An Eye for an Eye
IT was a strange world of blackness, where trees waved slowly and gently and unsuspected hillsides rose up and fell away with appalling suddenness.
Hawk Ridley and Vick walked side by side, unable to express their fears and hopes, held dumb in the silence of a copper helmet through which came only the faint gurgle of escaping air. The waterproof compass Vick had found in her belt helped them, but Hawk looked beyond the reach of their marine lamp and wondered whether they were walking out into the Caribbean, or approaching the wrecks as he had calculated.
It was hard to gauge distance, for their steps were either long or short in accordance with the bottom, but now and then Hawk saw a plant or rock or hill that looked familiar and took heart.
Then Vick tripped over a metal object and stooped to pick it up. Hawk turned the light on it and nodded. It was a valve wheel that might possibly belong to the dead Stingaree.
They made their slow way around great, fantastic ferns where sea beasts might lurk, and walked across white sand clearings decked with weirdly beautiful flowers and coral plants colorful beyond description.
At last Hawk stopped with a sigh of relief: far to their right he had caught the gleam of metal through the black water. He led Vick on until they stood in the triangle formed by the wrecks of the Ciudad de Oro, the Stingaree and the temporarily helpless submarine.
Hawk went to work immediately and inched himself along the rusty sides of the undersea boat till he had cleared out all the vents he had stopped up. He allowed himself a grin as he pulled the pick out of the horizontal fin joint and worked the elevators up and down to assure himself they were ready for his purpose.
He boosted himself up the steel plates until he stood outside the compression chamber. The watertight door was closed on the outside, as he had left it, and he prayed that the deserting men had been farsighted enough to leave the cell flooded for future salvage.
Gritting his teeth against the possible insweep of water which might batter him against the plates, Hawk swung the door open. All was well within. He helped Vick up beside him then, and together they entered the small room and made sure the watertight door was securely closed.
When the water had fallen away from them and the pressure had lessened, they slipped down the hatchway and into the submarine.
Hawk searched about for switches and clicked on the light. He was thankful to note that the deserting commander had made every provision for retaining the boat’s seaworthiness. All was in readiness for the ascent.
Vick started to take off her helmet, but Hawk placed his copper shell close to hers and shouted, “Don’t! The air’s bad down here. Help me find the ballast valves!”
It was no easy task, lumbering about in a cumbersome diving suit in those narrow confines, nor was it the simple work of a moment to discover the key valve wheels which would blast compressed air into the ballast tanks and force out the sea water. But, after many efforts, Hawk managed it.
In the control station high in the conning tower, he threw in the switches that started the electric engines, and smiled with satisfaction when he heard them purr into life. He gave the “diving piano” a dubious study, then decided upon several of the metal arms and he pulled them toward him.
Sand rasped against the hull, and the submarine lurched, coming up by the nose. The sound of rushing water filled the control room. The boat was surfacing in good order.
In a few minutes the undersea craft leveled itself out, and Hawk shut off the engines with a sigh of relief. He pushed up the conning hatch and then jerked off his helmet. It was good to breathe deep of the night air.
Vick came up to the bridge and sighed gratefully, tossing her fair hair out of her eyes. By the light from the hatchway, Hawk caught a glimpse of her face and he reached out for her hand. They looked at each other for a long, understanding moment.
The creak of hastily plied oarlocks came close beside the submarine, and in another instant, Gregory came into the light. His voice was taut with excitement.
“There’s a steamer close aboard! She’s heading to ram you!” he cried.
Hawk spun about and gazed across the water. What he saw was a scene he was not likely ever to forget. Mercer’s tramp steamer was charging full steam upon them. Lights blazed from the vessel’s bridge, and by the gleam of the jackstaff globe, Hawk could see a fury of water hurling away from the speeding bows.
Mercer’s intention was plain. The submarine’s usefulness was at end, and even if it sank, Mercer would encounter little difficulty in recovering the treasure at his leisure. It was clear that the steamer was about to ram. And if those knifing bows so much as touched the hull of the undersea craft, it would mean the death of everyone aboard. Too late Hawk realized that the hatchway light had betrayed them.
The captain and his men were already swarming over the conning tower and scurrying down into the boat. The Stingaree’s chief engineer was at work on the diesel engines, and Gregory was ready at the helm. Hawk dragged Vick down into the control tower and saw, in one brief glimpse, her horror-stricken eyes as she crouched back out of the way.
An eternity passed before Hawk heard the sullen chug of the starting diesels. To the port came the steamer, some two hundred yards away—so close that the figures on her lighted bridge were plain and the churn of bow water looked like froth.
The submarine’s forward movement was agonizingly slow. Gregory was white with anxiety.
“We can’t dive!” he shouted at Hawk. “These men don’t know the valves! And we’re too slow to outmaneuver him.”
Hawk nodded grimly and glanced at Vick, sorry that she had heard. She tried to smile at him. Hawk cursed himself for not taking to the cutters, then realized that in those fragile boats they would have had less chance than in the submarine.
From below came the chief engineer’s nervous shout: “She’s got all she can take!”
A hundred yards now separated the two boats, and though the submarine had made some slight progress forward, the steamer changed its course to intercept her. Searchlights were lancing the water with long, bright fingers.
Through the hatch Hawk could see the white faces of the Stingaree’s men as they waited tensely, looking up into the conning tower, relying solely upon the judgment of Hawk and their captain.
Above them loomed the high, sharp prow of the steamer, an executioner’s blade, ready to sever the life cord of its victim. For a century-long moment it seemed inevitable that the undersea craft would be rammed and sent to the bottom with all hands. But Gregory, wheelwise from a life on the sea, suddenly gave the helm a terrific spin. With a shudder, the submarine lurched drunkenly, swerved, and came about almost at right angles to her course.
The steamer rushed by on the port side, with barely more than a foot to spare in passing.
“We’re safe for a minute!” Gregory yelled. “But those devils will come back, and if they try a second time…”
“I know,” breathed Hawk. “They’ll get us.”
Vick was at his elbow, her face raised to his. “Isn’t there something you can do to them? Isn’t there some way you can sink them?”
“I’m afraid not. Perhaps we’ll get away the next time, too.”
“There’s no need to hold the truth from me, Hawk. I know there isn’t a chance. They’ll cut us down. It isn’t the dying I mind so much, it’s the thought that Mercer will win.” She pointed down into the hull, where a row of brass-bound chests glinted dully under the electric lights.
Gregory abruptly spun the wheel. “Here they come!”
Hawk stared at the turning steamer. His eyes were dull as he realized the hopelessness of their position. He couldn’t bear the thought of Vick’s suffering so cruel a death. Protectively he placed his arm about her shoulders and drew her close. She smiled, and he returned the smile wanly, his heart aching.
Once more the steamer came straight on her course. Her bow was outlined by the cold beam of her searchlights which flickered over the submarine’s hull. Though she was still a thousand yards away, it was clear that she did not intend to be eluded this time. She was coming with redoubled speed, heralded by a phosphorescent spray which shot up half the height of her bow.
Cold hate came into Hawk’s eyes as he watched, and his hand closed so tightly over Vick’s shoulder that she winced. Hawk glanced helplessly over the maze of buttons and tubes that decked the inside of the conning tower. Then he stiffened and shot Gregory a significant look.
There beside the “diving piano” were four buttons. They were marked “Torpedo Tubes. Bow 1. Bow 2. Stern 3. Stern 4.”
“Greg!” Hawk’s voice shook with excitement. “Do you think those things are loaded?”
“Why not?” cried Gregory. “Listen. Topside there’s a sight. I saw it when I came down. If you’ll go up there and take a bead on the ship, we’ll fire it below! Quick! You haven’t much time!”
“I’ll fire it,” said Vick.
“Okay!” Hawk snapped. “Take off that cover, and when I yell ‘Fire!’ press the button marked Three!” He saw her nod, and then turned to run up to the exposed bridge.
A searchlight was holding the conning tower in its unwavering glare. It was into this that Hawk moved. The range was now but a little more than five hundred yards. Rifle fire would not be long in coming.
He shouted down the hatch to Gregory. “Port ten degrees!”
“Port she is,” answered the captain.
When the sub had changed course and was running directly away from the steamer, Hawk placed his eye to the cross-work of wire and rods which made up the torpedo sight. The apparatus was mounted in such a way that when the sight was dead on its target, the submarine was pointed in that direction as well.
He intended to use the stern tubes so that they could launch their torpedo while they were running away from the ship. It was taking a chance to utilize so small a target as the bow of the steamer, but there was no time to angle for a broadside shot. Failure in the attempt would mean death for all hands.
Every few seconds Hawk corrected Gregory’s course. The sea was running in long swells, and as each one passed under the submarine it threw the sight away from the charging bow of the steamer. He knew that he must allow for a two-second delay in the execution of the firing order, and he waited tensely till he was certain of a shot.
At a distance of five hundred yards, it was possible that the concussion of the explosion would damage the undersea boat, but Hawk gave no thought to that risk.
It was not until they were running in the trough of the waves that he saw his chance. The cross wires of the sight held to the center of the steamer’s charging prow. Hawk gripped the rail convulsively. “Fire!” he shouted, and saw Vick’s slim hand crash down on the fatal brass disk.
The submarine shook under the jar of the torpedo leaving its tube. The stern was suddenly alive with the fire of phosphorous as the slim shell clove the water. At a speed of thirty knots, a warhead crammed with high explosive was rushing toward the steamer.
Hawk held his breath. He couldn’t see the wake of the missile now. He could only guess—and hope.
A hush of expectancy fell over the submarine. All on board waited for the result.
Suddenly the entire sky seemed to shatter into a vertical band of flame. The submarine shook, and Hawk was knocked back by the force of the air. Debris rained across the water like hail and pounded on the steel plates like machine-gun fire.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was all over. Fitful flames were licking up around the doomed hull of the ship. Men went plunging over the steamer’s side, into the water.
Unsteadily, Hawk made his way down to Vick’s side. “Put about, Greg. We’re going back and pick them up.”
Reaction struck Vick, and she dropped down into the small seat against the bulkhead. She sat there, her face buried in her hands, weeping silently. Hawk placed his arm about her, and when she looked up he leaned down and kissed her.
“It’s all right, Vick,” he breathed. “We’re all right now.”
She nodded silently, trying to manage a smile.