Time yet, Nicholls thought desperately, perhaps there is time. The main flooding valve had been turned off five minutes ago: it was possible, barely possible, that the two trapped men inside were clinging to the ladder, above water level.
One clip, one clip only was holding the hatch cover now. With alternate strokes of their sledges, they struck it with vicious strength.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, it sheared off at fts base and the hatch cover crashed open under the explosive upsurge of the compressed air beneath.
Brown screamed in agony, a single coughing shout of pain, as the bone crashing momentum of the swinging hatch crashed into his right hip, then fell to the deck where he lay moaning quietly.
Nicholls did not even spare ‘him a glance He leant far through the hatch, the powerful beam of his torch stabbing downwards into the gloom.
And he could see nothing, nothing at all, not what he wanted to see. All he saw was the water, dark and viscous and evil, water rising and falling, water flooding and ebbing in the eerie oilbound silence as the Ulysses plunged and lifted in the heavy seas.
“Below!” Nicholls called loudly. The voice, a voice, he noted impersonally, cracked and shaken with strain, boomed and echoed terrifyingly down the iron tunnel. “Below!” he shouted again. “Is there anybody there?” He strained his ears for the least sound, for the faintest whisper of an answer, but none came.
“McQuater!” He shouted a third time. “Williamson! Can you hear me?”
Again he looked, again he listened, but there was only the darkness and the muffled whisper of “the oil-slicked water swishing smoothly from side to side. He stared again down the light from the torch, marvelled that any surface could so quickly dissipate and engulf the brilliance of that beam. And beneath that surface… He shivered. The water, even the water seemed to be dead, old and evil and infinitely horrible. In sudden anger, he shook his head to clear it of these stupid, primitive fears: his imagination, he’d have to watch it. He stepped back, straightened up. Gently, carefully, he closed the swinging hatch. The mess deck echoed as his sledge swung down on the clips, again and again and again.
Engineer-Commander Dodson stirred and moaned. He struggled to open his eyes but his eyelids refused to function. At least, he thought that they did for the blackness around remained as it was, absolute, impenetrable, almost palpable.
He wondered dully what had happened, how long he had been there, what had happened. And the side of his head just below the ear that hurt abominably. Slowly, with clumsy deliberation, he peeled oflf his glove, reached up an exploratory hand. It came away wet and sticky: his hair, he realised with mild surprise, was thickly matted with blood. It must be blood he could feel it trickling slowly, heavily down the side of his cheek.
And that deep, powerful vibration, a vibration overlain with an indefinable note of strain that set his engineer’s teeth on edge, he could hear it, almost feel it, immediately in front of him. His bare hand reached out, recoiled in instant reflex as it touched something smooth and revolving, and burning hot.
The shaft tunnel! Of course. That’s where he was, the shaft tunnel.
They’d discovered fractured lubricating pipes on the port shafts too, and he’d decided to keep this engine turning. He knew they’d been attacked. Down here in the hidden bowels of the ship, sound did not penetrate: he had heard nothing of the aircraft engines: he hadn’t even heard their own guns firing, but there had been no mistaking the jarring shock of the 5.25s surging back on their hydraulic recoils. And then, a torpedo perhaps, or a near miss by a bomb. Thank God he’d been sitting facing inboard when the Ulysses had lurched. The other way round and it would have been curtains for sure when he’d been flung across the shaft coupling and wrapped round …
The shaft! Dear God, the shaft! It was running almost red hot on dry bearings! Frantically, he pawed around, picked up his emergency lamp and twisted its base. There was no light. He twisted it again with all his strength, reached up, felt the jagged edges of broken screen and bulb, and flung the useless lamp to the deck. He dragged out his pocket torch: that, too, was smashed. Desperate now, he searched blindly around for his oil can: it was lying on its side, the patent spring top beside it.
The can was empty.
No oil, none. Heaven only knew how near that over-stressed metal was to the critical limit. He didn’t. He admitted that: even to the best engineers, metal fatigue was an incalculable unknown. But, like all men who had spent a lifetime with machines, he had developed a sixth sense for these things, and, right now, that sixth sense was jabbing at him, mercilessly, insistently. Oil, he would have to get oil. But he knew he was in bad shape, dizzy, weak from shock and loss of blood, and the tunnel was long and slippery and dangerous, and unlighted. One slip, one stumble against or over that merciless shaft… Gingerly, the Engineer-Commander stretched out his hand again, rested his hand for an instant on the shaft, drew back sharply in sudden pain. He lifted his hand to his cheek, knew that it was not friction that had flayed and burnt the skin off the tips of his fingers. There was no choice.
Resolutely, he gathered his legs under him, swayed dizzily to his feet, his back bent against the arching convexity of the tunnel.
It was then that he noticed it for the first tune, a light, a swinging tiny pinpoint of light, imponderably distant in the converging sides of that dark tunnel, although he knew it could be only yards away. He blinked, closed his eyes and looked again. The light was still there, advancing steadily, and he could hear the shuffling of feet now. All at once he felt weak, light-headed: gratefully he sank down again, his feet safely braced once more against the bearing block.
The man with the light stopped a couple of feet away, hooked the lamp on to an inspection bracket, lowered himself carefully and sat beside Dodson. The rays of the lamp fell full on the dark heavy face, the jagged brows and prognathous jaw: Dodson stiffened in sudden surprise.
“Riley! Stoker Riley!” His eyes narrowed in suspicion and conjecture.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“I’ve brought a two gallon drum of lubricating oil,” Riley growled. He thrust a Thermos flask into the Engineer-Commander’s hands. “And here’s some coffee. I’ll ‘tend to this, you drink that… Suffering Christ! This bloody bearing’s red hot!”
Dodson set down the Thermos with a thump.
“Are you deaf?” he asked harshly. “Why are you here? Who sent you?
Your station’s in ‘B’ boiler room!”
“Grierson sent me,” Riley said roughly. His dark face was impassive.
“Said he couldn’t spare his engine room men, too bloody valuable… Too much?” The oil, thick, viscous, was pouring slowly on to the overheated bearing.
“Lieutenant Grierson!” Dodson was almost vicious, his voice a whiplash of icy correction. “And that’s a damned lie, Riley! Lieutenant Grierson never sent you: I suppose you told him that somebody else had sent you?”
“Drink your coffee,” Riley advised sourly. “You’re wanted in the engine-room.”
The Engineer-Commander clenched his fist, restrained himself with difficulty.
“You damned insolent bastard!” he burst out. Abruptly, control came back and he said evenly: “Commander’s Defaulters in the morning. You’ll pay for this, Riley!”
“No, I won’t.” Confound him, Dodson thought furiously, he’s actually grinning, the insolent …
He checked his thought.
“Why not?” he demanded dangerously.
“Because you won’t report me.” Riley seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.
“Oh, so that’s it!” Dodson glanced swiftly round the darkened tunnel, and his lips tightened as he realised for the first time how completely alone they were: in sudden certainty he looked back at Riley, big and hunched and menacing. Smiling yet, but no smile, Dodson thought, could ever transform that ugly brutal face. The smile on the face of the tiger… Fear, exhaustion, never, ending strain, they did terrible things to a man and you couldn’t blame him for what he had become, or for what he was born… But his, Dodson’s, first responsibility was to himself. Grimly, he remembered how Turner had berated him, called him all sorts of a fool for refusing to have Riley sent to prison.
“So that’s it, eh?” he repeated softly. He turned himself, feet thrusting solidly against the block. “Don’t be so sure, Riley. I can give you twenty five years, but——”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Riley burst out impatiently. “What are you talking about, sir? Drink your coffee, please, You’re wanted in the engine-room, I tell you!” he repeated impatiently.
Uncertainly, Dodson relaxed, unscrewed the cap of the Thermos. He had a sudden, peculiar feeling of unreality, as if he were a spectator, some bystander in no way involved in this scene, this fantastic scene. His head, he realised, still hurt like hell.