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Authors: Alistair MacLean
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pause, then: "All ahead one third. No. All stop."
"Speed zero," Raeburn said.
"Twenty-one twenty feet," Swanson said to the diving officer. "But gently, gently."
A strong, steady hum echoed in the control center. 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 at the rate of ascent. The sound faded.
"Secure flooding," the diving officer said. "Steady on one hundred 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 hand grips and peered through the eye-piece.
"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-dollar question," Hansen admitted, "and the answer is that we don't know. 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 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 upward 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 remote-controlled to look up or around."
"You could do with a new camera, couldn't you?" The TV screen was gray, 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 flood-lit. Like driving into a heavy fog with your headlights full on."
"Floodlights off," Swanson said. The screen became quite blank. "Floodlights on." The same drifting, misty gray 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. Blindman'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
"Speed zero," Raeburn said.
"Twenty-one twenty feet," Swanson said to the diving officer. "But gently, gently."
A strong, steady hum echoed in the control center. 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 at the rate of ascent. The sound faded.
"Secure flooding," the diving officer said. "Steady on one hundred 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 hand grips and peered through the eye-piece.
"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-dollar question," Hansen admitted, "and the answer is that we don't know. 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 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 upward 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 remote-controlled to look up or around."
"You could do with a new camera, couldn't you?" The TV screen was gray, 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 flood-lit. Like driving into a heavy fog with your headlights full on."
"Floodlights off," Swanson said. The screen became quite blank. "Floodlights on." The same drifting, misty gray 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. Blindman'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
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