Twenty-three hours the Ram drifted downwind, angling away from Iceland to the northeast. A gray speck on gray and foam. And behind her, barely submerged, the green surge of their tow, a sea monster escaped from the deep.
In Ramsey's second watch they passed within two miles of a radioactive iceberg, probably broken from the skerries of the northeast Greenland coast. Ramsey kept radiation snoopers tuned to the limit until they were out of range. The berg, its random contours catching the wind like a sail, was almost quartering the gale. It pulled away from the Ram, like a majestic ship.
Ramsey noted in the log: "Current setting easterly away from our course. We did not cross the berg's path."
Outside radiation: 1800 milli-R.
Garcia came across the control room. "Safe yet?"
"Clear," said Ramsey.
Garcia looked to the screen on the control bulkhead, the view of gray rollers. "Moderating."
"If the fog will just hold," said Ramsey.
Sparrow came through the aft door, his lank form seemingly more loose-jointed than usual.
He's relaxed, thought Ramsey. That fits. What EP commander would dream of looking for us up here? We're too low in the water to show on a shore screen.
"All quiet, Skipper," he said.
"Very good," said Sparrow. He looked to the time-log: nine days, three hours, and forty-seven minutes. "Joe, how long since you've had a signal from our friends?"
"Not a sign of them for almost ten hours."
Sparrow glanced at the sonoran chart. The red dot stood at sixty-six degrees, nine minutes, twenty seconds North Latitude, two degrees, eleven minutes West Longitude. He nodded to Ramsey. "Get us underway, if you please. Surface speed. Quarter throttle. Keep us under eight knots."
Ramsey moved to obey.
The Ram shuddered to a wave impact, fought up the slope of a sea. They gathered headway, sluggishly.
"She answers the helm, sir," said Ramsey.
Sparrow nodded. "Course thirteen degrees. We've drifted a bit too close to the Norwegian coast line. The EPs have shore-based listening posts there."
Ramsey brought the subtug around on her new heading.
"We'll stay on the surface as long as we have fog," said Sparrow.
"Our guardian angels are working overtime," said Garcia.
"I wonder if they have a union?" asked Ramsey.
Sparrow looked to the timelog: nine days, four hours even. He caught Garcia's attention, nodded toward the timelog and then the helm. "Take over, if you please, Joe."
Garcia took the helm from Ramsey.
"You are relieved," said Sparrow.
Ramsey felt a wave of fatigue sweep through him. He remembered what he had to do, fought down the tiredness. "We'll be there soon," he said.
Sparrow frowned.
"None too soon for me," said Ramsey. "I feel like we're living on borrowed time. I want our payment in the bank -- a whole load of that sweet oil."
"That will be enough," said Sparrow.
"You afraid I'm going to give away a nasty old Security secret?" asked Ramsey.
Garcia darted a puzzled glance at him.
"Go to your quarters," said Sparrow.
"Righto," said Ramsey, copying Garcia's accent. He made his tone as insolent as possible without coming to actual insubordination, turned toward the aft door.
"I'll wish to speak with you before your next watch," said Sparrow. "We're long overdue for an understa --" He broke off as a red warning light flashed on the reactor system's scram board. The light winked green, then red, then green. Garcia saw it, too.
Ramsey turned back to the control bulkhead, caught the last flash from red to green. "Something's loose in the pile room," said Sparrow. "That torpedo shock we took," said Ramsey. "More likely the pounding we've had from these seas," said Garcia.
"That's circuit 'T' of the secondary damper controls," said Sparrow. "Right side forward. Get Les up here on the double." Garcia pushed the alarm buzzer.
"Try the screens," said Sparrow.
Ramsey moved back to the helm, took it. Garcia glanced at him, moved to the screen controls, began hitting switches.
Bonnett entered. "What's up?"
"Something loose in the pile room," said Sparrow. "It's 'T' circuit."
"Right side forward," said Bonnett. He moved to get a better view of the screens, caught the handrail to steady himself against the rolling of the deck.
Sparrow said, "I'm going forward." He looked at the scram board. The light winked at him: red, green, red, green, red, green . . . "Les, come forward with me and help me into a suit. I'll have to crawl the right-side tunnel, use the manuals and mirrors."
"Just a minute, Skipper," said Garcia. "Look at that." He pointed at a screen.
Sparrow stepped to his side.
"Central damper controls," said Garcia. "See. When we pitch into the trough of a wave it seems to -There!"
They all saw it. The long hanging arm of the manual damper control swung free like the multi-joined leg of an insect. It exposed a break at the top elbow hinge. The upper bracing flapped outward to the sway of the boat.
"It was wedged against the hinge," said Garcia. "Now it's broken free again." He looked at the scram board. Red, green, red, green, red . . .
Each time the light flashed red, the swinging arm touched a control circuit cable. A blue arc of electricity splashed upward.
Garcia pointed to the lower half of the screen which showed the base of the control system. "There's the real trouble. The whole control base is twisted. See those sheared bolts."
Sparrow whirled to the forward hatch, undogged it. "Les, I've changed my mind. Stay here with Johnny on the main board. Joe, come with me." He glared at Ramsey, hesitated, then said, "Take us down below wave turbulence."
Ramsey's hands went to the controls: diving planes two degrees, compensating system open, hull pressure holding. He found that it was better to let his body react, to accept the results of his training, secure in the knowledge that this way he would be right.
Sparrow went through the door, out onto the engine-room catwalk. Garcia followed.
Ramsey activated the engine-room scanners to follow their movements. What a time I picked to go into my act, he thought. He gave a mental shrug. But one time's as good as another.
"We're going to make it," said Bonnett. "Nothing can stop us."
Startled, Ramsey darted a glance at the first officer.
Bonnett was staring at the screen. Ramsey followed the direction of his gaze. Sparrow and Garcia were scrambling down the ladder to the right-side tunnel. Sparrow jerked open the door to the bulkhead locker, swung out an ABG suit on its traveler rack.
"The EPs are crazy to think they can beat him," said Bonnett. "He's like a god!"
Something in Bonnett's voice . . .
Ramsey fought down a shudder.
The screen showed Garcia helping Sparrow into the bulky suit.
Ramsey turned back to his controls as the subtug steadied. He found the need to say something, said, "We're out of wave turbulence."
Bonnett looked at him. "Do tell." He turned his attention back to the screen.
Ramsey adjusted the controls, brought the deck to level.
Now, Sparrow was completely sealed into his suit. He turned clumsily, helped Garcia.
What does the telemeter show? Ramsey wondered. Is Sparrow under control? Or is the wild feedback starting?
In the heavy suit, Sparrow felt the perspiration begin to roll off him. His fingers seemed unwilling to obey him as he assisted Garcia. Damned sweat suits! There! The final seal went into place.
Sparrow took a deep breath, spoke into his suit mike: "Testing . . . testing. Do you read me, Les?"
The captain's voice boomed out of the speaker on the control desk. Ramsey turned down the volume.
Bonnett spoke into his chest mike: "Loud and clear."
"Joe," said Sparrow. "Are you receiving me?"
"Righto, Skipper."
"Now get this, Les," said Sparrow. "If that damper arm swings out too far it'll begin clubbing the side of the pile. Monitor me on your screen. I might not be able to see a position change soon enough."
Bonnett looked to the screen showing the reactor room. "It's quiet now, Skipper. Resting against the first-stage clamps."
"Those bolts are sheared off, though," said Sparrow. "The whole unit could fall over onto the pile."
Bonnett studied the screen. "Skipper, there's a chance you could catch the main drive bar with the grapple of the forward manuals." He bent closer to the screen. "It'll be a near thing. You'll have to snake past that broken hinge."
"How much clearance?"
"Maybe six inches. No more. The mirror's at a bad angle."
"Take me in," said Sparrow. "We can do it." He turned, undogged the tunnel hatch and snapped on his helmet light. "Joe, stay here unless I call you." He reached a hand into the tunnel, found the filter-system switch, started it. He plugged his suit hose into the traveler, tested the air.
Garcia said, "I'll time you. Have Les monitor the tunnel radiation."
Bonnett, listening to the conversation over the intercom, said, "I'll give you the time-over-radiation from here." He twisted a dial, plugged in a jack, tested the circuit.
"I'm going in," said Sparrow. He bent, slid into the tunnel. "I'll give you a running commentary when I reach the manuals, Les. Get everything on tape. Base will want a complete record of this."
"Take it slow and easy, Skipper," said Bonnett. Sparrow said, "Joe, dog that tunnel door behind me. If that base falls to the right it'll smash the end-plug. There'd be hot stuff all over the place."
"Righto."
A faint thump behind Sparrow and a feeling of pressure change told him when Garcia had complied. Sparrow felt the isolation like a physical band tightening on his forehead. Perspiration rolled down his cheeks, down his nose. His clothes were damp with it, clinging to him.
Garcia's voice came over the phones like a sound from another world. "What do you see, Skipper?"
"Tunnel's clear. Nothing hot yet." His helmet light cut a bright path through the metallic darkness.
It's another birth canal, he thought. And he remembered all the times he had crawled the mock-up tunnel at training school without ever encountering that thought. There's a first time for everything: a first time to be born, a first time to die. He longed to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Lest ye be born again ye shall not enter . . .
The light picked up the safety door near the end of the tunnel. This was the limit of the bulkhead. Beyond that was the lead soda straw jutting into the pile room. And at the end: the manuals. He undogged the door, swung it back into its recess.
Pile-room floodlights cast their blue glare onto the tunnel floor ahead of him, reflected through the mirror system in a weird splotching of brilliance and shadows. Sparrow inched his way into the glare.
"I am at the manuals," he said. He turned onto his back, fighting against the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. Out there in the blue glare of the pile room was . . . what? The world and all its threats. Garcia's voice came over the intercom: "Are you okay, Skipper?"
Sparrow took a deep breath. "Yes."
I'll pretend I'm still in school, he thought. This is a test. I have to pass or take a black mark. They've yanked the control units free of their base and I have to make repairs under simulated action conditions. Old Lieutenant Maurey is back at the tunnel mouth hoping I'll fail. That's not really a reactor out there; it's just a mock-up. They wouldn't risk an unimportant student with the real thing. They have to wait until you've had all that expensive training and it's cost something to lose you. Then -
"Skipper," Les's voice, metallic in the phones.
"Yes?"
"Are you ready?"
"Just a moment, Les."
"Right."
Sparrow slipped his hands into the fitted grips of the manual controls, pulled the stud which hooked him into the grapple. He pulled back with his right hand, watched in the mirror as the grapple came into lift position.
"Les?"
"I see it, Skipper. Bring it up about three feet. Line it up with the spring bar, but keep it back away from the broken hinge."
Sparrow pulled down on the right grip, turned it slightly to bring the hydraulic booster into play. The grapple darted upward. Too fast! Sweat popped out on his forehead.
"A little slower," said Bonnett.
Sparrow whispered, "'Lord, I am like David. I am in a great strait: let us fall now into the hand of the Lord; for his mercies are great: and let me not fall into the hand of man. Stay now thine hand. I have sinned and I have done wickedly: but these sheep, what have they done? Put thine hand over mine, Lord. Guide me.'"
Steadiness came to him.
"Did you say something, Skipper?" asked Bonnett.
"I'm all set, Les. Guide me in."
"Okay. You have to come up about six inches and to the left about an inch. Take it slow."
Sparrow lowered the thrust of the hydraulic booster, put his muscle into the grip. The manual arm went up slowly, paused, shifted to the left.
