Operation Malacca (15 page)

The mist continued to drift down, smoothing the gently rolling waves that were beginning to show traces of a slowly rising oil slick. A piece of wooden panel bobbed to the surface several feet away, but Jack paid no attention to it. His nose had started to bleed and a reddish-brown tinge appeared beneath his left ear. His beaten body was too insensitive to feel the pain from his tortured chest and lungs as his heart thumped savagely. As he worked with the transmitter to assemble it, he was unaware of the deepening haze that was surrounding him. His leaden fingers fumbled with the microphone lead and he managed to croak a single sentence hoarsely into the recorder.

He fired the transmitter rocket, then followed it with a magnesium flare. He saw it burst into fantastic brilliance before a tiny blood clot found its way into the carotid artery and slipped upward into his brain.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The bridge lookout on the Vigilant spotted the faintly burning magnesium halfway up the horizon through the thickening rain. Captain Whittlson ordered the co-ordinates transmitted to the two MTBs and the helicopter covering the area in a search pattern.

Ìt looks like at least one of the men is all right if they got a flare away,' Collins muttered.

'The dolphin certainly could. not have fired the pistol.' He and Rawingson were staring through binoculars at the fading white glow against the watery sky.

Rawingson grunted. He could feel the deck shift beneath his feet and begin to come up as the ship's engineer responded to full emergency ahead. He was worried. Over forty minutes had passed since they had detected the explosion of the submarine, then moments later, the explosion that ripped apart the missile as it screamed for altitude.

That had followed the tensest, most stomach-tearing quarter hour that he had ever experienced. Keilty's terse recorded message that they were still moving in and for them to get the hell out, had brought the huge cruiser gliding to a standstill, its diesel engines shut down, its missiles tracking onto the hoped-for position of the sub and possible flight paths of the missiles.

Then the sonar operator had clamped his earphones tighter and kicked up the gain. The hydrophones were patched in and the ship's crew felt, rather than heard, the long, drawn-out bass rumble of the exploding submarine at one thousand feet.

Then the radar operator's agonized groan as the plot showed the missile break the surface and ignite. Before the first interceptor could be launched, it winked from the screen and one of the MTBs reported a brilliant flare ten miles from them as the missile exploded and fell harmlessly into the sea.

After that, more fear-filled silence as the cruiser and the MTBs converged on the helicopter's co-ordinates.

Rawingson took a deep breath and put down the glasses. `How long, Captain ... ?'

Whittlson lowered his glasses. 'About six minutes yet, Admiral. The first MTB should be there in less than four minutes.'

Rawingson turned back to the bank of windows. 'Yeah, if we can find them in this pea soup,' he muttered, half to himself.

`Radar should be able to help us this time, Admiral,' Whittlson remarked, his tone more hopeful than certain. 'The waves are rather low and there shouldn't be too much scatter,'

he finished lamely.

'Sonar,' he growled, 'anything on that sonarbuoy yet?' 'No, sir, nothing. I don't think they released it.'

The three men continued to stare ahead, oblivious to the soft hum of conversation that flowed from the command consoles to every part of the cruiser, to the MTBs, and to Atkins in the helicopter.

The rain thickened until the mist became discrete particles of water that flowed down as softly as had the mist, yet it was more intensely obscuring. Visibility was now limited to several hundred feet and the spreading dye, timed to release from Charlie's packs after one hour, bubbled gently until it mingled with and was diluted by the floating patches of lubricating oil that dotted the surface.

One patch of oil and dye floated on the gentle current. This particular current originated far to the north between Japan and the Asiatic mainland and flowed sluggishly south until it mixed with the hundreds of other discrete streams that flowed into the mouth of the strait. As this single current passed around Atuk Island, it split in two distinct parts.

The dolphin and the two humans were approaching this juncture, still more than two miles distant from the reefs surrounding the island. It created, in effect, a giant Venturi that caused the lighter oil and dye to move faster until, instead of pacing the three still forms, it lapped about them until they were directly in the center of the pool.

Charlie came to with a start, his mouth filled with an atonce-familiar cloying sensation.

Instinctively, he shook his head to clear it, and the sudden movement brought him abruptly back to consciousness. He lay still for several seconds, trying to remember where he was. Then the oil on his lips began to sting fiercely, and he shook his head again and plunged beneath the surface to rinse the pain away.

The drag on his harness brought him up again quickly and he took a deep breath and saw the two bodies supported by

the air cushions, their heads out of the water and mouths open in a grim parody of breathing.

He moved quickly to first Keilty, then Weston. Both seemed to be still alive, but he could not tell. He shook his head again and looked around, surprised at how sluggishly his body responded. Memory came flooding back and he knew where he was and why, but not how. The last thing he remembered was heading for the surface, a strong and biting pain clamping itself around his lungs.

Then he wondered where the hell the boats were. He ducked below the surface, but could not pick up the dull rumbling of the sonarbuoy. It hadn't been released. Did anyone know where the devil they were? He nosed at Keilty, then at Jack. Keilty's Very pistol was still clipped to his harness, but Weston's was missing.

He wondered how in hell he was going to fire a flare. Once again he ducked below the surface, but could not get deep enough to receive a decent sonar echo. He was barely three feet beneath, and the signal was lost in backscatter from the choppy surface.

Charlie paused, then tried to swim deeper. He needed at least eight feet to minimize the backscattering echoes for any sizeable range, but the limp bodies supported by the air pillows brought him up short, and try as he might, he could get no deeper. Finally, just about out of breath, he surfaced again. The sluggishness was beginning to leave him, but he still felt torpid and his body refused to answer properly.

Charlie rested on the surface, considering the ridiculous predicament. First of all, the sonarbuoy was gone. Jack must have been verging on unconsciousness to have let the buoy sink without activating it. It had been attached to Jack's harness, and if his own condition was any example, then Jack must have been near complete exhaustion when he found the two of them. And he had probably been fully occupied in releasing them both from the dead weight of their gear. Charlie reached a dead end in his thinking. He knew that with the primitive human sonar equipment aboard the cruiser, that it would be close to a miracle if they were found. The rain was getting thicker and the seas were beginning to chop more strongly than when they had submerged.

The problem then, was to somehow get the two men and himself to safety. He did not know their condition for certain, but neither had moved and he assumed it was extremely bad. He also knew that they could not be expected to spend more than one or two hours longer in the open ocean without dying. In spite of the wet suit, he was beginning to chill rapidly —and he had a good thick layer of insulation.

Charlie set about reviewing this new set of data, evolved from the present situation.

There were several islands in reach. He thought he would be able to tow the two men to the nearest and find a way through the reef. But then what? Keilty had not told him whether they were inhabited. If they were not, what would he do with Keilty and Weston? Charlie was sure they needed medical attention and he would not be able even to get them onto dry land. The hope would be that one of them would regain consciousness and fire a flare. But on the other hand, wasn't there an equal chance that they would be found where they were? Charlie realized that the more he thought, the more confused he became. He wondered finally what it would be like to have hands.

He nosed first at Keilty, then at Jack. No response. Then he swore for a while until he felt better. Then he tried to figure out a way to use the pistol, with only his teeth to work with.

The rain was now definitely coming down harder. The drops were kicking up small ripples as they slanted down into the choppy waves. The wind had dropped away to nothing and again the only sound was that of the rain. Charlie noticed with a start that it was getting darker, then remembered that it would be getting along close to evening. He made a decision.

At least they stood some kind of chance with the island. Charlie turned slowly, pulling the two men into line until Keilty humped along, slightly behind Weston. At least the air pillows kept their heads out of the water. He began swimming slowly forward, surprised at the drag the two limp bodies created.

It was completely dark. Charlie lay exhausted, unable to swim another stroke. He retched feebly and then his body broke into a series of shuddering convulsions, all the more terrible because they wasted the last bit of energy stored in the sleek, gray body. Finally he lay quietly on the surface, riding with the rise and fall of the waves. The rain had increased until it was falling now with a steady drumming. With the return of the always vagrant wind, now stiffening to a mild gale, the waves had picked up until they were short swells four to six feet high that broke occasionally, washing over the three still figures.

Once again, Charlie nosed at the two men, and again, no response. Charlie guessed they were rapidly reaching the end. While it was still light enough to see, he had noticed a pale bluish tint to Keilty's lips and skin. Now another hour had passed and still nothing.

And as far as he could tell, towing the heavy bodies, he had made almost no headway towards the island. After an hour and a half of swimming, he still could not hear the surf which should have roared as it broke on the reefs surrounding the island. The current was carrying them along on its southeastern leg, and by swimming with it, Charlie had gained nearly three miles, but only half a mile toward the island itself.

Now he had only enough strength to turn Keilty and Weston so that they were sheltered in the lee of his body. He was nearing unconsciousness himself, he knew, from exhaustion, and what was worse, from shock. He felt himself slipping into sleep. He wondered idly again, as he had many times in the past two hours, if he could get deep enough to find the ships with sonar. But even if he found them, the knowledge wouldn't help him, because he had no way of signaling their position. Sleep closed in as he drifted further and further into black nothingness, except for a clamoring somewhere in his mind. What was it? ... he fought back up ... something that he had thought . . . something

. . . then he had it. Sonar. His sonar. He did not need it to find the ships. They needed it to find him.

Sleep brushed at him again and his eyes closed slowly. Then he was awake again. He couldn't sleep. They would all die here, unless . . . He moved awkwardly and submerged, his lower jaw drawn in as tightly as possible, and he began his echo — ranging at a wide angle. The echoes roared back from the surface in a cacophony of signal noise that roared and screamed pain in his skull. He did not need to locate anything, just create a sonar disturbance in as localized an area and at as low a frequency as possible. His lowest band length was near the upper limits of human sonar gear. The pain screamed at him, competed with the sleep of exhaustion for possession of his mind, but he knew if he stopped, he would sleep and they would all die.

They had to be listening. Fifteen minutes later, the great dolphin passed out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rawingson sank onto the padded swivel stool, his eyes red-rimmed and heavily circled from peering through the binoculars. He stared dully at the consoles backed along the aft bulkhead of the bridge. The sweat-stained shirts of the console operators clung to their backs as they slumped wearily, yet alert, peering at their instruments. The radar monitor had channeled his sweep image to a large display screen over the bridge's forward ports, while he continued to stare at the smaller console screen, his fingers playing delicately over the keyboard as he directed the beam along its vectored search pattern. Nothing showed on the twin image that flickered above their heads but the small dots marking the location of the MTBs, making a visual search, and at the end of every sweep, the diffused bulk of Atuk Island to the north.

The elapsed-time chronometer showed three hours and sixteen minutes since the search had begun.

The met. report, stuck to the magnetized bulletin board, mocked him. The water temperature was down tb 67° F., eight degrees below the normal temperature for these equatorial waters. The air temperature was 66° and the wind at twenty-three knots. The cold front had swept southerly in a matter of hours from off the Indonesian island chain, pushing the monsoon south again, but worsening survival conditions for the men and the dolphin. If there was any hope remaining at all.

The rain was steady as the cruiser plowed steadily towards Atuk Island at five knots.

Shortly they would swing around to move west in an ever-narrowing square search pattern.

Rawingson tried again to guess at the innumerable conditions that could keep the men silent, yet still alive. His best guess was that, no matter what, their time was running out.

They would be exhausted, and at 67° F. they would not last long unless fully conscious.

And if they were conscious, why hadn't they signaled again?

His thoughts were interrupted as the radioman handed a flimsy to Whittlson. He paraphrased it slowly:

`The Saratoga is moving down from the South China Sea. They are going to launch two specially equipped aircraft for

night search, which should reach us in little less than two hours.

He looked helplessly at Rawingson. Before Rawingson could answer, the sonar operator grabbed his headphones, then flicked a switch that filled the bridge with a curious rumbling roar over its PA system.

'What the hell?' Collins growled, swinging around quickly to stare at Rawingson.

The sonar operator turned and half lifted an earphone. 'We're picking up a strange sonar signal, sir. It's full of echoes and subechoes and right near the top end of the bandspread'

He turned back to the console, fingers playing swiftly over the keys: the sound fluctuated once, then died away abruptly.

'Did you get a fix?' Rawingson rapped out.

'Aye, sir, bearing two-nine-six at fourteen miles, three hundred feet and some odd . . .

just a moment, sir . . . three hundred and twenty feet.'

Rawingson could see the electronic star marker on the overhead screen settle on the spot designated, close to the blip marking the island.

Rawingson was puzzled momentarily: then he shot out of his seat and was across the bridge. 'Captain!' Rawingson roared as he moved to the radar console. 'That might be them using the dolphin as a sonar marker.'

The radar operator carefully narrowed his sweep to the designated area, cranking the successively narrowing image up in magnification to fill the screen. Then Rawingson saw them: three fluctuating blips, very faint, almost invisible.

'That might be them, sir. The flickering could be caused by the waves.'

Rawingson let out his breath in one long hiss. Collins and Whittlson flanked him on either side, bending over the radar operator to watch the three, sometimes two, or one, blips flickering on the glowing screen.

'Helm, round on a course of two-nine-six, flank emergency,' Whittlson rapped out. '

Wireless, pass the information and exact location to the MTBs, and have four-oh-three get to them immediately. What is his exact range?'

`Little over four miles, sir ...

Rawingson found that his knees were refusing to support him and stumbled back to the chair. For the third time that day he felt the cruiser plummet ahead at close to forty-five knots. A shudder passed through his body and a moment of

utter detachment cut him loose from the bridge; then he was sitting in the chair, trying to calm his hands that insisted on shaking so badly he could not light a cigarette.

MTh 403 idled alongside the three still forms. Two life-jacketed sailors went over the side and swam the few short feet separating them. In the dead illumination of the MTB's searchlight, the three bodies appeared to be awash in quietly rolling surf with occasional waves breaking to roll them to and fro. The two sailors reached the unconscious dolphin first and found the life line that tied them all together. Then the MTh was alongside and willing hands hauled them up one by one. As soon as they were stretched on the deck, the MTh came about in a tight turn and roared off to meet the approaching cruiser.

Four minutes later, the MTB was alongside and stretcher slings slammed down onto the deck. No time was wasted in preliminary examination. Keilty and Weston were quickly slipped into the stretchers and were away, while Charlie's tank, retrieved earlier from the helicopter, was dropped down onto the deck.

Rawingson rode with the ship's doctor as the tractor broke speed records in getting them into the sick bay.