Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker (16 page)

"And now, by stealing the
Centurion
, these agents have our super-water by the tankfull," Thurston said forcefully. "They have no right to that stolen property, nor to the processing and refining system we’ve spent years developing here in this facility. We
must
recover the tanker before these agents can make use of what they’ve taken—or peddle it to someone else."

"Is that what you want me to try to do?" asked Tom. "To use my methods to find the ship for you?"

Ahlgren shook his head. "Not just that, Tom. Something else comes first. We need you to locate our big haul of Configuration Eighteen—but
after
you track down the one person on Earth who can tell us what to do with it!"

TOM regarded Bernt Ahlgren with a half smile on his young face—half smile and half anger. "Mr. Ahlgren, I think you’re asking quite a bit of a guy you were willing to throw overboard as
bait
."

As Ahlgren grinned broadly in wry acknowledgment, John Thurston huffed: "I hope you’re not intimating that we would have left you to the mercies of Carlow and his men!"

"You don’t know
what
he was after," Bud piped up angrily. "First the jerk tried to discredit Tom, then kidnap him. What next?"

"You know, Barclay, spies and crooks can have psychotic breakdowns as easily as any of us," suavely noted Ahlgren. "Carlow—that is, Iomenzies—is a narcissistic psychopath. He seems to resent those who have made something of their lives, and I’d imagine he very much enjoyed being in a position to mess with Tom’s public reputation. As for the next steps, all his bosses really care about is keeping the noted young inventor off their tail. They figured we’d turn to you eventually, Tom."

"Destroying the sea tunnel wasn’t exactly a casual drive-by!" snapped Tom hotly.

"Of course," soothed Mr. Thurston. "But we’re sure that part of things was purely an accident. Whatever procedure scuttled the
Centurion
evidently ruptured one of the C-18 tanks."

"Perhaps so," Tom barely conceded. "And it
just happened
that unusual ocean currents carried the colloid-water to the SMB—a substance which just happened to be immune to the repelatrons."

"Or did they
just happen
to drag the whole darn ship into position—and pop open a valve!" Bud Barclay contributed. "Nice way to get Tom Swift Enterprises out of the North Atlantic and back to Shopton!"

Tom laid a restraining hand on his chum’s muscular forearm. "Let’s hear the rest of it. What is this about locating someone?"

"He’s a Kranjovian scientist, little known in the West, but one of the few researchers who really knows what C-18 is and how it works," explained Thurston. "Here—a recent news photo. His name is Petrov Vaxilis. Heard of him?"

"No."

"Not surprising when you’re dealing with Kranjovia," Ahlgren remarked. "Supreme Dictator Friend-of-the-People Ulvo Maurig plays all his cards close to his chest. Professor Vaxilis is allowed a few special privileges, though, as a sort of national celebrity of great value to the regime. Liberality Maurig came to regret."

Continued Thurston, "Vaxilis was allowed to retain a private yacht, a family possession passed down by his grandfather. He was permitted to do some sailing in the Baltic Sea—provided that his captain and crew were trained security agents, and that his wife and children were held in Serpentopol as, in effect, hostages.

"Some weeks ago, sailing back from a scientific conference in Lithuania, Vaxilis managed to acquire a weapon and force his keepers into a lifeboat. He set course westward—he’d decided to defect, whatever the cost to his loved ones. But the Kranjovian Navy hemmed him in."

"I didn’t read about any of this," Tom declared.

"It was in no nation’s interest to ramp up the situation," responded Ahlgren. "By luck, Vaxilis’s yacht, the
Naiad
, had made it into coastal waters claimed by one of our NATO allies—the claim being under some dispute and a subject of polite negotiations. Some big threats were tossed back and forth between NATO and Kranjovia. Ultimately both sides agreed to back off and permit the
Naiad
to sail on, to Amsterdam."

"But he never made it, huh?" concluded Bud. "What happened? Did Maurig torpedo the yacht?"

"We’re not... not
quite
sure how matters unfolded," John Thurston said slowly, as if embarrassed. "Inclement weather interfered with some of our long-range monitoring. At a certain point in time, in the middle of an empty sea, the
Naiad
became—unlocatable."

Tom gave a sharp nod. "In other words, it disappeared."

"She went under," said Ahlgren. "Our monitoring determined
that
, at least. You can see her shrinking under the waves on satallite radar imaging."

"Okay, so she
sank
," Bud muttered impatiently.

Thurston shook his head. "No. Not in any conventional use of that word. As in the case of the
Centurion
, the yacht disappeared below the surface
much
too rapidly for a case of hull-breach and sinking. It was out of sight within
seconds
!—as if something underneath had literally grabbed it and
pulled
it down!"

"And Professor Vaxilis with her," mused Tom Swift. "Have you any reason to think he might have survived, Mr. Thurston?"

"Only the fact that he is surely much more valuable alive than dead. And also that, like the supertanker, no trace of the
Naiad
has been found."

Tom was thinking deeply, head lowered, but risked a veiled glance at Bud. They knew their thoughts were running in parallel. The bizarre scenario suggested all too well the actions of some monstrous subsea predator—
an unknown giant of the depths like the Conqueror Worm
!

The young inventor decided to keep his thoughts to himself for the present. "What can I do to help you?" asked Tom quietly. "Our Enterprises submersibles could comb the area, and there are airborn detection instruments that we― "

Ahlgren interrupted. "We’re beyond that point. We’ve already used your gravity-gradient sensor, and a passel of other gimmicks. We’ve been searching intensively above and below the surface. As have the Kranjovians, naturally. The problem is that there’s nothing within a hundred miles of the last sighting, and we don’t know where to look next."

Bud smiled. "Somebody once told me that the ocean’s a pretty big place."

Thurston looked at Tom soberly. "We know your sea-atom detectors led you to the guyot, Tom. Is there some way they could track the
Naiad
? Or the
Centurion
?"

"To be frank, gentlemen, I
do
have an invention in mind that might accomplish the goal," Tom said. "It’s an aquatomic tracker that could follow underwater trails from one side of the ocean to the other if necessary."

"Is it near completion?"

Tom made a disguised promise that he was certain he could keep. "After I return to Shopton it’ll be finished in a matter of days."

"Then our prospects are much improved."

"Reports of the death of hope," stated Ahlgren, "have been greatly exaggerated."

Before escorting the boys back to their bicycles and providing Tom with an elaborately encrypted data-disk of information about Configuration Eighteen and the Vaxilis disappearance, Paula Jeans took them into another room and showed them the experimental vehicle the NATO consortium was developing. It was a bulky, van-sized automobile. "The C-18 engine shows a great deal of promise."

"I know there’re a lot of historical myths about the supposed ‘inadequacies’ of steam-driven cars," remarked Tom. "The truth is, steam racing cars were exceeding 140 miles per hour back in their heyday—and they were no more unsafe than the gas engines of that era."

"Yes. As you probably know, one of the greatest drawbacks to the use of steam engines for automotive purposes is the amount of time and energy it takes to fire-up the boiler and ‘build up a head of steam’. But with supersteam, the problem is essentially solved."

Bud was frowning skeptically as he scrutinized the demonstration vehicle. "I understand why you’d want to replace petroleum. But whatever happened to electricity, ma’am? Tom’s great-grandad tooled around in an electric car, and nowadays Tom’s solar batteries― "

Bernt Ahlgren chuckled, his look condescending. "I gather you haven’t had a great deal of experience with the scientific problem of momentum, Barclay—as applied to big projects with many hands and many governments involved. The Oberjuerge discovery was made around the time Tom here was
born
! Never let it be said that grand projects touched by the magic wand of competitive economics would ever be stifled by mere common sense."

"That’s a little too cynical for my tastes, Mr. Ahlgren," Tom declared.

"In any event, gentlemen, there are legitimate scientific and humanitarian reasons to locate Vaxilis and the
Centurion
," concluded John Thurston.

Added Ahlgren: "Assuming either of them still exist."

As they biked back to the town, Tom and Bud exchanged thoughts—and doubts. "I’m pretty sure we’re not being told the truth about Carlow," Tom declared grimly.

"Why do you say that, Tom?"

"Because he was originally planning to fly here, to Quiveres and the ‘refinery.’ Thurston and company may not realize we know that."

Bud drew even with his pal. "I don’t get your point."

"My point is that the espionage group would hardly be likely to try to break into a highly guarded facility like this one—the core of the whole project. Wouldn’t they be most likely to stay clear and pull off their subversion in places that are more vulnerable?"

"You know, you’re right. They’d pick off the outlying stuff in bits and pieces. They’d be idiots to risk everything by trying to work so close to the refinery. And they
sure
wouldn’t send in a crazy loose cannon like Carlow!"

Tom nodded. "They’d make sure he was kept distant and under control. So why the plane ticket?"

"What’s your theory, professor?"

"Don’t have one—so far. But I’ve gotten pretty good at telling when I’m being lied to, pal."

In less than ten hours Tom and Bud and the others were back in Shopton, a supersonic trip by
Sky Queen
behind them. And it was only a matter of a few days before Tom was holding up Arvid Hanson’s model of the aquatomic tracker vehicle before Bud’s gray eyes. "Man, she’s a small one—even smaller than the jetmarines!"

Tom explained that the midget sub would only carry two passengers. "She can be transported in the Flying Lab’s hanger-hold, or the freight hold of one of the manta-class seacopters."

"A real
sub
-compact!" Bud turned over the round-nosed, bulging form in his hands. It had a flat, oval shape, a broad view window wrapping about its prow. A long tapering vane, like a sting ray’s tail, extended aft. "She looks like a red tadpole! Hey, you oughta name her the― "

"Er—I’m calling her the
SnooperSub
," declared his friend hastily.

"Is she another of your fishy speed demons?"

The scientist-inventor shook his head. "Far from it. She’ll just creep along. Her usual cruising speed won’t be much faster than a rowboat’s!"

"Good night!" exclaimed Bud in wry skepticism. "You didn’t leave room for a motor?"

"She has to move in a slow, delicate way—no wake, no bow-shock, not even any excess heat or sound. Nothing to disrupt or distort the lay of the molecular traces in the local water."

"So how does she move?"

"That long vane on the tail is basically a modified hydraulivane, the device we use on the jetmarines to reduce friction by easing the water aside." Tom explained that in this case the vane would function in the reverse manner, forcing the flow of water inward upon itself. "As pressure builds up, the
Snoop
gets
squeezed
forward, so to speak."

"Run silent, run creep." Bud pointed to a flat, angled-off section beneath the nose. A cluster of wide-mouthed silvery tubes stretched forward from this slanted panel, arranged in an X-shaped array. "What are these for?"

"Those intake ducts, flyboy, are a big part of what makes the aquatomic tracker the more sophisticated big brother to the aquatometers. Here, pal—I’ll show you something." He led his friend over to a long, trough-like tank that he had set up near the lab wall. As Bud watched expectantly, the young inventor pitched handfulls of a flaky powder into what appeared to be ordinary water. Each handfull had a different color-mix.

Bud leaned over the trough as the handfulls began to disperse. "Great colors, pal."

"Notice how each handfull is clumped into an identifiable arrangement?" When Bud nodded, Tom continued: "Now what would happen to those delicate patterns if we sucked the water in the tank into an intake pipe?"

"They’d get scrunched up."

"In other words, scrambled, distorted, and mixed together."

"Like I said—scrunched."

Tom pointed to a narrow opening, like a sluice-gate, that divided the tank into two separated sections. Standing at a makeshift control panel, he flipped a switch and carefully adjusted a set of glowing dials.

Immediately the colored clumps of materials began to move down the tank toward the opening, as if on an invisible conveyor belt. Bud raised his black eyebrows. "Hmm—neat! Each clump is scurrying along without breaking apart. Looks like you’ve got each one in an invisible box—a cube of ‘solid water.’ A magic spell, Harry P.?"

"Keep watching."

As the clumps neared the opening they smoothly fell in line, like cars on an onramp. Bud walked a ways toward the far end of the tank and watched them pass through the opening one by one, floating into the further section without any distortion of their splotchy patterns. "Okay,
perfect
. So how?"

Tom switched off his device. "By taking advantage of some of the ways water is special. It has unique properties, pal—super-powers! Because of its atomic arrangement, a water molecule developes an internal charge separation and forms electromagnetic poles that allow it to become polarized."