They feverishly examined the torpedo in the torchlight, the joints in the casing behind the propellers, where the shaft emerged. The casing appeared to be welded onto the cylindrical body of the torpedo, but that could be glue, painted over. Theoretically the propeller-shaft went through the casing to the electric motor beyond but if it was a dummy there was no motor. So if this was a dummy, just take off the propellers, get a lever on the shaft and the whole casing should break away.
McQuade looked at his watch. He only had about thirty minutes of air left, but Muller had less, because a lot of his had been wasted. He jabbed Tucker, then pointed at the locking pin on the end of the shaft.
Tucker snatched a pair of pliers from his toolbag, snapped them over the ends of the pin and frantically squeezed, then snapped the pliers to the head. He heaved, and it came out. He thrust the pliers at McQuade, grabbed a shifting spanner and jammed it onto the big nut. He heaved on it, but it did not shift. He got his weight under it and heaved again. Then it shifted. He heaved again, and he felt it give further. He heaved again, heart pounding: and the whole casing beyond it broke away, including the propeller and the shaft.
McQuade stared at their handiwork, overjoyed. Removing the locking pin and trying to undo the nut had been unnecessary! He grabbed the propeller blades and gave it a tug. And another. And another – and the whole ensemble came grating out. He wrestled it right out triumphantly, dropped it in the water and Tucker shone his torch inside. They peered, hearts pounding; and McQuade gave an inward whoop.
Gleaming at them in the torchlight was a cylindrical metal container, fractionally smaller in diameter than the torpedo. It was covered in heavy grease. There was a handle in the centre of it. McQuade grabbed it joyfully and tugged.
It shifted. He put both hands to the handle, heaved, and out of the torpedo it stickily came, sliding on the grease that had been coating it for forty years.
Tucker got his arms underneath it and McQuade heaved it right out, his heart singing. It parted from the torpedo’s stern with a sucking sound. McQuade shot his arms under it, to help Tucker. It was about three feet long. Behind, inside the torpedo, was another canister. They staggered it over to the nearest bunk, and hefted it up onto it.
McQuade flashed his torch feverishly over it, his heart joyful. It shone through the grease. At the handle-end was a screw-top cap, heavily covered in some kind of glue. The whole thing seemed in perfect condition. There was no corrosion. He winked a shining eye at Tucker, then jerked his head back at the torpedo tube.
They plunged back to it. McQuade buried his arm into the torpedo shell, reaching for the second canister, but could not reach it. He snatched the long-nosed pliers from his toolbag and reached into the shell again. He gripped the handle and pulled. The second cylinder came slowly sliding out. They lugged it over to the bunk. It was also in perfect condition.
McQuade looked feverishly at his watch, then at Muller. The man was slumped against the stanchion to which he was manacled, sucking on his hose. McQuade snatched up Muller’s tank-contents gauge. It was in the red already because of the wastage. He feverishly unclipped the tank on Muller’s harness. Tucker picked up the new tank in readiness. McQuade jabbed Muller’s arm to warn him, then shut off the valve and frantically unscrewed it off the empty tank. He slapped it onto the new tank, screwed it down, then reopened the valve. Air gushed into Muller’s mouth again. Tucker clipped the new tank onto the harness. McQuade dashed back to the tubes and scrambled down onto his knees. They started on the submerged torpedoes.
Ten minutes later they had all six canisters out of the tubes. McQuade looked frantically at his gauge. They had approximately thirteen minutes of air left. Muller’s gauge showed that the tank was half-empty already, without the regulator to control the flow. McQuade picked up a canister, and started staggering with it through the black submarine, making for the escape tube. Tucker hefted up another and blundered after him.
It took them five minutes to get all six canisters to the escape tube, and the toolbags. McQuade snatched up a coil of nylon cord, and slashed it into six lengths. They tied one piece to each of the handles on the canisters. He thrust all six ends to Tucker and pointed upwards. Tucker scrambled underwater, wriggled and disappeared. He surged up the escape tube with the six pieces of cord. McQuade feverishly jostled the first canister under the mouth. The rope went tight, and Tucker began to haul. The canister went scraping and clanging up the tube. McQuade feverishly jostled the second canister under the mouth. In the conning tower Tucker frantically hauled.
Three minutes later all the canisters were up in the conning tower. McQuade had less than six minutes of air left. He turned and went plunging back through the submarine to fetch Heinrich Muller.
The man slumped against the bunk, half hanging, his chest heaving, his manacled hands clasping the airhose to the side of his mouth. McQuade rammed his key into the handcuffs and snapped them open. Muller’s head lifted, but McQuade did not see the mad look in the eyes. He grabbed the man’s armpit and shoved him towards the control room.
They went blundering through the black water, splashing, stumbling, lurching past the skeletons, through the different cabins. They blundered up to the circular hatchway to the Zentrale. McQuade shoved the Nazi’s neck down and Muller took a frantic breath before he ducked his head under the stinking water. He struggled into the hole, sucked on the hose again, and he sucked on nothing. His airtank was empty. In terrified panic Muller struggled through the hatch. McQuade plunged after him, and burst through the hatch, and Muller lunged wildly at him.
All McQuade knew as he burst above the water was the wild flurry as Muller threw himself desperately at his airhose, his lungs empty and his eyes bulging wild, flinging himself at the source of life. McQuade crashed backwards under the frantic weight, and Muller’s wild hands clawed the regulator from his mouth and thrust it into his own. McQuade scrambled up desperately, seized the regulator and rammed it into his mouth, and he grabbed the man’s neck and shoved him towards the escape tube. Muller clawed at him again like a wild cat, his face contorted in a strangled scream, his fingers like talons. McQuade swung his flat hand at the man’s head, and Muller reeled.
He reeled across the control room and crashed wildly in the water without any air in his lungs. He gasped in the vile black water and choked. McQuade blundered at him and heaved him up and stuffed the regulator into the man’s contorted mouth. Muller rasped and coughed and retched, trying to suck the air down into his lungs, and McQuade shook him and bellowed, ‘Dive into that tube!’ He let the wild man take another rasping breath, then he snatched the regulator and plunged it into his own mouth and shoved him towards the tube, and Muller whirled around and lunged at him again. Like a madman, his hands flailing, his contorted mouth agape, and McQuade swiped him across the head again. And Muller staggered and crashed into the water again, wild-eyed and McQuade lunged after him and wrenched him up by his harness frantically and he rammed the regulator into the bastard’s mouth. He bellowed, ‘Breathe deep!’ and pointed furiously with his torch at the escape tube. He snatched back the regulator and stuck it into his own mouth, he tried to ram the bastard’s head under the water to get him into that tube whilst he still had air in him to fight his way up it. McQuade shoved the man’s head down with all his frantic might, and Muller twisted and his fist swung wildly.
The wild punch hit McQuade in the chest, the air gushed out of him, and he staggered backwards against the escape tube. Then Muller was clawing furiously at him again, and McQuade swung up his fist with all his desperate might. It got Heinrich Muller’s solar plexus. The German gasped in agony and he reeled and sprawled across the navigation desk, rasping in the stinking atmosphere, his hands clutched to his throat, his eyes full of shocked agony. McQuade looked wildly at his gauge and he knew there was no way. No way could he get this vile man out of this terrible submarine to face the gallows in Jerusalem with only one minute of air left between them. Heinrich Muller struggled up and lurched at him desperately, his mouth contorted in a strangled plea, and McQuade plunged under the water, and he was gone into the tube.
He wrestled himself into it and kicked with all his might, and up he bumped and surged. He burst up out of the hatch into the conning tower. Tucker was gone. McQuade snatched up his fins and wrestled them on, then he clawed desperately for the ladder and kicked. He burst through the upper hatch. The canisters were on the barnacled bridge. McQuade kicked again and he began to rise, and his airtank gave out.
Suddenly there was no more air. He sucked on nothing, and his heart lurched and he just wanted to kick with all his desperate might and fight his way back up to God’s own sweet air. But he held his panicked breath, his lungs screaming, and there was nothing in the world but the eternity of rising, rising, rising … then the silvery surface was just there and his head broke through it, and he spat out the regulator and frantically rasped in beautiful air.
And down in the pitch-black submarine, Heinrich Muller staggered, his hands clutched to his throat, his eyes wild, desperately trying not to suck in the stinking black atmosphere, then his screaming lungs heaved and into his gaping mouth it went like a blow, solid and sharp, and he choked and gagged and retched, and then gasped in more solid stink, and he convulsed and choked and retched again, staggering, lurching, and he heaved in more. His head was reeling and he collapsed in the water with a crash. He wildly struggled up again and choked and retched again. And again, and again. But there was some oxygen in that stinking black atmosphere, and it took him a long time to die.