Eye

  A surface tug swung up to their bow, slapped its tow grapples onto them. White water boiled from beneath the tug's stern. The Fenian Ram resisted momentarily, as though reluctant to leave, then began a slow, ponderous movement out into the basin.

  They cleared the slot, and another tug slid alongside their stern. The magna-shoe men leaped onto the Ram's silencer planes, hitched the tow and guide cables of the long plastic tube which stretched out across the dark water of the basin. Their shouts came up to Sparrow in the tower like the clear noise of children. He tasted a sudden oil-tainted breeze and knew they had crossed the path of a ventilator duct.

  No special fanfare, no brass bands, no ceremony for the departure of a raider, he thought. We are as a reed shaken with the wind. And what go we out into the wilderness to see? No John the Baptist awaits us. But it's a kind of baptism all the same.

  Somewhere in the darkness a klaxon hooted. Turn and identify the man next to you. Another Security scheme: Show your identification when the horn sounds. Damn Security! Out here I identify myself to my God and none other.

  Sparrow looked astern at the set of the tow. Oil. War demanded the pure substance born in the sediment of rising continent. Vegetable oil wouldn't do. War was no vegetarian. War was a carnivore.

  The tow tug shifted to the side of the Ram and now the sub was being nosed into the traveler rack which would carry it down to the underwater canyon and the gulf.

  Sparrow looked at the control console in the conning tower, and the green clear-away light. He flashed the standby signal to the tug below him and, with a practiced motion, touched the controls to retract the tower. It slid smoothly into the sub, its plasteel lid twisted into the groove seats.

  A chest microphone hung beside the tower console. Sparrow slipped it on, spoke into it: "Rig for dive."

  He focused his attention on the dive board in front of him.

  Back came Bonnett's voice, robbed of life by the metallic mutes of the intercom: "Pressure in the hull."

  One by one, the lights on Sparrow's dive board shifted from red to green. "Green board," he said. "Stand by." Now he could feel the hull pressure and another pressure in his stomach. He closed the signal circuit which told the outside crews that the subtug was ready to go down tunnel.

  The Ram shifted, lurched. A dull clang resonated through the boat. Across the top of the dive board amber lights flashed: They were in the grip of the tunnel elevator. Twenty hours of free ride.

  Sparrow grasped a handhold beside the dive board, swung down and out onto the engine-room catwalk. His feet made a slithering sound on the catwalk padding as he made his way aft, crawled through the control-room door, dogged it behind him. His gaze paused for a moment on the hand-etched brass plate Heppner had attached beside the door—a quotation from some nineteenth-century pundit:

  “No one but a crazy man would waste his time inventing a submarine and no one but a lunatic would go down in it if it were invented."

  Through the gulf shelf in the Florida elbow, De Soto Canyon slashes the soft peninsula limestone like a railroad cut; fourteen fathoms where it starts in Apalachee Bay, more than two hundred and sixty fathoms where it dives off into the ocean deeps south of Cape San Bias and east of Tampa.

  The gulf exit of the marine tunnel opens into the canyon wall at fifty fathoms: a twilight world of waving fan kelp, red fingers of gorgonian coral, flashing sparkles of reef-dwelling fish.

  The Fenian Ram coasted out of the dark hole of the tunnel like a sea monster emerging from its lair, turned, scattering the fish, and slanted down to a resting place in the burnt-umber mud of the canyon bottom. A sonar pulse swept through the boat. Detectors in the triple hulls responded, registered on control gauges of the navigation deck.

  Garcia's clipped accent—oddly squeaking in the oxygen- high atmosphere—repeated the checklist as he watched the Christmas tree lights of the main board.'... no leaks, trim weights balanced, external salvage air clear and pressure holding, atmosphere free of nitrogen, TV eyes clear and seeing, TV periscope surfaced and seeing; periscope gyro checks with—" His laughter echoed through the intercom: "Seagull! It tried to land on the peri-box as I started to reel in. Lit on its fanny in the water."

  Bonnett's crisp tones interrupted. "What's it like topside, Joe?"

  "Clear. Just daybreak. Going to be a good day for fishing."

  Sparrow's voice rasped over the speakers: "Enough of that! Was there anyone up there to spot the gull's flop? They could've seen our box."

  "Negative, Skipper."

  Sparrow said, "Les, give me the complete atmosphere check. Vampire gauges everyone. Follow the check. Report any deviations."

  The patient inspection continued.

  Ramsey interrupted. "I'm in the induction-drive chamber. A lot of static here as I entered."

  Garcia said, "Did you go back by the lower shaft tunnel?"

  "Lower."

  "I noticed that myself earlier. We'll rig a ground for the scuff mat. I think that'll fix it."

  "I grounded myself before entering."

  Sparrow said, "Run that down, Joe. Les where are you?"

  "Second-level catwalk in the engine room."

  "Relieve Joe on the main board. Ramsey, get into your shack. Contact with base in eleven minutes."

  "Aye, Skipper."

  Sparrow moved from his position on the control deck below Garcia to a point at the first-level door which was open to permit visual inspection of the big gauges forward on the radiation wall. That room in the bow, he thought. That's what worries me. We can see into it with our TV eyes; gauges tell us what's happening. But we can't touch it with our bare hands. We don't have a real feeling for that place.

  He mopped his forehead with a large red handkerchief. Something, somewhere is wrong. He was a subtug skipper who had learned to depend on his feeling for the boat.

  A string of Spanish curses in Garcia's voice, rendered metallic by the intercom, interrupted his reverie.

  Sparrow barked: "Joe! What's wrong?" He turned toward the stern, as though to peer through the bulkheads.

  "Wiper rag in the rotor system. It was rubbing the induction ring every revolution. That's Ramsey's static."

  "Does it look deliberate?"

  "Did you ever come across a silk wiping rag?" The sound of a grunt came over the intercom. "There, by heaven!"

  Sparrow said, "Save that rag." Then: "Ramsey, where are you?"

  "In the shack warming up the transmitter."

  "Did you hear Joe?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell base about that rag. Tell them—"

  "Skipper!" It was Garcia's voice. "There's oil in the atmosphere back here!"

  Sparrow said, "A mist of oil plus static spark equals an explosion! Where's that oil coming from?"

  "Just a minute." A clanking of metal against metal. "Open pet-cock in the lube system. Just a crack. Enough to squirt a fine spray under full drive."

  Sparrow said, "Ramsey, include that in the report to base."

  "Aye, Skipper."

  "Joe, I'm coming back there," said Sparrow. "We're going over that drive room with a microscope."

  "I've already started."

  Bonnett said, "Skipper, would you send Ramsey up here after he gets off the contact? I'll need help checking the main board."

  "Hear that, Ramsey?" asked Sparrow.

  "Aye."

  "Comply."

  "Will do."

  Sparrow went aft, dropped down to the lower level, crawled through the shaft tunnel and into the drive room—a cone- shaped space dominated by the gleaming brass induction ring, the spaced coils. He could smell the oil, a heavy odor. Garcia was leaning into the coil space, examining the induction ring by magnifying glass.

  "They're just little things," said Sparrow. "But taken together—boom!"

  Garcia turned, his eyes glittering in the harsh work lights. "I don't like the feel of things, Skipper. This is a bad beginning. This is starting like a dead-man mission."

  Sparrow took a
deep breath, exhaled slowly. With an abrupt motion, he thumbed the button of his crest mike. "Ramsey, when you contact base, request permission to return."

  "Aye, Skipper."

  Ramsey's thoughts leaped. What will that do to morale? The first raider in months turns back without getting out of the gulf Bad. He stared at the wavering fingers of the dial needles. His contact timer hit the red line, buzzed. He rapped out the first pulse with its modulated message: "Able John to Red Hat. Over."

  The speaker above his head hissed with background noise like a distant surf. Presently, a voice came out of it, overriding the noise: "This is Red Hat. Over."

  "Able John to Red Hat: We've discovered sabotage aboard. A silk rag was put in the motor system of our drive room. A static spark from the rag could've blown us out of the bay. Over."

  "Red Hat to Able John. Stand by, please. We are routing your message to Bird George."

  "Security/"

  Again the speaker came to life. "Bird George to Able John. This is Teacher. What is the situation? Over."

  Clint Reed! Ramsey could almost see the humorless face of his Security teacher. Teacher Reed. Impromptu code. Ramsey bent over his own mike: "Teacher, this is Student." He repeated the story of sabotage.

  "Teacher to Student. What's your suggestion? Over."

  "Student to Teacher. Permit us to go on with inspection out here. There's less chance for an unknown factor. Just the four of us aboard. If we check safe, allow us to continue the mission. Bad for morale if we came back. Over."

  "Teacher to Student. That's the way we see it. But stand by." Pause. "Permission granted. How much time do you need? Over."

  Ramsey turned on his intercom microphone. "Skipper, base suggests we continue the inspection here and not return if we check secure."

  "Did you tell him what we'd found?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What'd they say?"

  "That there's less chance for a security slip out here. Fewer personnel. They suggest we double-check each other, give every—"

  "Suffering Jesus!"

  "They want to know how much time we'll need."

  Silence.

  "Skipper, they—"

  "I heard you. Tell them we'll need ten hours."

  Ramsey turned back to his transmitter. "Student to Teacher. Skipper says give us ten hours. Over."

  "Teacher to Student. Continue as ordered. We'll clear new checkpoints for you. Over and out."

  Ramsey sat back, thought: Now, I've really stuck my neck out. But Obe said this one has to go through.

  Bonnett's voice rasped over the intercom: "Ramsey! If that contact's over, get your ass up here and help me on this board!"

  "Coming."

  In the drive room, Sparrow hefted a socket wrench, looked at Garcia crouched under the secondary coils. "They want this one to go through, Joe. Very badly."

  Garcia put a contact light on two leads. It glowed. "Yes, and they give us a green hand like that Ramsey. A near dryback."

  "His service record says limited combat in gulf Security patrols."

  "Get the priest and the parish!" He shifted to a new position. "Something odd about the chap!"

  Sparrow opened the plate over a condenser. "How so?"

  "He strikes me like a ringer, a chap who pretends to be one thing when he's actually something else."

  "Where do you get that idea?"

  "I really couldn't say, Skipper."

  Sparrow shrugged, went on with his work. "I dunno, Joe. We'll go into it later. Hand me that eight-inch flex wrench, please."

  Garcia reached up with the wrench, turned back to his own work. Silence came over the little room, broken only by the sound of metal on metal, buzzing of test circuits.

  Sparrow ducked through the door into the control room, stood silently as Bonnett and Ramsey reinstalled the final cover plate of the main board.

  Bonnet straightened, rubbed the back of his neck. His hand left a grease smear. He spoke to Ramsey: "You're a boy, Junior. We may make a submariner out of you yet. You've just gotta remember that down here you never make the same mistake once."

  Ramsey racked a screw driver in his tool kit, closed the kit, turned, saw Sparrow. "All secure, Skipper?"

  Sparrow didn't answer at once. He looked around the control room, sniffed the air. Faint smell of ozone. A distant humming of stand-by machinery. The round eyes of the indicator dials like symbiotic extensions of himself. The plucking disquiet remained within him.

  "As secure as mortals can make it—I hope," he said. "We'll repair to the wardroom." Sparrow turned, ducked out the way he had entered.

  Ramsey put his tool kit into its wall rack. Metal grated against metal. He shivered, turned. Bonnett was going through the door. Ramsey stepped across the control room, ducked through the door, followed Bonnett into the wardroom. Sparrow and Garcia already were there, Garcia seated to the right, Sparrow standing at the opposite end of the table. Ramsey's eyes widened. An open Bible lay on the table before Sparrow.

  "We invoke the help of the Almighty upon our mean endeavors," said Sparrow.

  Bonnet slipped into a chair at the left.

  Sparrow indicated the seat opposite himself. "Will you be seated, please, Mr. Ramsey?"

  Ramsey lowered himself into the chair, rested one hand on the green felt of the table cover. Sparrow towered above them at the other end of the table. The Giver of the Law with hand upon the Book.

  Religious services, thought Ramsey. Here's one of the binding forces of this crew. Participation Mystique! The consecration of the warriors before the foray

  "What is your religion, Mr. Ramsey?" asked Sparrow.

  Ramsey cleared his throat. "Protestant Episcopal."

  "It's not really important down here," said Sparrow. "I was merely curious. We have a saying in the subtugs that the Lord won't permit a live atheist to dive below a thousand feet."

  Ramsey smiled.

  Sparrow bent over the Bible. His voice rumbled as he read: "'Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!'"

  He closed the Bible, lifted his head. It was a movement of power, of authority. Ramsey received an impression of deep strength.

  "We do our job with what we have at hand," said Sparrow. "We do what we believe to be the right thing. Though it grieve us, we do it. We do it that the godless shall perish from the earth. Amen."

  Sparrow turned away, placed the Bible in a case against the bulkhead. With his back still turned to them, he said, "Stations, everyone. Mr. Ramsey, contact base, tell them we are ready to go. Get the time for the first checkpoint."

  Ramsey got to his feet. Foremost in his thoughts was the almost physical need to examine the first telemeter record on Sparrow. "Yes, sir," he said. He turned, ducked through the door to the companionway and across into his shack, contacted base.

  First checkpoint in four hours.

  Ramsey relayed the information to Sparrow.

  "Zero the automatic timelog," said Sparrow. "Check in, everyone."

  "Garcia here. Drive and tow secure."

  "Bonnet here. Main secure."

  Ramsey looked at his board in the electronics shack. A queer sensation of belonging here passed over him. A sense of familiarity, of association deeper and longer than the five weeks of training. "E-board secure," he said. "Two atmospheres in the hull." He looked to the vampire gauge on his wrist. "Diffusion normal-plus. No nitrogen."

  Back came Sparrow's voice over the intercom: "Les, slide off."

  Ramsey felt the subtug lurch, then a faint whispering pulse of power. The deck assumed a slight upward incline, leveled. Presently, it tipped down.

  We're headed into the deeps, thought Ramsey. Physically and mentally. From here on it's up to me.

  "Mr. Ramsey, come to the control deck," Sparrow ordered.

  Ramsey closed down his board, went forward. Sp
arrow stood, hands behind his back, feet braced slightly apart almost precisely in the center of the control deck. He appeared framed in a background maze of pipes, wheels, levers, and dials. To his right, Garcia worked the tow controls; to his left, Bonnett held the high-speed pilot wheel. The big static pressure gauge high in the control bulkhead registered 1,310 pounds, increasing; they were below 3,000 feet.

  Without turning, Sparrow asked, "What's in that little box that came aboard with your effects, Mr. Ramsey?"

  "Monitoring equipment for the new search system, sir."

  Sparrow's head moved to follow the flickering of a tow- control dial; he turned back. "Why was it locked?"

  "It's extremely delicate and packed accordingly. They were afraid someone—"

  "I'll want to see it at the first opportunity," said Sparrow. He stepped over behind Bonnet. "Les, is that a leak in compartment nine?"

  "There's no moisture or pressure variant, Skipper. It has to be condensation."

  "Keep an eye on it." Sparrow stepped back beside Ramsey.

  I'm going to find out quick if that disguise system in the box satisfies his curiosity, thought Ramsey.

  "What's your hobby?" he asked Ramsey.

  Ramsey blinked. "Astronomy: "

  Bonnet spoke over his shoulder: "That's a peculiar hobby for a submariner."

  Before Ramsey could reply, Sparrow said, "There's nothing wrong with astronomy for a man who goes to sea."

  "The basis of navigation," said Ramsey.

  Sparrow glanced sidelong at Ramsey, returned his gaze to the board. "I was thinking as we moved out across the mooring basin back at base that we were entitled to a last look at the stars before going under the sea. They give one a sense of orientation. One night before we left Garden Glenn I was struck by the clarity of the sky. The constellation of Hercules was—" He broke off as the Ram's nose tipped upward.

  A down hands moved over his controls to correct for the deflection.

  "Hercules," said Ramsey. "Do you mean the Kneeler?"

  "Not many call him that anymore," said Sparrow. "I like to think of him up there all these centuries, guiding mariners. The Phoenicians used to worship him, you know."