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Ice Station Zebra by Alistair Maclean

There was a long silence; then Swanson said bitterly, “You might have told us before this.”

“I might have broadcast it all over your tannoy system. Why the hell should 1? I don’t want to trip over blundering amateurs every step I take. Ask any cop. The biggest menace of his life – is the self-appointed Sherlock. Besides, I couldn’t trust you, and before you start getting all hot and bothered about that I might add that I don’t mean you’d deliberately give me away or anything like that but that you may inadvertently give me away. Now I’ve no option but to tell you what I can and chance the consequences. Why couldn’t you just have accepted that directive from your Chief of Naval Operations and acted accordingly?”

“Directive?” Hansen looked at Swanson. “What directive?”

“Order from Washington to give Dr. Carpenter here carte blanche for practically everything. Be reasonable, Carpenter. I don’t like operating in the dark and I’m naturally suspicious. You came aboard in highly questionable circumstances. You knew too damn much about submarines. You were as evasive as hell. You had this sabotage theory all cut and dried. Damn it, man, of course I had reservations. Wouldn’t you have had, in my place?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know. Me, I obey orders.”

“Uh-huh. And your orders in this case?”

“Meaning what exactly is all this about?” I sighed. “It would have to come to this. You must be told now, and you’ll understand why your Chief of Naval Operations was so anxious that you give me every help possible.”

“We can believe this one?” Swanson asked.

“You can believe this one. The story I spun you back in the Holy Loch wasn’t all malarkey. I just dressed it up a bit to make sure you’d take me along. They did indeed have a very special item of equipment here-an electronic marvel that was used for monitoring the count-down of Soviet missiles and pinpointing their locations. This machine was kept in one of the huts now destroyed–the second from the west in the south row. Night and day a giant captive radio-sonde balloon reached thirty thousand feet up into the sky–but it had no radio attached. It was just a huge aerial. Incidentally, I should think that this is the reason why the oil fuel appears to have been flung over so large an area–an explosion caused by the bursting of the hydrogen cylinders used to inflate the balloons. They were stored in the fuel hut.”

“Did everybody in Zebra know about this monitoring machine?”

“No. Most of them thought it a device for investigating cosmic rays. Only four people knew what it really was–my brother and the three others who all slept in the hut that housed this machine. Now the hut is destroyed. The free world’s most advanced listening post. You wonder why your C.N.O. was so anxious?”

“Four men?” Swanson looked at me, a faint speculation still in his eye. “Which four men, Dr. Carpenter?”

“Do you have to ask? Four of the seven men you see lying here, Commander.”

He stared down at the floor, then looked quickly away. He said: “You mentioned that you were convinced even before we left port that something was wrong. Why?”

“My brother had a top-secret code. We had messages sent by him: he was an expert radio operator. One said that there had been two separate attempts to wreck the monitor. He didn’t go into details. Another said that he had been attacked and left unconscious when making a midnight check and finding someone bleeding off the gas from the hydrogen cylinders: without the radio-sonde aerial, the monitor would have been useless. He was lucky, he was out for only a few minutes, as long again and he would have frozen to death. In the circumstances did you expect me to believe that the fire was unconnected with the attempts to sabotage the monitor?”

“But how would anyone know what it was?” Hansen objected. “Apart from your brother and the other three men, that is?” Like Swanson, he glanced at the floor and, like Swanson, looked as hurriedly away. “For my money, this is the work of a psycho. A madman. A coldly calculating criminal would–well, he wouldn’t go in for wholesale murder like this. But a psycho would.”

“Three hours ago,” I said, “before you loaded the torpedo into number 3 tube, you checked the manually controlled levers and the warning lights for the tube bow caps. In the one case, you found that the levers had been disconnected in the open position: in the other, you found that the wires had been crossed in a junction box. Do you think that was the work of a psycho? Another psycho?”

He said nothing. Swanson said, “What can I do to help, Dr. Carpenter?”

“What are you willing to do, Commander?”

“I will not hand over command of the _Dolphin_.” He smiled, but he wasn’t feeling like smiling. “Short of that, I– and the crew of the _Dolphin_–am at your complete disposal. You name it, Doctor, that’s all.”

“This time you believe my story?”

“This time I believe your story.”

I was pleased about that; I almost believed it myself.

8

The hut where we’d found all the Zebra survivors huddled together was almost deserted when we got back to it; only Dr. Benson and the two very sick men remained. The hut seemed bigger now, somehow, bigger and colder, and very shabby and untidy, like the remnants of a church rummage sale where the housewives have trained for a couple of months before moving up to battle stations. Pieces of clothing, bedding, frayed and shredded blankets, gloves, plates, cutlery, and dozens of odds and ends of personal possessions lay scattered all over the floor. The sick men had been too sick–and too glad to be on their way–to worry much about taking too many of their various knickknacks out of there. All they had wanted out of there was themselves. I didn’t blame them.

The two unconscious men had their scarred and frost-bitten faces toward us. They were either sleeping or in a coma. But I took no chances. I beckoned to Benson and he came and stood with us in the shelter of the west wall.

I told Benson what I’d told the commander and Hansen. He had to know. As the man who would be in the most constant and closest contact with the sick men, he had to know. I suppose he must have been pretty astonished and shaken, but he didn’t show it. Doctors’ faces behave as doctors tell them to; when they come across a patient in a pretty critical state of health, they don’t beat their breasts and break into loud lamentations, as this tends to discourage the patient. This now made three men from the _Dolphin’s_ crew who knew what the score was–well, half the score, anyway. Three was enough. I only hoped it wasn’t too much.

Thereafter Swanson did the talking; Benson would take it better from him than he would from me. Swanson said, “Where were you thinking of putting the sick men we’ve sent back aboard?”

“In the most comfortable places I can find. Officers’ quarters, crew’s quarters, scattered all over so that no one is upset too mUch. Spread the load, so to speak.” He paused. “I didn’t know of the latest–um—development at the time. Things are somewhat different now.”

“They are. Half of them in the wardroom, the other half in the crew’s mess– No, the crew’s quarters. No reason why they shouldn’t be made comfortable. If they wonder at this, you can say it’s for ease of medical treatment and that they can all be under constant medical watch, like heart patients in a ward. Get Dr. Jolly behind you in this. He seems a co-operative type. And I’ve no doubt he’ll support you in your next move–that all patients are to be stripped, bathed and provided with clean pajamas. If they’re too ill to move, a bed bath. Dr. Carpenter here tells me that prevention of infection is of paramount importance in cases of severe burn injuries.”

“And their clothes?”

“You catch on more quickly than I did,” Swanson grunted. “All their clothes to be taken away and labeled. All contents to be removed and labeled. The clothes, for anyone’s information, are to be disinfected and laundered.”

“It might help if I am permitted to know just what we are looking for,” Benson suggested.

Swanson looked at me.

“God knows,” I said. “Anything and everything. One thing certain–you won’t find a gun. Be especially careful in labeling gloves–when we get back to Britain, we’ll have the experts test them for nitrates from the gun used.”

“If anyone has brought aboard anything bigger than a postage stamp, I’ll find it,” Benson promised.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Even if you brought it aboard yourself?”

“What? Me? What the devil are you suggesting?”

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