘We still attached to the ship?’ a cautious voice inquired.
‘You’re still attached to the ship,’ Swanson assured him. ‘Anything to report?’
‘Only that there’s going to be an awful lot of dirty laundry by the time we get back to Scotland. The washing-machine’s had a kind of fit.’
Swanson smiled and switched off. His face was untroubled, he must have had a special sweat-absorbing mechanism on his face, I felt I could have done with a bath towel. He said to Hansen: ‘That was bad luck. A combination of a current where a current had no right to be, a temperature inversion where a temperature inversion had no right to be, and a pressure ridge where we least expected it. Not to mention the damned opacity of the water. What’s required is a few circuits until we know this polynya like the backs of our hands, a small offset to allow for drift and a little precautionary flooding as we approach the ninety-foot mark.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s what’s required. Point is, what are we going to do?’
‘Just that. Take her up and try again.’
I had my pride so I refrained from mopping my brow. They took her up and tried again. At 200 feet and for fifteen minutes Swanson juggled propellers and rudder till he had the outline of the frozen polynya above as
Dolphin
crashedviolently into the ice above, glass tinkled, lights went out and the submarine started falling like a stone.
‘Blow negative to the mark!’ the diving officer called. High pressure air came boiling into the negative tank — at our rate of falling we would have been flattened by the sea-pressure before the pumps could even have begun to cope with the huge extra ballast load we had taken aboard in seconds. Two hundred feet, two hundred and fifty and we were still falling. Nobody spoke, everybody just stood or sat in a frozen position staring at the diving stand. It required no gift for telepathy to know the thought in every mind. It was obvious that the
Dolphin
had been struck aft by some underwater pressure ridge at the same instant as the sail had hit the heavy ice above: if the
Dolphin
had been holed aft this descent wasn’t going to stop until the pressure of a million tons of water had crushed and flattened the hull and in a flicker of time snuffed out the life of every man inside it.
‘Three hundred feet,’ the diving officer called out. ‘Three fifty — and she’s slowing! She’s slowing.’
The
Dolphin
was still falling, sluggishly passing the four-hundred-foot mark, when Rawlings appeared in the control room, tool-kit in one hand, a crate of assorted lamps in the other.
‘It’s unnatural,’ he said. He appeared to be addressing the shattered lamp above the plotwhich he had immediately begun to repair. ‘Contrary to the laws of nature, I’ve always maintained. Mankind was never meant to probe beneath the depths of the ocean. Mark my words, those new-fangled inventions will come to a bad end.’
‘So will you, if you don’t keep quiet,’ Commander Swanson said acidly. But there was no reprimand in his face, he appreciated as well as any of us the therapeutic breath of fresh air that Rawlings had brought into that tension-laden atmosphere. ‘Holding?’ he went on to the diving officer.
The diving officer raised a finger and grinned. Swanson nodded, swung the coiled-spring microphone in front of him. ‘Captain here,’ he said calmly. ‘Sorry about that bump. Report damage at once.’
A green light flashed in the panel of a box beside him. Swanson touched a switch and a loudspeaker in the deck-head crackled.
‘Manoeuvring room here.’ The manoeuvring room was in the after end of the upper level engine-room, towards the stern. ‘Hit was directly above us here. We could do with a box of candles and some of the dials and gauges are out of kilter. But we still got a roof over our heads.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. You can cope?’
‘Sure we can.’
Swanson pressed another switch. ‘Stern room?’
‘We still attached to the ship?’ a cautious voice inquired.
‘You’re still attached to the ship,’ Swanson assured him. ‘Anything to report?’
‘Only that there’s going to be an awful lot of dirty laundry by the time we get back to Scotland. The washing-machine’s had a kind of fit.’
Swanson smiled and switched off. His face was untroubled, he must have had a special sweat-absorbing mechanism on his face, I felt I could have done with a bath towel. He said to Hansen: ‘That was bad luck. A combination of a current where a current had no right to be, a temperature inversion where a temperature inversion had no right to be, and a pressure ridge where we least expected it. Not to mention the damned opacity of the water. What’s required is a few circuits until we know this polynya like the backs of our hands, a small offset to allow for drift and a little precautionary flooding as we approach the ninety-foot mark.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s what’s required. Point is, what are we going to do?’
‘Just that. Take her up and try again.’
I had my pride so I refrained from mopping my brow. They took her up and tried again. At 200 feet and for fifteen minutes Swanson juggled propellers and rudder till he had the outline of the frozen polynya above as
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