Slowly, the nightmare lifted and left him peaceful in the womb-like stillness of the boat.
Stillness!
Ramsey sat bolt upright in his bunk, wide awake, every sense crying out against the strange new element: quiet. He reached behind him and snapped on his bunk light. It was dim—showing that they were on emergency batteries.
“Johnny!” It was Sparrow’s voice over the wall speaker.
“Here, Skipper.”
“Get up to your shack on the double. We’re having pile trouble.”
“I’m on my way!”
His feet hit the deck, fumbled into shoes. He snapped off his bunk light, ran out the door, up the ladder two steps at a time, down the companionway and into his shack station, talk switch open. “On station, Skipper. Is it serious?”
Bonnett’s voice came back. “Full-scale flare-up.”
“Where’s the skipper?”
“Forward with Joe.”
“Joe shouldn’t be anywhere near that! He’s still on the hot list!”
“It was Joe’s watch. You know how—”
“Johnny!” Sparrow’s voice over the intercom.
“Here.”
“Secure the shack for minimum power drain and come forward.”
“Right.” Ramsey found that his hands knew automatically which switches to hit. He blessed the long hours of patience with the mock-up board. This was what Reed had meant: “There is no such thing as a minor emergency aboard a submarine.” He made the conventional glancearound double check: standby light glowing amber, jacks out, main switch up, relay circuit to control room plugged in and green. He thumbed his chest mike: “Les, she’s all yours.”
“On your way.”
He ran out the door, turned right up the companionway, through the control room without glancing at Bonnett, and out onto the central catwalk. The laboring hum of one engine turning slowly on battery power to give them headway permeated the engine room.
Garcia stood beside the tunnel hatch down forward to the left, his hands fumbling with the zipper of an ABG suit.
Ramsey’s first thought was: What’s wrong with Sparrow? He can’t let Joe go in there! Then he understood the significance of the scene.
The nozzle of a detergent hose was racked beside Garcia. Sparrow stood about twenty feet away on the lower catwalk. The space between them showed raw splashes of detergent spray. As Sparrow took a step forward, Garcia stopped working with the zipper, put a hand on the nozzle.
“Stay where you are, Skipper!”
Garcia’s voice was metallic and seemed to echo in the engine room and Ramsey realized the man was talking into the open mike of his ABG suit.
Garcia lifted the hose nozzle, pointed it at Sparrow. “One step more and I’ll let you have another taste of this.”
Ramsey went to the left hand-ladder, dropped down to Sparrow’s level. He saw that the front of Sparrow’s uniform was dripping with detergent, and winced at the thought of what that high-pressure jet spray could do to a man.
“Shall we rush him, Skipper?” he asked. “I could drop down to—”
“Well, if it isn’t the head thumper,” said Garcia. The zipper on his suit suddenly unjammed and he pulled it closed, reached back and folded the hood forward over his head, sealed it. The quartz-plate front gleamed at them like a malignant Cyclops eye.
Sparrow glanced at Ramsey, turned back to Garcia. “We couldn’t move an inch against that hose. We have to reason with him.”
“Let the head thumper reason with me,” said Garcia, his voice booming from the bulkhead speaker above them. “That’s his department.”
“He’s only four days from a radiation overdose,” said Ramsey.
“This is my show,” said Garcia. “This is my big scene. I’m going to crawl that tunnel and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Besides, I know this end of the ship better than any of you.”
Ramsey looked down at the open door to the tunnel, realized abruptly that it was the same tunnel in which they had found the dead Security officer.
Garcia half turned toward the door.
“Joe, stop!” barked Sparrow. “That’s an order!” He made a sudden dash forward, was bowled over backward by a hard stream of detergent spray.
Behind him, Ramsey caught part of the spray, slipped to his knees. By the time they had scrambled to their feet, Garcia had disappeared into the tunnel, closing the door behind him.
Sparrow said, “He took a wrecking bar with him. He’s going to jam the hatch dogs inside so we can’t follow him.”
They heard metal banging on metal.
Garcia’s voice came over the bulkhead speaker. “That’s right, Skipper. Can’t have you fellows trying to steal my scene. You have front-row seats; enjoy the show.”
“Has he gone off his rocker?” asked Ramsey.
Sparrow slipped down to the tunnel door, tested the dogs. “Jammed!”
“Has he gone psychotic?” asked Ramsey.
“Of course not!” barked Sparrow. “There’s a full-scale flare-up in that pile room. He’s gone in to do what he can.”
Ramsey looked at the snooper above the tunnel door, saw that its needle was jammed in the red. “Skipper! It’s hot here!”
Sparrow slapped the snooper with one hand and the needle swung back into the seven-hour-limit zone. “Jammed when he opened the door.” He turned to the tool rack beside the door. “Joe! Do you hear me?”
“Sure, Skipper. No need to shout. I’m almost at the tunnel curve.”
“Joe, defiance of orders is a serious offense.”
Garcia’s laughter roared from the speaker. “So sue me!”
“What happened in the pile room?” asked Ramsey.
Sparrow began pulling tools from the rack. “Our repairs didn’t hold. Tie bolts sheared. The whole reactor slipped to the left, jammed the remote-control bank.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “The batteries will give us steerage control for about another thirty minutes. When we lose steerage, the planes won’t be able to hold us level and over we go. Over goes the pile. If we’re lucky it’ll reach critical mass. If we’re unlucky, the whole boat will be contaminated and us with it. That’ll be the slow way out.”
“And if Joe lives through this, you’ll have his hide,” said Ramsey. “Even though he’s risking—”
“You blasted idiot!” shouted Sparrow. “What do you mean if he lives? Don’t you know there’s only one way to get that pile back onto its base?”
All Ramsey could think was: I did it! I cracked through that iron control! Now his emotions can take a normal—
“Skipper!” It was Bonnett’s voice over the intercom.
Sparrow spoke into his chest mike. “Yes?”
“I’m tuned to the portside pile-room eye over the tunnel plates. They’re moving out toward—Good God! Joe! Get out of there! Skipper! He’s in the pile room!”
“That’s what I meant,” murmured Sparrow. “Our Father, protect him.” He stared at the tunnel door. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no—’”
“Now hear this.” It was Garcia’s voice from the bulkhead speaker. “I can last maybe fifteen minutes. When I get the remote-control bank cleared, be ready to take over.”
“Sure, Joe,” whispered Sparrow. He swung open a panel on the forward bulkhead, revealing the direct controls to the left-side bank. The telltale lights glowed red when he threw in the switch.
“He’s a dead man already,” said Ramsey.
“Quiet!” barked Sparrow. “Tune that bulkhead screen above us to that pile-room eye.”
Ramsey jumped to obey. The screen came to life. It showed Garcia’s figure bulky in an ABG suit. He was bent over, rigging jacks to force the reactor onto its foundation. As they watched, Garcia began to turn the screws. Slow
ly, the deadly block inched toward its proper position. They could feel Bonnett adjusting the planes to accommodate for the shifting weight.
Sparrow bent over the tools he had removed from the bulkhead rack, hefted a big Stillson wrench. “Let’s try one of those dogs,” he said.
“The only way he could’ve jammed it is from the bottom,” said Ramsey. “If we force it down, break it off and—”
Sparrow fitted the wrench to the upper dog, said, “They drilled you well for your little job.”
Now, what’s he mean by that? thought Ramsey.
“Here, give me a hand,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey took told of the wrench.
Together, they bore down on the handle. Abruptly, the dog twisted, snapped off. Ramsey took a punch and hammer from the stack of tools, knocked the fitting through the door into the tunnel.
Sparrow had the wrench fitted to the other dog.
Ramsey glanced up at the screen. The reactor was back on its foundation, and Garcia was securing it with new lag bolts.
“Let’s go,” said Sparrow.
They snapped off the other dog, heard a clatter of metal in the tunnel as Garcia’s wrecking bar fell away. Sparrow pried the door open, swung it wide.
The snooper’s needle jammed in the red.
“Suits,” said Sparrow. He motioned toward the locker.
“Skipper.” It was Garcia’s voice from the speaker. “Tell my wife she doesn’t have to be afraid any more. She’ll understand.”
“Sure, Joe.”
“Tell her to go someplace and change her name.”
“Why?”
Ramsey passed him an ABG suit, began scrambling into his own.
“Johnny’ll understand.”
Sparrow slipped into the suit, looked at Ramsey. “Well?”
Ramsey shook his head, unable to speak.
Sparrow spoke into his mike as he sealed the hood in place. “Joe, we’ve forced the door. I’m bringing in the detergent hose and a cool suit. Come out of there.”
“I’m too hot,” said Garcia. “Leave me here.”
“Come out or I’ll come in after you,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey handed Sparrow a fresh ABG suit, glanced up at the bulkhead screen. It showed Garcia’s squat-suited figure, standing beside the tunnel plates. Above him, one of the giant remote-control manuals swung outward. At the same time, Bonnett’s voice came over the intercom. “The control bank’s free, Skipper. I can take it from here. Get that damned fool out of there. He may still have a chance.” Bonnett was almost sobbing.
“I’m coming in after you,” said Sparrow.
“You don’t understand,” shouted Garcia. “Stay out of here, Skipper!”
“I’m coming,” repeated Sparrow. He freed the detergent hose from its reel clip.
Garcia’s voice rose almost to a scream. “Skipper! I’m your spy! Don’t be a fool!”
“You’re my engineering officer,” said Sparrow. He bent for the tunnel, slid into it, dragging hose and ABG suit behind him.
Garcia’s voice came to them: “You can’t—” He fell silent, choked, coughed, collapsed onto the reactor-room floor.
Around Ramsey in the engine room, lights brightened, the four motors resumed their normal humming. He could feel the Ram’s response through his feet as though it were a report from someone outside himself. He was unable to tear his gaze from the screen. The giant manual arm swung out over Garcia’s prone figure, clasped him gently, lifted him into the tunnel, replaced the cover plates.
“I’ve got him,” said Sparrow. A gush of detergent washed out the mouth of the tunnel.
Ramsey jumped to the bulkhead console, started a pump removing the hot fluid.
“Johnny!” Sparrow’s voice.
He spoke into his suit mike. “Here, Skipper.”
Sparrow’s voice lowered. “You don’t have to help in this, Johnny. Get away from the tunnel mouth if you value your virility. Joe’s hot. Very hot.”
“I’ve already got two kids,” said Ramsey. “Bring him out.”
“Here he is.”
Garcia’s limp body was extruded from the tunnel mouth like an insect from its burrow. Ramsey eased him to the deck. Sparrow followed.
“I almost drowned him in detergent getting him into his suit. It’s already too hot.”
Ramsey bent over, unzipped the front of Garcia’s suit. Sparrow helped him pull the limp figure from it. They hustled Garcia into the decontamination chamber. Sparrow removed his own suit, went in with Garcia. Ramsey took the suits, stuffed them into the tunnel mouth, stripped off his own and pressed it in after the others. He closed the door, wedged it with the Stillson wrench.
The door to the decon chamber popped open. Sparrow emerged nude, dragging Garcia after him in like condition. “We’ll have to replace every drop of his blood,” said Sparrow. “Get in there and shed your clothes, then come up to the rec room.” He stooped, lifted Garcia over his shoulder and went up the ladder to the catwalk, muscles knotting on his legs and back with the strain of the load.
Ramsey paused to speak into his chest mike. “Les, Skipper is bringing Joe up. Better lend a hand.” Then he ducked into the decon chamber, slapped the medium-jet control. The harsh streams, designed for a man in a protective suit, bit into his flesh with a stinging pressure. Ramsey shucked out of his clothes, kicked them into a corner, stopped the spray, went out and followed Sparrow’s wet footprints up the ladder.
He was afraid to look back at the snooper above the tunnel door. Jammed in the red. We’ve had it, but good, he thought.
Bonnett was still at the helm as Ramsey entered the control room. “Wouldn’t let me help,” he said. He motioned toward the door aft.
Ramsey continued after the line of wet footprints. Naked of soul, naked of body, he thought. Now we’re down to the simplest essentials.
In the rec room, Sparrow had Garcia stretched out on a cot, a plasma bottle hung above him, its tube leading into a vein. Sparrow was setting up a blood-exchange unit on the opposite side of the cot, adjusting the vein and artery taps, the flow meters, the height of the armrest.
Ramsey went to the live-blood storage, checked the automatic circulation and revitalization systems, found them operative.
“Blood ready,” he said. He turned.
Sparrow said, “Right.” He plugged the blood exchange into the live-blood circulating system, put a hand on the valve. “Monitor what we pump out of him.”
Ramsey went to the head of the blood-exchange unit, glanced at the taps which Sparrow had adjusted to Garcia’s arm. The engineering officer’s breath was coming in slow, shallow rhythm, the movement of his chest discernible. The skin of his face and chest had a mottled blue cyanotic appearance.
Sparrow opened the exchange valve. Blood from Garcia’s body began to flow into the unit’s lead-lined storage system as the new blood was pumped into his body. Immediately, Ramsey’s monitor snooper swung far right, stuck there.
“He’s off the meter, Skipper.”
Sparrow nodded. “Shall I use it all?”
“What do you mean?”
“There won’t be any blood left for us.”
Ramsey’s memory flashed back to a vision of the tunnel snooper jammed in the red. “We’ll get by with plasma,” he said.
“My thought. I’m glad you agree.” He came around the cot, unhooked the plasma tube from Garcia’s left arm. “If we need it, that is. And I’m more apt to than you are. I was in that tunnel.”
“Let’s save a couple of changes for you,” said Ramsey. “You never can—”
“I’ll be all right.”
Ramsey fell silent, watching the monitor dial. It stayed against the right-hand pin.
“I got his shots into him and took my own before you came up,” said Sparrow. “We’d better check you now.”
“Go ahead,” said Ramsey. He held out his left arm, kept his gaze on the monitor dial. “Three changes through him by now for sure and he’s still off the meter. Skipper, I?
??ve never heard of—”
“This is the de-carb,” said Sparrow. “It’ll hurt.” He grasped Ramsey’s arm, injected the serum precipitate into the muscle. “Don’t worry about Joe. He’s in God’s hands, now.”
“Aren’t we all,” said Ramsey.
“Skipper!” It was Bonnett’s voice over the intercom.
Sparrow stepped to a wall mike, flipped the switch. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve just checked out the pile. All secure.”
“Set course for Charleston,” said Sparrow. “Force speed.”
“Aye. How’s Joe?”
“It’s too soon to know.”
“Tell me if—”
“We will.” Sparrow closed the switch.
Garcia stirred on the cot; his lips moved and he twisted his head from side to side. Suddenly, he spoke, his voice surprisingly strong. “I’ve gotta do it, Bea! They’ll get at me through our kids, don’t you understand?”
He seemed to be listening.
“I can’t tell anybody! They’d shoot me!”
“Easy, Joe,” said Sparrow.
Garcia’s eyes flickered open, closed, opened. He stared blankly at Sparrow. “Where’s Bea! Did they hurt her?”
“She’ll be all right,” said Sparrow.
Garcia shuddered. “If we could’ve just gone somewhere and changed our name. That’s all.” He closed his eyes.
“Do you know where you are?” asked Sparrow.
Garcia nodded. “Nightmare.”
“He’s on the meter,” said Ramsey. “But so far into the probable fatal that—”
“Be quiet,” said Sparrow. He checked the change-count dial in the blood system. “Eight down.”
“And sixteen to go,” said Ramsey.
Sparrow reduced the rate of flow.
“You should’ve left me in there,” said Garcia.
“Don’t talk foolish,” said Sparrow.
“I was trained Buenos Aires spy school,” said Garcia. “Twenty years ago. Then I came up here an’ met Bea. So I quit. Easy. They’d taught me how to hide in plain sight.”
“He shouldn’t be talking,” said Ramsey. “Blood pressure’s up.”
“Gotta talk,” said Garcia. “They found me six months ago, said, ‘Come through, or else!’ Our kids. Y’ understand?”