Operation Malacca (14 page)

The fifth mine went off, more as an afterthought, and the sixth, if it did explode, did not register on Keilty's almost unconscious mind.

He was two hundred yards away when the shock waves from the explosives hit him. The sharp concussion from the amatol and the Deta-sheet explosive charges were magnified many times over in the crushing pressure.

Keilty, only semiconscious, was dimly aware that he was sinking. His arms and legs refused to respond to the feeble commands from his brain. A gray blankness suffused his vision, and somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he knew he had to force himself to swim, or die on the sea bottom now less than a hundred feet below. He tried again, and one arm pushed forward. A second force of will and a leg kicked feebly, but then the grayness closed in, bringing complete unconsciousness.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jack Weston set the switch on the second mine and felt for the rear coaming of the torpedo tube. Satisfied, he twisted around until his body was pointing back along the length of the sub and began swimming, his left hand trailing along the steel hull. Finally, figuring that he had moved far enough back for the mine to explode into the forward torpedo storage room, he stopped and carefully pressed the mine against the hull and turned on the electromagnet.

He took a quick look over his right shoulder, but as he expected, he could see nothing beyond the reach of his light beam. He checked the mine placement once more with the underwater torch. Then, inflating a small air sac for added buoyancy, he kicked quickly upward towards the surface a thousand feet away. Hopefully, somewhere along the line, Charlie would meet him. Otherwise, it would be a long climb.

The three of them had been swimming vigorously below a thousand feet for over ten minutes. Between the pressure, numbing cold, and the first touch of shock signaling that his body had been ill-used too long, his mind was beginning to adopt the to-hell-with-it-what-do-I-care attitude that he knew could come from prolonged use of the 'lung' –essentially oxygen narcosis. The percentage of oxygen dissolved in his blood at these depths was too great for his body to handle. Thèlung' and its effects on human physiology were still much too new for anything definitive to be known, but he knew that unless he surfaced soon, he never would, and would never know it. With an effort requiring almost his total will, he kept swimming slowly upward.

Time to him became a hazy, useless tool. He was aware that he had long since stopped kicking, but he was borne up faster and faster by the inflated air sac. A long, rumbling roar reached him from the depths and he knew that the sub had been destroyed. An indeterminate time later, he realized that the darkness was beginning to lighten, until at fifty feet he was in a kind of twilight darkness in which a pale white light suffused everything. By now, his mind was void of everything except reaching the surface. Only the intense pain in his ears and chest penetrated to his conscious mind, warning him to stop, to release the air sac. With his knife, he cut the nylon cord, and relieved of his weight, it shot away from him.

Weston hung limply in the water, hands and feet paddling feebly to keep him from sinking slowly back. The pain of the mild decompression brought him somewhat to his senses. He peered closely at his watch, trying to make out the fuzzy numerals that wavered in the current.

He considered firing a transmitter, but was too exhausted to do more than fumble with the steel clip that held the pistol to his harness. Several more minutes passed and the pain lessened and he began trudging upward again. He wondered briefly about Charlie and Keilty, then forgot them as he made out the dim rippling ahead that meant the surface.

His head broke through and he tore away the mask and gulped air greedily. Then he trod water slowly for several minutes, retching feebly, until his stomach was completely empty. He cursed the burning taste of bile, and retched again.

'Tor him I don't eat breakfast.

His heart was beating furiously, thudding against his rib cage until the pain was almost unbearable. Slowly, he resolved the reason by forcing himself to concentrate. He rolled clumsily onto his back to get the 'lung' under water. The haze was thickening and his chest pained terribly as his overloaded heart strove to pump blood through the now useless 'lung'.

He could reach the hose connection, but the coupling defied his meager strength.

Summoning his last particle of will power, he twisted it free and broke the connection, and fainted. Minutes later, he regained consciousness. His breathing was slowly returning to normal, but he was completely exhausted.

Again, driving his body, he forced himself to look around to see if he could get his bearings. The rain had started again, only this time as a fine misty spray that felt warm on his water-wrinkled face. The waves were still six to eight feet and occasionally he could catch a brief glimpse of Atuk Island, less than two miles away.

The island proper was hidden by the rain and low clouds, but the waves breaking over the reefs warned him of the dangers in trying to reach the safety of dry land by swimming, even if he had the strength.

He peered through the mist for several minutes, still treading water feebly. Charlie should be coming for him just about any time. He thought about putting the mask back on and ducking down for a look, but lacked the strength. He opened his fingers, or rather they opened of their own accord, and the mask slipped from his grasp. He watched stupidly as it sank from sight. Then he unsnapped the weight belt and let it sink after the mask. He considered briefly hanging onto the 'lung', then decided against it. The oxygen cylinder was empty and the gear would be just so much more dead weight. If he had long to wait, he could never stay afloat.

He shrugged out of the straps, unfastened the pack, and let the tanks drop away . . . then cursed himself for a fool. The mouthpiece held the underwater microphone as well as the ear-plug connection for Charlie's transphonemator and the jack for the transmitter cartridges.

He had just gone and done himself out of his only remaining means of communicating with the cruiser. Now he would have to wait until Keilty could surface and get a message off – providing Charlie could find them both.

Weston glanced at the watch on his wrist. He had been up nearly five minutes – fourteen minutes since the mines had gone off, and Charlie still had not shown up. Now he was really beginning to worry. He looked around at the choppy sea, which was empty in every direction, as far as he could see. Except for the slap of waves against his body, there was not a sound to be heard. The mist was fine enough to blend quietly with the waves. Its muffling quality was certain to shut out the sound of either the copter or the MTBs until they were almost on top of him.

He inflated both of the plastic air pillows he carried, hooked his arms through the straps, and centered them around his chest and back. Then, with a package of dye in one hand and the Very pistol with a magnesium flare in the chamber in the other hand, he settled back to wait and recoup his strength as best he could.

Charlie set the last of his two mines and backed away. He could see Weston swimming for the surface nearly fifty feet above the sub, as well as Keilty planting his last mine. He noted Jack's course and decided to move upwards where he could continue to keep an eye on both.

The cold had penetrated his wet suit and his throat and lungs were beginning to hurt quite badly. Charlie had never been this deep before and the cold and pressure squeezing him from all sides plus the visual blackness were steadily increasing his nervousness. His movements were becoming jerky

and he could no longer think dearly without having to fight to keep his thoughts in mind.

He stopped moving upwards at seven hundred feet and hung suspended, tail slanting downward, as if he were a weary rocket pausing in its journey. In the seeming long swim up, depression and weariness had set in quickly as the pep pills wore off. He could no longer find Jack with his sonar and his apathy was so great that he felt it unimportant to search farther for him. It was easier to assume he was still moving upward and was now out of range.

He had no way of clearly estimating the time that had passed since the mines had been set, and as he set to work on the problem, the thought of Keilty flickered through his mind.

Languorously, he turned himself until his head was pointing downward. He was aware that he was sliding back as his tail flukes continued to move slowly up and down in the attitude he had used for station keeping, and he made himself stop. He exerted himself and pulsed his sonar tightly, circling slowly until he found the sub. He had to force himself to concentrate, or else he would have begun swimming slowly ahead again, only dimly aware that he was moving downward.

He could see the sub clearly now, outlined sharply against the faint background echo from the muddy bottom. It lay almost directly beneath him like a great metallic whale, completely silent, until he realized suddenly that a tiny figure just showed near the side.

As his mind cleared slightly, he saw a hatch slide back, then the tiny figure dart forward into the opened hold. Then he found himself watching a figure approach from a great distance. A stream of froth bubbled around the forward deck of the submarine and rumbled back along the submarine's sides. As he watched, uncomprehending, a slender pencil darted at him, rushing past at less than two hundred yards as it slanted towards the surface. The submarine lurched and disappeared in a churning mass of released air.

Charlie smiled and felt good. Somewhere in his brain a relay clicked and he knew he had done a good job. For some reason which he could not understand, he knew his friend would be proud of him. He smiled foolishly again and turned to swim towards the surface. He felt out of breath and needed some air.

As he turned, he caught sight of the figure he had seen near the sub. It was twisting slowly from side to side as if helpless. A momentary surge of panic caught at him, but his instincts, nurtured and trained carefully, checked him. The shape was beginning to settle back, and for some reason it looked to him like another dolphin. The metal tanks were the same as he wore and the soft covering also resembled the one he wore. That dolphin was hurt and sinking and would drown.

He started down, his tail flukes working feebly at first, then more strongly as his instincts pushed him to make speed. He came abreast of the figure, but his sonar was jumbled as his mind wandered and his eyes could not see in the blackness that surrounded him. He fumbled with his beak at the unseen man until he found the center of gravity. Pausing shortly to set himself, he came beneath and started upward. His mind had stopped functioning and only his long past and insistent training told him that somehow this figure meant something, made him go on, climbing upward.

Brief tactile sensations brushed his unseeing mind: cold, blackness, the blankness that surrounded him as his sonar stopped functioning, and the deadly weariness. He climbed ever so slowly, his great reserves of strength draining away. By the time they broke surface nearly a half hour later, Charlie's head had cleared somewhat with the decrease in pressure. Keilty remained unconscious and Charlie struggled to keep his still form above the surface.

His powerful body floundered feebly, as if great weights were dragging him downward again. A fine rain pattered against his wrinkled face, hissing down softly, and every so often a wave washed over him completely. Otherwise there was only the gentle hissing and the soft lapping. He tried to look around, struggling to discern features in the watery scape surrounding him, but the red glow of the horizon pulsated and blended with the distant hammering in his brain. He realized in a sudden instant of clarity that he could no longer see. The reddish haze enveloped him and he felt the heavy burden slipping from his grasp.

Then it was gone. He thrashed wildly and his side brushed past something. Then a hand fumbled under his stomach. The red haze parted vaguely and the weight that had been dragging him downward fell away. He felt the mist again dimly as his back broke above the surface.

Then he realized he could breathe fresh air again and the dull ache in his back was gone.

He lay on the surface and shuddered in convulsive spasms.

When he could see clearly again, Jack was stripping thèlung' pack from Keilty's back and trying to fasten it to his

air pillows at the same time. He swam to the two men and gripped the belt of Keilty's tunic in his teeth. Weston said something, but he missed it. Then Weston was back and inflated Keilty's air sacs and tied them beneath his chest. Charlie backed off and lay exhausted by even this brief exertion and watched Weston.

Jack unzipped Keilty's tunic and pressed his ear to his chest and listened for a long moment, then peeled back an eyelid. He looked helplessly at Charlie and was met only with a blank stare. He looked around wearily at the gentle sea and hidden sky, as if for help. Reaching a decision, He fumbled his kit up to where he could see it and pulled out an ampule of cortisone. He bit off the tip, not noticing the trickle of blood that started from his cut lips, and spat out the glass sliver, then slipped the needle on the end.

He pulled the tunic down enough to expose part of Keilty's upper shoulder and jabbed the needle into the vein and pushed the plunger home. He thought for a moment, then pulled a small chemical heat pad from the kit, broke the seal, and zipped it beneath the tunic, directly over Keilty's heart. There was nothing else he could do.

He glanced at Charlie, then reached out for the life line still trailing from Charlie's back and used it to tie the three of them together. Then he turned to Charlie.

`How are you feeling, ol' buddy?' he asked, his anxiety and exhaustion overshadowing the light tone of his voice.

Charlie stared dully back, unable to remember who or what this man meant to him. He knew it was a man, and that this was somehow significant, yet he could not tie the two concepts together. He closed his eyes, feeling the gentle rocking motion of the waves. He was dimly conscious of Jack's hands fastening two air pillows around him and momentarily he was grateful, at the same time hoping Keilty would be all right. Then the answer was lost to him and he slipped into unconsciousness.

Jack patted his sleek sides gently, then looked around for Keilty's `lung' pack. He needed the microphone jack for the transmitter cartridges. But the tank had floated away and he caught a glimpse of it several feet off as it crested a slow wave.

He panicked for a moment and charged after it, but was brought up short by the combined weight of Charlie and Keilty. He went under and surfaced coughing. Then he began swimming slowly in the direction of the tank, towing the others after him. He did not dare free himself from the life line for fear he would lose them. He swam steadily on until he was able to grab a trailing strap.