Pacific Vortex! Part 18

"We"ve got them!" he yelled. "We've got the Star-buck on the radio!"

"What are you talking about?" Boland snapped.

"We're in voice contact with the Starbuck" the boatswain said more slowly.

The radio man thought the boatswain had hardly left for the detection room before Boland was leaning over his shoulder. He looked up.

"Believe it or not, sir, Major Pitt is calling us from inside the submarine."

"Tie me in and throw him on the speaker," Boland said. He couldn't mask the excitement in his voice- perhaps Pitt could do the impossible after all.

"Starbuck? Boland transmitted, "this is Martha Ann. Over."

Boland stared at the speaker as though he half expected Pitt to walk through it.

"Martha Ann, this is Starbuck. Over."

"Is that you, Pitt? Over."

"In the flesh."

"What is your condition?"

"We're fit. March sends his love." Pitt paused to increase his volume. "The Starbuck is not flooded. I repeat, the Starbuck is not flooded. If we had another ten men down here, we could sail her home."

"The crew?"

"No trace. It's as though they never existed."

Boland didn't answer immediately. He tried to digest the enormity of Pitt's words, vainly picturing in his mind a deserted and ghostly s.h.i.+p sitting unattended and ignored. He was conscious of nothing around him; he didn't even notice half of the crew of the Martha Ann standing in the pa.s.sageway in stunned silence. First came the creeping wave of numbed disbelief, and then slowly, the agonizing, intolerable realization that it was true.

"Please repeat!"

"The vessel is totally deserted. At least from the forward torpedo room to the main control room amids.h.i.+ps. We haven't searched the aft compartments yet. Somebody was kind enough to keep the electric bill paid up. We have power from the port reactor."

Boland's knees felt unsteady. He hesitated, clearing his throat, and said: "You and March have done your bit for the cause. Make your way to the escape hatch and return to the Martha Ann. Ill have men with extra air tanks waiting for your ascent. Is Lieutenant March standing by?"

"Negative. He went aft to check for flooded compartments and to make sure the Hyperion Missiles are still snug in their cradles."

"I guess you know you're broadcasting to every receiver within a thousand miles on this frequency."

"Who'd believe a broadcast from a submarine that's been sunk for six months?"

"Our friends in the USSR, for one." Boland paused to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. "I suggest we call it a day. Soon as March returns, head back topside. The admiral may call for a full report. And, just so you don't get your signals crossed again, that's an order!"

He could almost see the grin on Pitt's face.

"Okay, Father. Set up the bar. We'll be there in..."

Pitt's voice died in mid-sentence. The only sound that emitted from the speaker was the muted rasp that came between transmissions. Boland brought the mike to his lips again, his eyes narrowing from a growing, inner fear.

"I'don't read you, Starbuck. Please repeat."

Still the muted rasp from the speaker.

"Come in, Pitt. Dammit, why don't you acknowledge?"

Silence was his only reply.

Pitt sat there without moving, gaping speechlessly at the wild-eyed, heavily bearded apparition that stood in the doorway of the radio room. He sat there while he absorbed the shock, waiting for the repulsive and foul-smelling thing to dissolve back into the hallucination where it belonged. He blinked, hoping his mind would erase the image, but the thing simply blinked back.

Then the mouth moved and a hoa.r.s.e voice whispered, "Who are you? You're not one of them."

"What do you mean?" Pitt said quietly, controlling his voice.

"They'll kill you if they knew you used the radio." The voice sounded remote and distant.

"They?"

Pitt's hand crept down to Barf and closed over the handgrip. The thing in the doorway took no notice.

"You don't belong here," the apparition went on vacantly. "You're not dressed like the others."

The man himself was clothed in dirty rags that resembled a naval noncom's dungarees, but there was no indication of rank. The eyes were dull and the body thin and wasted. Pitt decided to try a long shot.

"Are you Commander Dupree?"

"Dupree?" the man echoed. "No, Farris, Seaman First Cla.s.s Farris.*'

"Where are the others, Farris? Commander Dupree, the officers, your s.h.i.+pmates?"

"I'don't know. They said they would kill them if I touched the radio."

"Is anyone else on board?"

"They keep two guards at all tunes."

"Where?"

"They could be anywhere."

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Pitt gasped, his body suddenly taut. "March!" He leaped to his feet and pulled Farris into the radio operator's chair. "Wait here. Do you understand me, Farris? Don't move."

Farris nodded dully. "Yes, sir."

Barf held in front of him, Pitt moved swiftly from compartment to compartment, stopping every few seconds to listen. There was no sign of Lieutenant March, and the only sound came from the humming of the duct fans. He stepped into what he immediately recognized as the sick bay. There was an operating table, cabinets filled with neatly labeled bottles, surgical instruments, an X-ray machine, and even a dentist's chair. There was also a crumpled shape lying between the beds that jutted from the far bulkhead. Pitt bent down, although he knew who the inert form had to be.

March was lying on his side, his arms and legs twisted in rubbery grotesqueness, his body fluid circling the body in a congealing pool. Two small round holes bled on a direct line from his chest to the back of his spine; he lay on the cold steel deck, the eyes open, staring unseeing at the blood that had emptied from his veins. Moved by an instinct as old as man, Pitt gently reached down and closed March's eyes.