Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (9 page)

"I christen thee the
Nemo!"
Chow murmured in respectful awe, cracking the bottle on the stern.

Inside the dome of the tiny control cockpit, now completely submerged, Bud shot Tom a thumbs-up, and Tom eased forward on the thrust-control lever. The jetmarine instantly betrayed her great power. The boys had to brace themselves against the acceleration as the craft slid out of the dry dock and made a fast, easy getaway down the inlet.

Faces flushed with the excitement of the moment, their eyes met. "She really
is
an underwater jet, aqua boy—I mean, skipper
!"
cheered Bud. "She just couldn’t wait to get herself wet from stem to stern!"

"Hey,
this
isn’t getting
wet,"
Tom laughed.
"This
is just a toe in the water. Wait’ll we push this baby to the limit!"

A mile out in the ocean on a south by south-eastern heading, Tom, unable to wait any longer, said: "Bud, shall we take her down for the first deep water run?"

"I’d hate to try stopping you!" Bud chortled, and made his way forward to a small flip-down seat near the very front of the nose-dome. Here the jetmarine tapered, and the sturdy six-footer had to crouch down to avoid bumping his head. "Go ahead, Tom—she’s all yours. I’m just here to get a fish-eye view!"

As Tom set the automatic controls for the crucial descent, which would be guided principally by sonar, Bud took in the beauty of the shallow waters around him, illuminated by the rising sun. "This is super, Tom!" Bud cried out. "With that bright sun on the surface, you can see way ahead!"

For minutes Bud gazed around in rapt fascination, watching schools of mackerel, blues, and other coastal fish scoot through the yellow-green water as the
Nemo
shot by them, its hydraulic jet making only a soft
whoosh
thanks to the noise-abating design of the thrust chambers.

Tom turned from the instrument panel and spoke over his shoulder. "Ready now—I’m going to run her at high speed, then follow the grade of the continental shelf down to deep water."

The young inventor activated the automatic navigational program and grabbed the support railing. The atomic craft surged ahead. Faster and faster and with no vibration the
Nemo
picked up momentum.

The speed indicator went higher and higher, and the sands below and scalloped waves above became blurs. Finally Bud exclaimed, "From what you told me, Tom, this is almost twice as fast as anyone has traveled underwater before!"

Tom’s face creased into a pleased grin. "We could outrace any old fish in the sea—and maybe a torpedo to boot!"

So quickly were they traveling that they were already leaving behind the North American continental shelf. The first sign of their automated descent was a gradual change in the color of the overhead sun-glow from turquoise to a deeper blue. Then Bud pointed out that the deck had assumed a fairly noticeable downward tilt.

"Yep," replied Tom, "here’s where the shelf takes a sudden drop, and we’re running parallel to the slope. We’ll level off again in a minute."

Down and down went the
Nemo,
into the depths of the mid-Atlantic. A look of strained anticipation appeared on the two adventurers’ faces as they plunged into a trackless darkness that had never seen the light of day, not in five billion years.

Finally, as predicted, the jetmarine leveled off. After a moment Tom applied the thrust-reversers, and slowly brought the craft to a halt, powering down the engines. The mild but continuous background sound of the hydraulic jet was replaced by a solemn silence.

"Tom," murmured Bud in a near whisper,
"where are we?"

The young inventor consulted his bank of instruments. "We’re floating a few yards above the floor of the Hatteras Plain at a depth of about fourteen-hundred fathoms."

Bud gulped. "Saying it in fathoms makes it sound like a lot. What is it in feet?"

"Well, ye landlubber, something under seventy-four hundred feet." Tom gave a grin. "In other words, more than one mile straight down!"

Bud returned his pal’s grin with a wan smile. "That
all?
Er, by the way, when do we test the
Nemo’s
surfacing equipment?"

"No time like the present," Tom replied. "I suppose it
is
kind of important!"

Tom decided to blow ballast and let the jetmarine rise to the surface in unpowered mode. With the same flawless performance that she’d shown in her dive, the atomic sub responded to her young skipper’s control and nosed upward in a seemingly effortless glide. The darkness slowly lifted. Then, with a lunge of surprising suddenness, the
Nemo
broke the surface, and Tom and Bud had to shield their eyes against the morning sun.

"What a dream!" Bud murmured enthusiastically. "Your jetmarine can do anything!"

"Quite a bit, at least," Tom replied with his customary modesty. "I even hope to solve the mystery of the phantom bottom."

Bud scratched his head and was about to query Tom when the young inventor continued, "But first we have to locate the
Vostok
—then on to the mystery area!"

"Aye-aye, skipper," Bud replied. "To the pirate’s lair—X marks the spot!"

SUBMERGING ONCE AGAIN, the jetmarine turned her prow westward, traversing the Strait of Florida at jet speed and entering the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

"We’ll have to be a little careful to avoid Cuba’s territorial boundaries," Tom noted. "Things being as they are."

The
Nemo
skirted the northern shores of the great island of Cuba, then proceeded onward south of west.

"We’re ‘in the zone’ now, Bud," Tom commented. "This is Rita Scheering’s mystery region."

"I don’t see anything but water and more water! But as far as the
Vostok
—" Bud paused to check the cartographic readout. "Man, I can’t believe how far we’ve gone in just a couple hours! Skipper, we’re almost there!"

He handed Tom a detailed chart which the young scientist studied for a few minutes, comparing it to a number of undersea survey photos taken by the Aia Ozkhodskaya expedition.

"There’s a pretty good match of rock formations and ocean floor topography," said Tom at last. "If this oceanographic survey is accurate, we ought to hit the
Vostok
right on the button."

Tom switched on a powerful multifrequency light, developed to cut the gloom of deep waters over a wide area. Immediately the blue-green shadows fell back, revealing a sandy plain pierced by upthrusting rocks and dotted with forests of weird-hued vegetation. Countless species of aquatic life, dazzled by the
Nemo
’s submarine sun, were streaking off in all directions.

Tom cut the speed of the jetmarine. "See anything, Bud? I don’t."

"I’m not sure," Tom’s pal replied hesitantly. "Kill the interior lights—it might help."

The two gazed out onto the fathoms-deep plain. Suddenly Bud reached over and touched Tom’s wrist.

"Look over there," Bud said softly. The
Nemo
was approaching an odd-looking seabed formation, which appeared to lead downward into shadow.

Tom consulted the undersea chart. "It’s not on the map—maybe too narrow." He looked up at Bud. "It’s a river valley!"

Bud looked skeptical. "They have rivers under water?"

"This is evidence that this part of the Gulf was above sea level, and not so very long ago, either," responded Tom thoughtfully. "Maybe there’s something to Madame Ozkhodskaya’s ‘Atlantis’ theory after all!"

Tom steered the jetmarine out over the subocean chasm, keeping a close eye on the craft’s detector instruments. Suddenly he gave a grunt of excitement and threw the lever to initiate a rapid descent.

"Metal down below," he explained, "and big!"

Bud craned his neck, looking around the narrow deck that formed the floor of the nose-dome. "Tom, I see it!" he cried. "I’m sure it’s a sub!"

The young inventor was at his friend’s side immediately.

"I guess this is it, all right," Tom said. "That’s Cyrillic lettering on the side—Russian!"

"Looks like…C C C P."

Tom nodded. "USSR—Union of Soviet Socialist Republics! And the other lettering—O S T O—I’ll bet the whole word is
Vostok!"

Bud flashed a grin at Tom. "Nice navigating, mariner—if you don’t mind a compliment from a land-lubber."

Tom deftly turned the jetmarine, maneuvering it to set down in the sand about one hundred feet from the looming hulk. "Just to be safe," Tom explained.

"Safe from what?" asked Bud.

"Soggy sea ghosts!"

As planned, Bud now took over the controls while Tom wriggled into a Fat Man suit. Then he squeezed into the pressure chamber, releasing the sliding panel in the side of the submarine when pressures inside and out had equalized.

"Here goes!" he sonophoned to Bud..

"Nice day for a walk," was Bud’s comment as he waved at Tom through the view-pane.

Tom stepped out onto the ocean floor.

He waited breathlessly to see what the effect on the Fat Man would be. There was no apparent change, and all instrument lights showed green. The young inventor sighed in relief and activated the suit’s microjets, propelling himself toward the dark, angled hulk of the sunken vessel.

The
Vostok
had settled stern first, and Tom touched down underneath the upended bow, which was plaited in so much dangling sea growth it resembled a huge weeping willow.

He switched his sonophone again to report to Bud. "Taking water samples now," he said. "But no sign of radiation."

"Any ghosts?"

"Ask me that after I’m inside! Anyway, this portside seems to be overgrown but undamaged," he said. "I’ll head around to starboard."

"Roger," Bud answered. "I’ll bring the
Nemo
along behind you."

Tom made his way underneath the bow, his underwater lamps, built into the "cuffs" of the suit’s tubular arms as well as its chest and shoulders, casting an almost solid bar of illumination ahead of him. Reaching the other side of the ship, Tom methodically played the light along the hull. When he came amidships, the beam was swallowed up by a gaping jagged-edged hole.

"Here it is!" Tom exclaimed. "There’s a gash big enough to drive a truck through."

Glancing back over his shoulder without turning the Fat Man, Tom saw Bud peering through transparent nose of the jetmarine. "Whoa, a direct torpedo hit!" Bud exclaimed.

"I don’t think so," Tom replied. He walked the Fat Man suit up to the hull, examining the upper steel plates more closely. "The force of the blast was out, not in."

"Where did that Russian official say the uranium was stored?"

"There was some shielded storage in Number Four hold, just aft of midships," Tom replied. "I’ll head for there. I’ll also want to check the bulkhead integrity of the missile bay, as well as the reactor itself. But all REM readings are normal," he added, referring to the measure of radiation.

"Tom…"

"What, pal?"

"All those men in the sub—her crew… You’ll be plowing through whatever’s left of them."

"It’s been forty years, Bud," Tom replied, his attention on the Fat Man’s instruments. "Dr. Nemastov is sure the whole sub must have ruptured, leaving no air pockets. Their remains have been taken care of by the marine life around here, some of which is too small to be visible."

Using the microjets Tom lifted off from the sea floor and propelled himself cautiously through the break in the hull, which was more than wide enough to admit him. He stood in front of the opening for a moment, illuminated by the
Nemo
’s lamp. Then the Fat Man turned and trudged off out of sight.

"Visibility poor in here," Tom reported. "Hanging weed everywhere, like spider-webbing. The supergyros are having no trouble keeping the suit upright, thank goodness."

There was a long pause. Bud envisioned his pal slowly making his way along a sharply slanting corridor, which by now would look more like an undersea cave.

"It’s strange," came Tom’s voice suddenly.

"What is, skipper?"

"How quiet it is… eerie and dark… and then every now and then something familiar appears out of nowhere, like a chair or a lightbulb…
oh!"

"What did you find?" Bud demanded tensely.

"Are you sure you want to know? Part of a skeleton, picked clean." There was another pause. "Bud, I’m pretty sure the reactor coolant system blew; that’s what made the hole. She would have twirled around and around going down, like a top…"

Bud didn’t like the strange tone in Tom’s voice. "Are you okay, Tom?"

"Fine. No ghosts yet…Here, the missile bay door—luckily the blast twisted the bulkhead and forced the door out of its slot." Tom presently reported that he was inside the missile bay. Then:

"What’s—?"

"Tom?" Bud nervously barked into the sonophone mike. "Find something?"

"Using the arms… need to clear away this junk all around… hanging stuff blocking my…"

Suddenly Bud’s sonophone was jolted by a burst of static! "Tom!" Bud cried into the microphone.
"Tom Swift! Do you read?"

There was no reply!

"TOM! TOM!" Bud cried frantically, clicking the sonophone unit to different channels. But only silence answered his calls.

A clammy sweat broke out on Bud’s forehead. He was at the bottom of the sea, virtually alone. His best friend was in trouble, perhaps fatally injured. Both Tom’s life and his great invention were his responsibility! He must rescue Tom.

"Tom, hold on," Bud shouted into the mike. "Hold on as long as you can. I’ll be right with you!"

After checking the instrument panel to be sure the submarine would remain stationary, Bud sealed himself into the other Fat Man and hastened to the compression chamber. When the hatch panel was fully open he activated the suit’s jet propulsion and came flying out into liquid space, heading toward the gash in the side of the
Vostok
.

Putting on hold all thoughts of spectral mariners, Bud plunged into the sub, trying to follow the traces Tom’s passage had left. He found the missile bay, its thick door almost twisted off its hinges, and entered without hesitation. He swung about right and left with his two flashlamp beams, but could see no more than a couple yards in any direction due to the hanging creperie of vegetation.