Muller sat in the dinghy, his airtank on. Around his chest was the rope. The man’s face was stony calm. Tucker took the end of the rope, crossed himself, then rolled worriedly off the dinghy with a splash. He disappeared in a hump of air-tank and flippers.
A minute later there was a tug on the rope.
‘All right,’ McQuade said grimly. ‘Regulator in. Mask on. And over you go, Herr Muller.’
They swam down to the submarine. Heinrich Muller in front, McQuade behind him. Down in the conning tower Tucker pulled the rope in, hand over hand.
They descended on the long ghostly shape, between the waving shrouds of nets, down to the conning tower. Tucker untied his end of the rope, gave McQuade a look, then he manoeuvred into the hatch in a flurry of bubbles, pulling the rope behind him. McQuade looked at Muller. The man seemed in total control. McQuade jabbed his shoulder, pointed, and down through the hatch Heinrich Muller went efficiently. Immediately after him came McQuade.
The three hung in the water in the ghostly torchlight, their bubbles erupting. Muller’s eyes were big behind his mask but he seemed fearless. Tucker looked at McQuade pleadingly, then pointed at him, asking him to go first. McQuade angrily jabbed his finger at the hatch, and pulled out the handcuffs and handed them to Tucker. Tucker crossed himself fervently, then took off his fins. He pushed his feet into the black hatch. He shot McQuade a last anguished look, then shoved himself downwards, and disappeared in a flurry of bubbles, dragging the rope.
The bubbles and the torchglow disappeared from the tube. Half a minute passed, then came the tug on Muller’s rope. He did not hesitate. He pulled off his fins obediently and lowered his legs into the hatch.
McQuade shone his torch down the tube. He saw Muller’s head disappear as he wriggled out the bottom. He gave them ten seconds to get clear, then he lowered himself into the hatch.
McQuade’s feet touched the deck at the bottom, and in one practised movement he bent his knees, and thrust himself out. He pushed himself clear, then burst up out of the soupiness, black water gushing off him, and Heinrich Muller hit him.
All McQuade knew as he burst up into the torchlight was the glimpse of the arm coming down on him, one handcuff on the wrist and the other clutched in the fist like a knuckleduster, then the shocking blow of steel, and he crashed backwards. There was nothing in the world but the desperate trying to scramble up midst the roaring bubbles and the taste of foul water, and the lunging weight on top of him. He kicked with all his might and frantically grabbed his knife from his sheath and scrambled up, and steel crashed against his cheekbone again and he lashed out blindly in the blackness. He felt the man crash against him and he again collapsed into the water. He scrambled up frantically and staggered away. He saw his torch glow under the water and he plunged under and snatched it up, gasping, shaking, and swung it, looking for Muller.
And there was Heinrich Muller, tethered by his rope, crouched, clutching his throat with both hands, his body contorted with choking. His airhose hung in the water, slashed by McQuade’s knife. McQuade frantically looked for Tucker. He was clinging to the periscope, his head hanging, bloody. McQuade frantically swung the torch back on Muller. The man was choking to death, sucking in the fetid atmosphere, reeling, his face contorted in terror. McQuade rammed his knife back in the sheath and lunged at him from behind and slung one arm around his chest. He ripped the regulator from his own mouth and he plunged it into Muller’s.
McQuade held his breath, his heart pounding, his hand clasped over Muller’s face, and he felt the man’s chest heave, sucking in air, then he retched and coughed, then he sucked in air again. ‘Hugo!’ McQuade bellowed, and he ripped the regulator away from Muller and plunged it into his own mouth and filled his lungs, then rammed it back into Muller’s. Tucker shoved himself off the periscope, casting about drunkenly for his torch. He plunged his arm underwater, found it and came staggering desperately towards them, blood running down his face. McQuade bellowed, ‘Handcuffs!’ and he pulled the regulator from Muller’s mouth and rammed it into his own. Tucker frantically grabbed Muller’s wrist and rammed the other handcuff onto it. Then he fumbled desperately for the valve on Muller’s airtank and turned it off. He grabbed for the end of Muller’s airhose, shone his trembling torch onto it, and McQuade rammed his regulator back into Muller’s mouth.
Muller’s hose gaped, slashed almost clean through at the regulator. McQuade looked frantically at it, holding his breath and made a snap decision: it was impossible to bind up the cut. He snatched the knife from Tucker and cut right through the slashed hose. Then he furiously rammed the end up to Muller’s face, yanked the regulator from his mouth and shoved the end of the hose in. He re-opened the valve on the tank and air gushed into Muller’s mouth again.
But it gushed through into Muller’s mouth at high pressure without the regulator to control its flow. Muller crouched there, both manacled hands clutching the airhose, trying to breathe by the side of his mouth. He filled his lungs, exhaled, inhaled again and gagged as he sucked some fetid atmosphere in; he snorted it out, and gasped on the hose again.
McQuade clutched his regulator to his mouth, trying to get the thudding out of his heart, then cast about desperately for the sack. He wrestled the spare airtank out, and hefted it under his armpit. He seized Muller furiously by the shoulder, turned him towards the bows and gave him a shove.
They went wading through the black tomb in the flashing torchlight, Muller lurching, clutching his hose, his eyes wild with fear. They burst into the crew’s quarters, and there were the open torpedo tubes.
McQuade pointed at them, then ripped Muller’s hose from his mouth. The man’s face contorted; and McQuade rammed the hose back at him. Muller grabbed it, crouched, and sucked on it, then McQuade snatched it away again. Muller gave a strangled cry and he pointed his manacled hands at the marked torpedo in the top left tube, and then at the two tubes under the water. McQuade thrust the airhose back and Muller snatched it. He sucked, head hanging, shuddering. McQuade stared at Tucker, then grabbed Muller’s hood and pulled his head up. He pointed furiously at the unmarked torpedo in the top right tube and Muller shook his head desperately, no, no, no, his hands clutching the hose to his mouth.
McQuade stared, his mind fumbling. So it was the one unmarked torpedo that was live, and the marked ones were the dummies, not vice versa! It figured because Frau Kohler told him that there was only one torpedo on board. So the bastard had tried to trick them! But Jesus Christ, if this was a double trick! … He snatched the airhose out of Muller’s mouth again, and pointed furiously at the unmarked torpedo questioningly. Muller’s hands clapped over his mouth, his eyes wild, and he desperately shook his head no no no. He lunged wildly to the top left tube and pointed at the nut holding the marked propeller and made desperate unscrewing motions. Then he grabbed the propeller shaft, pretending to wrench it sideways, then he grabbed the airhose again.
McQuade let him have it, staring at the nut. Then Tucker turned and plunged to the bunk, and pulled down his toolbag. He pulled out a shifting spanner and pliers and he plunged back to the propeller. He thrust the spanner at the nut, made turning motions, and looked wildly at Muller. And Muller nodded desperately, yes, yes, yes.
McQuade and Tucker looked at each other. If the bastard was prepared to let them start dismantling the fucking thing it must be a dummy!
McQuade made his decision. He grabbed Muller and shoved him to the nearest bunk. He fumbled out the handcuff key, unlocked one side, wrenched Muller’s arm around the stanchion and snapped the cuffs on his free wrist again.
He turned and blundered back to the torpedo tube.