Part 2 (1/2)

He was a long way from the station. He repeated the call three times. At last a faintly audible voice came from the set.

”... this is Commsubron Killer. You are ordered to return immediately....”

The voice faded again.

”Listen!” Mitch bellowed. ”Four, no--_five_ enemy submarine--position 3150' North, 7310' West, proceeding northwest--roughly, toward Was.h.i.+ngton. Probably carrying an answer to Garson's ultimatum. Get help out here. Over.”

He heard only a brief mutter this time. ”... ordered not to proceed toward Was.h.i.+ngton. Return immediately to--”

”Not me! You fool! Listen! Five--enemy--submarines--” He repeated the message as slowly as he could, repeated it four times.

”... reading you S-1,” came the fading answer. ”Are you in distress? I say again. Are you in distress? Over.”

Angrily Mitch keyed the carrier wave, screwed the b.u.t.ton tightly down, and kicked on the four-hundred cycle modulator. Maybe they could get a directional fix on his signal and home on it.

The blips were gone from the radar scope. The subs had spotted him and submerged. In a moment he would be catching a torpedo, unless he moved.

He started the engines quickly, and the surfaced sub lurched ahead. He nosed her toward the enemy craft and opened the throttle. She knifed through the water like a low-running PT boat, throwing a V-shaped fan of spray. When he reached the halfway point between his own former position and the place where the enemy submerged, he began jabbing a release at three second intervals, laying a trail of deadly eggs. He could hear the crash of the exploding depth-charges behind him. He swung around to make another pa.s.s.

Then he saw it--the wet metal hulk rearing up like a ma.s.sive whale dead ahead. They had discovered the insignificance of their lone and pint-sized attacker. They were coming up to take him with deck guns.

Mitch reversed the engines and swung quickly away. The range was too close for a torpedo. The blast would catch them both. He began submerging quickly. A sickening blast s.h.i.+vered his tiny craft, and then another. He dropped to sixty feet, then knifed ahead.

G.o.d! Why was he doing this? There was no sense in it, if he meant to run away. But then the thought came: they're returning Old Man Garson's big-winded threat. They're bringing a snootful of radiological h.e.l.l, and that's the d.a.m.ned bayonet-line across the road.