Tom Swift and His Diving Seacopter (13 page)

A few minutes later he went back below and reappeared holding a bowl-shaped, highly polished aluminum object twelve inches in diameter.

"What’s that contraption for?" Chow asked, perched on top of the seacopter.

"It’s the parabolic reflector from the aft sonar receiver bay. I’ll set this reflector up so the rays of the sun will strike it directly. The angle of reflection is such that the rays all concentrate at one point a short distance above the concave surface."

After pouring fresh ammonia into the battery, Tom propped-up the reflector against some rocks. "Now we’ll wait for sunrise and see what happens. It may not work. But if it does, it’ll require about an hour of strong sunlight."

Inside the
Ocean Arrow,
the expeditioners nibbled a pitifully small supper that Chow had been able to prepare from fish caught earlier in the afternoon.

"Tom, you know best, but I don’t see how even concentrated sunlight will charge your battery enough to let you run the radio," Bud said.

Tom said he understood his pal’s skepticism. "But I’m not planning to use the
Arrow’s
communications setup, except for parts."

"Tom, don’t tell me you’ve invented some new kind of communications system!" protested George Braun.

The young inventor broke out laughing. "Nothing new about it!" He gestured skyward. "Up there, just outside the atmosphere, Swift Enterprises has dozens of tiny relay satellites in orbit around Mother Earth. We’ve been using them for our videophone network for several years now."

"You mean you’re planning to send a TV picture?"

"I’ll be satisfied if I can access the audio channel," Tom answered. "But even up in space those satellites are probably the closest receivers around, and it won’t take too much power to transmit a signal to them. I’ll use the parabolic reflector to focus the signal after the battery is partially charged-up."

They could hardly wait for daybreak to see if Tom’s idea would work. Tom left the battery elements in the reflected sunlight for more than an hour, reorienting the reflector every few minutes as the sun rose. Finally he connected his modified radio circuitry to the solar battery and set up the reflector behind the transmitting coils. He made the final connection and murmured hopefully, "Now we’ll see if my idea panned out."

"She’s lighting up!" cried Bud excitedly, as a tiny bulb flickered dimly on the makeshift control panel.

Tom spent several minutes adjusting the mix of frequencies, a difficult task without the proper test instruments. Finally he said, "I believe we’re transmitting the FM code that will get the satellite to pay attention to us. Now for the message!"

He began to speak sharply into the microphone.
"This is Tom Swift. The seacopter is wrecked. We are alive but adrift in the B section somewhere near the Horseshoe Seamounts. Here is our last known position."
Tom read off the coordinates. Then, flipping a switch, he listened attentively to the headphones for a response. A few seconds later there was a faint sputter of static.

"Anything?" asked Ham.

"Not sure," answered Tom. "Those bursts of static might be words, but it’s way too faint to make out." For half an hour, Tom repeated the same message over and over. Then, in midsentence, a sudden squeal of static made him wince. The static gradually faded out—along with the glow of the instrument light.

"Oh, for Pete’s sake, we’ve lost it!" groaned Bud.

Repeated efforts failed to revive the device. "We’ll have to give up for the time being," sighed Tom as the others stood by, watching and fidgeting in baffled anxiety. "The battery’s gone dead. And we’re all out of ammonia now; I can’t charge it again."

Dull, dejected hours passed on Earthquake Island, as George Braun had christened their rocky home. As night fell, the mariners stretched out on the rocks, using blankets for pillows. Soothed by the night breeze, they were soon asleep. As day broke, Tom was rudely awakened by Chow. "What’s up?" the young inventor asked.

"Water’s risin’!" exclaimed the cook. "Whole island’s bein’ swallowed up!"

Tom leapt to his feet and gazed around him, aghast. The sea was flooding in over the rocky coast line. Overnight the island had shrunk to half its former size! Even as they watched, the waves were lapping higher and higher.

Tom awakened the others. "Quick!" he ordered. "We must get back into the seacop!"

As they clambered onto the hull, Bud suddenly cried out, "Wait a second! I hear a plane!"

TENSELY the five castaways waited, straining their eyes to pierce the sky from which had come the distant whine of jet engines. Was rescue on the way or was another disappointment in store for them?

"It’s hardly light yet," fretted George. "Will he see us?"

"We’ll make him see us!" declared Tom. "Rip off your shirts and start signaling!"

As the men followed Tom’s suggestion, a great
silver giant loomed into view from the clouds that rested on the western horizon. Bud gave a whoop of sheer joy. "The
Sky Queen!"

Tom’s majestic three-decker Flying Lab came to a halt high above them, hovering on its bank of down-thrusting jet lifters. Tom’s relief was so great that tears came to his eyes.

The group waved their shirts in a frenzied greeting. Down-throttling the lifters, the Flying Lab swooped low and spiraled in toward the island. A moment later the mammoth ship settled down to a precarious perch on her telescoping landing wheels.

The main hatchway popped open on the side of the bottom deck and a familiar face appeared in the pale morning gleam.

"Arv!" cried Tom. Arvid Hanson, a good friend, was Enterprises’ chief of the modelmaking and test-prototypes division.

"Hello there!" he called. As others crowded into the opening, Tom was overjoyed to see his father and Hank Sterling.

"Man! The gang’s all here!" exclaimed Bud Barclay.

The castaways scrambled back onto the islet and entered the
Sky Queen
one by one. Tom brought up the rear. As he hugged his father warmly, he murmured, "Sorry, Dad, I blew it. The seacopter’s ruined and I don’t see how we can beat Wickliffe to the rocket now."

Mr. Swift did not answer. As Tom looked up he noticed Bud, Chow, Ham, and George standing in a group, a strange expression on all their faces. "What is it? What’s wrong?" Tom asked nervously. In response they all nodded their heads in unison, bidding Tom look further toward the rear of the great stratoship’s aerial hangar.

Tom gasped in unbelieving delight. The large compartment was filled side-to-side with one half of a diving seacopter, complete with the rotor-prop assembly!

"The second seacopter!" shouted the young inventor. "Dad, you got it finished!"

Damon Swift laughed. "Just barely, son. In fact the B compartment isn’t completed yet, but it seems a new A section, and new blades, is all that is required."

Tom strode over excitedly to the crimson-bright seacopter cabin. "With Hank and Arv here, and the
Queen’s
derricks and pulleys, attaching these new sections to the old B should be a snap!"

"We’ll be back hunting rockets in no time, skipper!" Bud cheered.

In fact there was no time to lose; Earthquake Island was still subsiding back into the waters. With the Flying Lab hovering at twenty feet, the new A section and prop assembly were carefully lowered into position, outside the plumes of fiery thrust from the jet lifters, and locked into place. In less than an hour, the islet had vanished—but in its place floated a sparkling new diving seacopter.

As they worked, Tom described their adventures. Remarked his father, "Of course we had no reason to be concerned with your being out of touch. We just assumed you were engrossed in your undersea search. But we were frantic with worry, it’s fair to say, when Graham Kaye relayed the audio signal he had picked up from the satellite network. We were able to load the new seacopter sections into the aerial hangar while the
Sky Queen
was being prepared for flight, so no time was lost."

Tom again expressed his gratitude, but then added, "It’s too bad, though, about the loss of our detection devices when A went to the bottom. I’ve decided that the rocket must be made of a nonmetallic material, so I suppose the loss of your metal detector isn’t too great an impediment. But I could sure use another Damonscope and Eye-Spy camera."

It was Hank Sterling’s turn to surprise Tom. "Your wish is our command, chief. The color version of your camera was completed yesterday and installed in the seacop section. As for the Damonscope—have you forgotten that the
Queen
already has one?"

Tom marveled at the turn in their fortunes.

Mr. Swift reported that there had been no further contact with the space beings, despite repeated entreaties. Nor had Harlan Ames turned up any new information on Wickliffe or his associates. "At least we know where they were as of the other day," Tom remarked. "I just pray they haven’t had any luck finding the planet-life vehicle."

A shower and change of clothes made the oceannauts feel fully alive again, and Mr. Swift’s insistence that they take a few hours rest revived them further. Finally, after a hearty lunch, they were lowered down to the hull of the seacopter. Entering, they quickly surveyed the refurbished craft, including the minor repairs that had been made to Compartment B. The
Queen
’s Damonscope had been reinstalled in the A section, and the veranium reactor in the B section had been tested and restarted.

"Ship-shape and ready for departure," Tom pronounced gleefully. He radioed Mr. Swift, and they settled some final details. The Flying Lab would attempt to shadow the seacopter from the air, probing the depths with its thermal and magnetic instruments. At night both ships would be berthed in Funchal, Madeira.

"One thing I wanna know," said Chow Winkler. "This here seacopter is half o’ the old one, and half all-new—right?"

"That’s right," Bud replied. "So?"

"So it ain’t all one thing nor t’ other. What do we call it all put-together?
Ocean Arrow Two,
mebbe?"

From the controls, Tom replied, "I’m still calling it the
Ocean Arrow."

"Fair enough, boss," Chow said. "But then what’ll we call the half that’s wrecked down on the bottom?"

"C’mon, Chow, the answer’s easy," jibed Bud. "It’s the
Ocean Arrow Minus One!"

Tom opened the throttle and the new seacopter, whatever its name, dove smartly beneath the tossing waves. After briefly circling their rocky, now-submerged former home, Tom swung the wheel, and kicked the jet-thrust control pedal as he began steering the search pattern. Fifteen minutes went by, then half an hour, with still no clue to the rocket’s location.

For the next few hours they cruised steadily through the shimmering green waters, raising and lowering the
Ocean Arrow
to follow the terrain of the floor. Clouds of the tiny plants and creatures called plankton drifted past their cabin windows, as well as schools of fish, squid, and eels. The Damonscope gave no hint of the presence of the space vessel and there was no visible sign of it, nor any indication of something unusual on the sonarscope.

Presently Bud asked, "What depth are we at now?"

"Eighty feet," Tom replied. "But in a minute—"

The young sea-pilot broke off as he felt the
Ocean Arrow
heave violently. Bud and the others were sent reeling to the floor. Tom grasped the wildly twisting wheel, which was designed to emulate the directional movements of the sub. His knuckles were white with the strain. He pushed his feet hard against the control pedals with all the force he could muster.

"Brand my bronc! What’s goin’ on?" screeched Chow in Compartment B as he clawed wildly to keep his balance.

"We’re caught in an ocean jet stream!" cried Ham Teller.

"I can’t get her to settle down!" Tom shouted. He realized the ship was being swept completely out of control!

"Help me—b-brace the—wheel, Bud!" Tom managed to stammer out. "I can’t override the circuits!"

Bud leaped to his friend’s assistance, gripping the wheel firmly with both hands. "It’s like trying to ride up the center of a tornado!" he gasped. "What can we do?"

"Work our way out," answered Tom, "before we’re shaken to pieces." His teeth chattered against themselves.

"J-j-jumpin’ c-catfish!" groaned Chow in the rear cabin. "It’s l-like ridin’ a locoed mustang!"

George Braun, behind Tom and Bud, steadied himself against the side of the cabin. "We must be moving close to solid bottom. That’s what’s causing all this turbulence!"

"We’d b-better—do something—and do it fast!" Bud urged.

"Cut the power!" Tom ordered.

Bud complied, but the mariners felt the seacopter lurch even more vigorously. "The turbulence is getting worse!" shouted George. "It’ll tear us to pieces!"

"Quick, Bud!" Tom cried. "Throw the rotors into positive pitch. Pour on the coal to ’em! We’ll try climbing up and out." The rotors began to churn. "Now cut in the jets—full power!"

A few seconds after Bud had pushed the blade lever with one hand and rammed the master jet throttle forward with the other, the
Ocean Arrow
responded. But it acted like a maddened animal. The others could do nothing but hold on and wait as the young inventor clung to the controls with all his strength.

"W-w-we must be sittin’ on top a volcano!" sputtered Chow. His pots and pans bounced about the deck.

Suddenly the
Ocean Arrow
seemed to go in all directions at once. This was followed by a terrific jolt. Then suddenly the turbulence ceased and the seacopter settled down. Tom instantly cut the jets and changed the blade pitch.

"We’re out of it!" he announced, breathing heavily.

There was a short silence as everyone relaxed and heaved deep sighs of relief. Then George Braun said in a weak voice:

"Congratulations, you two! That slick job of piloting really saved our necks!"

"No telling what might have happened if you hadn’t pulled us out," agreed Ham Teller. "Those undersea currents are tricky and deadly—and so far, science knows practically nothing about them."