‘Yes, yes,’ Jolly nodded. ‘But this no smoking, no moving —’
‘That same very small battery, I’m afraid, is the only source left to us for power for the air-purifying machines, for lighting, ventilation, heating — I’m afraid the Dolphin is going to get very cold in a short time — so we have to curtail its expenditure of energy on those things. So no smoking, minimum movement — the less carbon dioxide breathed into the atmosphere the better. But the real reason for conserving electric energy is that we need it to power the heaters, pumps and motors that have to be used to start up the reactor again. If that battery exhausts itself before we get the reactor going — well, I don’t have to draw a diagram.’
‘You’re not very encouraging, are you, Commander?’ Jolly complained.
‘No, not very. I don’t see any reason to be,’ Swanson said dryly.
‘I’ll bet you’d trade in your pension for a nice open lead above us just now,’ I said.
‘I’d trade in the pension of every flag officer in the United States Navy,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘If we could find a polynya I’d surface, open the engine-room hatch to let most of the contaminated air escape, start up our diesel — it takes its air direct from the engine-room — and have the rest of the smoke sucked out in nothing flat. As it is, that diesel is about as much use to me as a grand piano.’
‘And the compasses?’ I asked.
‘That’s another interesting thought,’ Swanson agreed. ‘If the power output from our reserve battery falls below a certain level, our three Sperry gyro-compass systems and the N6A— that’s the inertial guidance machine — just pack up. After that we’re lost, completely. Our magnetic compass is quite useless in these latitudes — it just walks in circles.’
‘So we would go around and around in circles, too,’ Jolly said thoughtfully. ‘For ever and ever under the jolly old ice-cap, what? By jove. Commander, I’m really beginning to wish we’d stayed up at Zebra.’
‘We’re not dead yet, Doctor . . . Yes, John?’ This to Hansen, who had just come up.
‘Sanders, sir. On the ice-machine. Can he have a smoke mask? His eyes are watering pretty badly.’
‘Give him anything you like in the ship,’ Swanson said, ‘just so long as he can keep his eyes clear to read that graph. And double the watch on the ice-machine. If there’s a lead up there only the size of a hair, I’m going for it. Immediate report if the ice thickness falls below, say, eight or nine feet.’
‘Torpedoes?’ Hansen asked. ‘There hasn’t been ice thin enough for that in three hours. And at the speed we’re drifting there won’t be for three months. I’ll go keep the watch myself. I’m not much good for anything else, this hand of mine being the way it is.’
‘Thank you. First you might tell Engineman Harrison to turn off the CO2 scrubber and monoxide burners. Must save every amp of power we have. Besides, it will do this pampered bunch of ours the world of good to sample a little of what the old-time submariners had to experience when they were forced to stay below maybe twenty hours at a time.’
That’s going to be pretty rough on our really sick men,’ I said. ‘Benson and Folsom in the sickbay, the Harrington twins, Brownell and Bolton in the nucleonics lab., right aft. They’ve got enough to contend with without foul air as well.’
‘I know,’ Swanson admitted. I’m damnably sorry about it. Later on, when — and if — the air gets really bad, we’ll start up the air-purifying systems again but blank off every place except the lab. and sick-bay.’ He broke off and turned round as a fresh wave of dark smoke rolled in from the suddenly opened after door. The man with the smoke mask was back from the engine-room and even with my eyes streaming in that smoke-filled acrid atmosphere I could see he was in a pretty bad way. Swanson and two others rushed to meet him, two of them catching him as he staggered into the control room, the third quickly swinging the heavy door shut against the darkly-evil clouds of smoke.
Swanson pulled off the man’s smoke mask. It was Murphy, the man who had accompanied me when we’d closed the torpedo tube door. People like Murphy and Rawlings, I thought, always got picked for jobs like this.
His face was white and he was gasping for air, his eyes upturned in his head. He was hardly more than half-conscious, but even that foul atmosphere in the control centre must have seemed to him like the purest mountain air compared to what he had just been breathing for within thirty seconds his head had begun to clear and he was able to grin up painfully from where he’d been lowered into a chair.
‘Sorry, Captain,’ he gasped. ‘This smoke mask was never meant to cope with the stuff that’s in the engine-room. Pretty hellish in there, I tell you.’ He grinned again. ‘Good news, Captain. No radiation leak.’
‘Where’s the Geiger counter?’ Swanson asked quietly.
It’s had it, I’m afraid, sir. I couldn’t see where I was going in there, honest, sir, you can’t see three inches in front of your face. I tripped and damn’ near fell down into the machinery space. The counter did fall down. But I’d a clear check before then. Nothing at all.’ He reached up to his shoulder and unclipped his film badge. This’ll show, sir.’
‘Have that developed immediately. That was very well done, Murphy,’ he said warmly. ‘Now nip for’ard to the mess room. You’ll find some really clear air there.’
The film badge was developed and brought back in minutes. Swanson took it, glanced at it briefly, smiled and let out his breath in a long slow whistle of relief. ‘Murphy was right. No radiation leak. Thank God for that, anyway. If there had been — well, that was that, I’m afraid.’
‘The for’ard door of the control room opened, a man passed through, and the door was as quickly closed. I guessed who it was before I could see him properly.
‘Permission from Chief Torpedoman Patterson to approach you, sir,’ Rawlings said with brisk formality. ‘We’ve just seen Murphy, pretty groggy he is, and both the Chief and I think that youngsters like that shouldn’t be —’
‘Am I to understand that you are volunteering to go next, Rawlings?’ Swanson asked. The screws of responsibility and tension were turned hard down on him, but I could see that it cost him some effort to keep his face straight.
Well, not exactly volunteering, sir. But — well, who else is there?’
‘The torpedo department aboard this ship,’ Swanson observed acidly, ‘always did have a phenomenally high opinion of itself.’
‘Let him try an underwater oxygen set,’ I said. ‘Those smoke masks seem to have their limitations.’
‘A steam leak, Captain?’ Rawlings asked. ‘That what you want me to check on?’
‘Well, you seemed to have been nominated, voted for and elected by yourself,’ Swanson said. ‘Yes, a steam leak.’
‘That the suit Murphy was wearing?’ Rawlings pointed to the clothes on the desk.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You’d have thought there would be some signs of moisture or condensation if there had been a steam leak, sir.’
‘Maybe. Maybe soot and smoke particles are holding the condensing steam in suspension. Maybe it was hot enough in there to dry off any moisture that did reach his suit. Maybe a lot of things. Don’t stay too long in there.’
‘Just as long as it takes me to get things fixed up,’ Rawlings said confidently. He turned to Hansen and grinned. ‘You baulked me once back out there on the ice-cap, Lieutenant, but sure as little apples I’m going to get that little old medal this time. Bring undying credit on the whole ship, I will.’
‘If Torpedoman Rawlings will ease up with his ravings for a moment,’ Hansen said, ‘I have a suggestion to make, Captain. I know he won’t be able to take off his mask inside there but if he would give a call-up signal on the engine telephone or ring through on the engine answering telegraph every four or five minutes we’d know he was O.K. If he doesn’t, someone can go in after him.’
Swanson nodded. Rawlings pulled on suit and oxygen apparatus and left. That made it the third time the door leading t
o the engine compartment had been opened in a few minutes and each time fresh clouds of that black and biting smoke had come rolling in. Conditions were now very bad inside the control room, but someone had issued a supply of goggles all round and a few were wearing smoke masks.
A phone rang. Hansen answered, spoke briefly and hung up.
‘That was Jack Cartwright, Skipper.’ Lieutenant Cartwright was the main propulsion officer, who’d been on watch in the manoeuvring-room and had been forced to retreat to the stern room. ‘Seems he was overcome by the fumes and was carried back into the stern room. Says he’s O.K. now and could we send smoke masks or breathing apparatus for himself and one of his men — they can’t get at the ones in the engine-room. I told him yes.’
‘I’d certainly feel a lot happier if Jack Cartwright was in there investigating in person,’ Swanson admitted. ‘Send a man, will you?’
‘I thought I’d take them myself. Someone else can double on the ice-machine.’
Swanson glanced at Hansen’s injured hand, hesitated then nodded. ‘Right. But straight through the engine-room and straight back.’
Hansen was on his way inside a minute. Five minutes later he was back again. He stripped off his breathing equipment. His face was pale and covered in sweat.
‘There’s fire in the engine-room, all right,’ he said grimly. ‘Hotter than the hinges of hell. No trace of sparks or flames but that doesn’t mean a thing, the smoke in there is so thick that you couldn’t see a blast furnace a couple of feet away.’
‘See Rawlings?’ Swanson asked.
‘No. Has he not rung through?’
‘Twice, but —’ He broke off as the engine-room telegraph rang. ‘So. He’s still O.K. How about the stern room, John?’
‘Damn’ sight worse than it is here. The sick men aft there are in a pretty bad way, especially Bolton. Seems the smoke got in before they could get the door shut.’
‘Tell Harrison to start up his air scrubbers. But for the lab. only. Blank off the rest of the ship.’
Fifteen minutes passed, fifteen minutes during which the engine-room telegraph rang three times, fifteen minutes during which the air became thicker and fouler and steadily less breathable, fifteen minutes during which a completely equipped fire-fighting team was assembled in the control centre, then another billowing cloud of black smoke announced the opening of the after door.
It was Rawlings. He was very weak and had to be helped out of his breathing equipment and his suit. His face was white and streaming sweat, his hair and clothes so saturated with sweat that he might easily have come straight from an immersion in the sea. But he was grinning triumphantly.
‘No steam leak, Captain, that’s for certain.’ It took him three breaths to get that out. ‘But fire down below in the machinery space. Sparks flying all over the shop. Some flame, not much. I located it, sir. Starboard high-pressure turbine. The lagging’s on fire.’
‘You’ll get that medal, Rawlings,’ Swanson said, ‘even if I have to make the damn’ thing myself.’ He turned to the waiting firemen. ‘You heard. Starboard turbine. Four at a time, fifteen minutes maximum. Lieutenant Raeburn, the first party. Knives, claw-hammers, pliers, crow-bars, CO12. Saturate the lagging first then rip it off. Watch out for flash flames when you’re pulling it off. I don’t have to warn you about the steam pipes. Now on your way’
They left. I said to Swanson: ‘Doesn’t sound so much. How long will it take? Ten minutes, quarter of an hour?’
He looked at me sombrely. ‘A minimum of three or four hours — if we’re lucky. It’s hell’s own maze down in the machinery space there. Valves, tubes, condensers and miles of that damned steam piping that would burn your hands off if you touched it. Working conditions even normally are so cramped as to be almost impossible. Then there’s that huge turbine housing with this thick insulation lagging wrapped all round it — and the engineers who fitted it meant it to stay there for keeps. Before they start they have to douse the fire with the CO2 extinguishers and even that won’t help much. Every time they rip off a piece of charred insulation the oil-soaked stuff below will burst into flames again as soon as it comes into contact with the oxygen in the atmosphere.’
‘Oil-soaked?’
‘That’s where the whole trouble must lie,’ Swanson exclaimed. ‘Wherever you have moving machinery you must have oil for lubrication. There’s no shortage of machinery down in the machine space — and no shortage of oil either. And just as certain materials are strongly hygroscopic so that damned insulation has a remarkable affinity for oil. Where there’s any around, whether in its normal fluid condition or in fine suspension in the atmosphere that lagging attracts it as a magnet does iron filings. And it’s as absorbent as blotting-paper.’
‘But what could have caused the fire?’
‘Spontaneous combustion. There have been cases before. We’ve run over 50,000 miles in this ship now and in that time I suppose the lagging has become thoroughly saturated. We’ve been going at top speed ever since we left Zebra and the excess heat generated has set the damn thing off . . . John, no word from Cartwright yet?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He must have been in there for the best part of twenty minutes now.’
‘Maybe. But he was just beginning to put his suit on — himself and Ringman — when I left. That’s not to say they went into the engine-room straight away. I’ll call the stern room.’ He did, spoke then hung up, his face grave. ‘Stern room says that they have been gone twenty-five minutes. Shall I investigate, sir?’
‘You stay right here. I’m not —’
He broke off as the after door opened with a crash and two men came staggering out — rather, one staggering, the other supporting him. The door was heaved shut and the men’s masks removed. One man I recognised as an enlisted man who had accompanied Raeburn: the other was Cartwright, the main propulsion officer.
‘Lieutenant Raeburn sent me out with the lieutenant here,’ the enlisted man said. ‘He’s not so good, I think, Captain.’
It was a pretty fair diagnosis. He wasn’t so good and that was a fact. He was barely conscious but none the less fighting grimly to hang on to what few shreds of consciousness were left him.
‘Ringman,’ he jerked out. ‘Five minutes — five minutes ago. We were going back —’
‘Ringman,’ Swanson prompted with a gentle insistence. ‘What about Ringman?’
‘He fell. Down into the machinery space. I — I went after him, tried to lift him up the ladder. He screamed. God, he screamed. I — he —’
He slumped in his chair, was caught before he fell to the floor. I said: ‘Ringman. Either a major fracture or internal injuries.’
‘Damn!’ Swanson swore softly. ‘Damn and blast it all. A fracture. Down there. John, have Cartwright carried through to the crew’s mess. A fracture!’
‘Please have a mask and suit ready for me,’ Jolly said briskly. ‘I’ll fetch Dr Benson’s emergency kit from the sick-bay.’
‘You?’ Swanson shook his head. ‘Damned decent, Jolly. I appreciate it but I can’t let you —’
‘Just for once, old boy, the hell with your navy regulations,’ Jolly said politely. ‘The main thing to remember, Commander, is that I’m aboard this ship too. Let us remember that we all — um — sink or swim together. No joke intended.’
‘But you don’t know how to operate those sets —’
‘I can learn, can’t I?’ Jolly said with some asperity. He turned and left.
Swanson looked at me. He was wearing goggles, but they couldn’t hide the concern in his face. He said, curiously hesitant: ‘Do you think —’
‘Of course Jolly’s right. You’ve no option. If Benson were fit you know very well you’d have him down there in jig-time. Besides, Jolly is a damned fine doctor.’
‘You haven’t been down there, Carpenter. It’s a metal jungle. There isn’t room to splint a broken finger far less —’
‘I don’t think Dr Jolly will try to fix or splint anything
. He’ll just give Ringman a jab that will lay him out so that he can be brought up here without screaming in agony all the way.’
Swanson nodded, pursed his lips and walked away to examine the ice fathometer. I said to Hansen: ‘It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?’
‘You can say that again, friend. It’s worse than bad. Normally, there should be enough air in the submarine to last us maybe sixteen hours. But well over half the air in the ship, from here right aft, is already practically unbreathable. What we have left can’t possibly last us more than a few hours. Skipper’s boxed in on three sides. If he doesn’t start the air purifiers up the men working down in the machinery space are going to have the devil of a job doing anything. Working in near-zero visibility with breathing apparatus on you’re practically as good as blind — the floods will make hardly any difference. If he does start up the purifiers in the engine-room, the fresh oxygen will cause the fire to spread. And, when he starts them up, of course, that means less and less power to get the reactor working again.’
‘That’s very comforting,’ I said. ‘How long will it take you to restart the reactor?’
‘At least an hour. That’s after the fire has been put out and everything checked for safety. At least an hour.’
‘And Swanson reckoned three or four hours to put the fire out. Say five, all told. It’s a long time. Why doesn’t he use some of his reserve power cruising around to find a lead?’
‘An even bigger gamble than staying put and trying to put out the fire. I’m with the skipper. Let’s fight the devil we know rather than dice with the one we don’t.’
Medical case in hand, Jolly came coughing and spluttering his way back into the control centre and started pulling on suit and breathing apparatus. Hansen gave him instructions on how to operate it and Jolly seemed to get the idea pretty quickly. Brown, the enlisted man who’d helped Cartwright into the control centre, was detailed to accompany him. Jolly had no idea of the location of the ladder leading down from the upper engine-room to the machinery space.