Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (6 page)

"Not necessarily. Sometimes externally-induced stimulation causes a reverse reaction, a kind of self-defense mode for the body. So when the brain gets signals that trick it into thinking it’s
too awake
—it compensates by shutting down consciousness for a while."

"I see, Tom," said Sandy thoughtfully. "And what’s the Swift solution?"

Tom leaned forward, his blue eyes aglow with excitement. "Even though I couldn’t squeeze enough data out of the radarscope record to determine the precise frequency-mix the Snipers use, I think I’ll be able to build a jamming device that will respond to, and ‘scramble,’
whatever
they put out."

"So from now on, will people have to wear these things around their necks—like vacation tourists wear leis in Hawaii?"

Tom could help laughing at the image, and Sandy joined in. "No. I’m thinking more in terms of mounting the devices on ships—and maybe a few other places, like Swift Enterprises! But I won’t really be satisfied until I have one of their actual ‘pulsators’ in my hands to take apart."

Sandy nodded. "One more question."

"What?"

"Who would you rather spend the rest of your life with, Bashalli or Daphne Mullenwasser? You have three seconds."

Tom jumped to his feet. "Whoop! My brain just shut down for the night!"

Sandy picked up her book. "Chicken!"

The next day was a busy one for Tom, and for Swift Enterprises. Even before Tom’s encounter with Dansitt, Tom and his father had decided to launch the jetmarine in two days time. The midget craft would be hauled by enclosed van from Shopton to a wharf at Crescent Point, New Jersey, not far from the Spindrift Island tidal flats. The wharf had been leased by Swift Enterprises in secret some weeks before in an effort to avoid crowds, publicity—and evil-doers. Tom had to keep tabs on the loading of the sub.

And there were other irons in the fire. Tom had worked out a basic version of his anti-blackout distorter device, which needed to be installed within the jetmarine, its output antenna inserted in the small transmitter bay just beneath the upper hull. In addition, Tom continued to search Dansitt’s captured memory cartridge for hidden information.

In mid-afternoon, Damon Swift knocked hesitantly on the door to Tom’s private office. "It’s okay, Dad," said Tom. "I’m taking a mental breather."

"Well, I’m here on a mission from your mother. She phoned and asked me to remind you about testing those emergency escape suits, the ones you told her about the other day."

"Mom doesn’t show it, but she’s always a little worried, isn’t she?" Tom slid to his feet off his padded workstool. "As a matter of fact, going to our ‘final fitting’ is next on the agenda for Bud and I."

Bud had dubbed the gear the Fat Man suit. The body of it was egg-shaped, wide end down, about six feet tall, five across its rotund midsection. The upper third of the "egg" was transparent, offering the occupant a 360-degree view. It was composed of the same lightweight quartz-Tomasite meld as was used for the jetmarine’s nose dome.

The entire front-facing half of the metal suit, including the dome, swung open like a book to allow easy access, closing into contoured slots that could be fully pressurized. Because of space restrictions on the jetmarine, the two suits would be stored in open configuration, side by side and ready for use, next to the decompression airlock. There would be scarcely enough room to swing them shut.

When in use underwater the suit was propelled by tiny aero-hydraulic pressure jets that gave it maneuverability similar to an astronaut’s spacesuit. To control its vertical position without the need to dump ballast, Tom had devised a buoyancy adjuster, which he described to Bud as "sort of an electronic sponge."

But the main innovation involved in the Fat Man Suits was their workable arms and legs, hands and feet. The tubular arms, which could be retracted telescope-style, were given strength by small electric motors connected in series. The suit wearer operated the arms, and the lifelike fingers on the end, by inserting his hands and forearms into a pair of sleeve-and-glove mechanisms hanging inside the capsule. Every movement of the occupant’s hands and arms would be mimicked by their mechanical counterparts.

The suits legs, extending down beneath, worked on a simpler principle. The suit wearer stepped down into them, his feet extending down to the halfway point of the hollow legs. As the wearer walked, the metal legs would replicate his actions.

"Those suits of yours are not only like one-man microsubs, they’re almost human," commented Mr. Swift as he ridewalked with Tom to the test site. "How do you keep them from falling over?"

Tom replied, "Micro-sized supergyros, based on the Flying Lab’s stabilizers."

"Impressive work," Mr. Swift pronounced with an affectionate snort. "But it’s one thing to test an invention in the abstract and another to foresee actual experience."

"Ex
cuse me, folks," said a deep voice from behind them. Chow had caught up to them on the ridewalk. "I jest come to tell you my chuck wagon’s over by that test site, itchin’ to feed you all." The cook grinned. "If you won’t come an’ get your victuals, well, brand my charcoal stove, I’m forced to fetch it to you."

As Tom and his father joined Bud Barclay at the outdoor test tank, Chow wheeled over a cart with several covered metal dishes kept warm over a flame and began to serve from them.

"I’d hate to starve, of course," Bud said with a grin, "but I’d rather do that than be—er, poisoned. What’s that funny colored stuff in the bowl, Six-Gun Slim?"

"Soup, an’ it’s not—"

"Purple soup!" Tom’s exclamation was softened by a wink. "What did you put in it, iodine?"

Chow feigned looking hurt. Then he appealed to Mr. Swift. "You know what it is, sir?"

"I’m afraid I don’t," the older inventor replied.

"Well brand my ole bean patch!" the cook said in amazement. "You jest taste that special o’ mine. It’s snapping turtle right from the Rio Grande, stewed up with red cabbage."

"What a fate for a poor turtle," Tom groaned.

"No wonder it’s snapping," added Bud.

Chow made no reply to this, and after a dark look from the Texan, Tom put his spoon into the concoction and tasted it. The cook grinned in relief as Tom conceded that it was pretty good after all.

The afternoon snack completed, the Fat Man suits were carted out and positioned next to the test tank. They had already been thoroughly tested, without occupants, in the high-pressure tank. This final test in the open-air tank was only to make whatever slight adjustments remained.

"Boys, I just remembered that I have to return a call to Admiral Krevitt before he leaves for the day," said Mr. Swift. "Good luck with your ‘fitting’."

"I’d wait for you, but we’ll have to hurry things along so we can get started on our pirate hunt," Tom responded.

Beside the test tank stood what looked like two prehistoric dinosaur eggs, gyrostabilized to stand on their thick legs without toppling. Tom swung open one of the suits, Bud the other.

"Your attention, folks!" Bud mimicked a circus barker. "Watch while we transform these Humpty Dumpties into men!"

They backed into the suits with a bowing-like motion, stepping down into the leg-hollows, and after quickly checking the mechanical devices, slammed the hatches shut, which latched and pressurized automatically. A few moments later the boys’ audience beheld two grotesque creatures gleaming in the late afternoon sun, their long fingers and flat toes giving them an uncanny appearance.

When the Fat Men began to walk, the onlookers grinned at their peculiar waddling gait. Reaching the tank, which was filled with salt water, Tom and Bud were hoisted in by pulleys. They bobbed around like corks for several seconds, playfully splashing each other, and then began to descend.

The watchers, aware of Tom’s recent frightful experience, waited intently as Sid Baker flicked on the in-tank lights, which were color-modulated for better visibility in water. Through the thick viewpane the boys could be seen slowly walking around on the bottom, apparently untroubled.

"Where’s the oxygen hose?" asked one of the technicians.

"Everything’s inside the Fat Man," Baker replied. "It’s not dependent on outside help. Lithium hydroxide is taking care of what the boys are exhaling, though you’ll see air bubbles come out of the vents. And you’ve got about three hours’ worth of oxygen crammed into a little tank about the size of a picnic thermos bottle, thanks to one of the Swifts’ inventions."

"Man, I
do
love working here!" remarked the technician.

After forty minutes the period for the test was up, and the two Fat Men bobbed to the surface and were helped from the water. Again the boys’ audience smiled as Tom and Bud awkwardly emerged from the suits. It took them several minutes to do so, their muscles somewhat cramped from unfamiliar use, but Tom had asked that they be given no assistance unless it was absolutely necessary.

"What’s it like, Tom?" came a voice from the crowd.

"Like walking around in a dream," he replied, hair matted with perspiration from his efforts. "The kind where you can’t move as fast as you want to, like you’re walking through molasses. But still, these are escape suits, not luxury liners."

"I’d say your Fat Men are ready for the big time," Bud joked. "All we need is—Tom?"

Bud interrupted himself because his pal had suddenly shifted his gaze off to one side, an intent look on his face. Tom’s neck muscles twitched slightly, and Bud realized the young inventor was engaged in a silent conversation over his muscle-reading televoc communicator.

After a moment Tom gave a slight nod and turned to Bud. "That was Dad. He wants me to clean up and meet him in the Teleconference Room at 5:30 sharp."

"What is it?"

"I don’t know," Tom replied. "Maybe one of our suppliers needs some details from me."

"Well, since you don’t need
me
right now, I think I’ll put in some time in the flight simulators."

Tom watched as Bud departed on the ridewalk, feeling somewhat guilt-ridden. He hadn’t lied, but he had been discreet. Mr. Swift had specifically asked Tom not to bring Bud, or anyone else, along with him to the Teleconference Room. They were about to engage in a highly confidential meeting with not only Admiral Krevitt, but with Dr. Yuri Nemastov, a top-level representative of the government of Russia!

AT THE STROKE of five, Tom and Damon Swift, pressed and dressed, were seated side by side at a large wooden table in a darkened circular room. The table was round and ten feet in diameter, and the far side of the table butted up against the wall that faced them, which matched the table’s curvature.

The far wall flickered and became illuminated in two places. The glowing shadows suddenly condensed into the images of two men, detailed and almost three-dimensional.

"Hello Swift, Tom." It was the image of Admiral Krevitt who spoke. "I have the honor to present to you Dr. Yuri Nemastov, Chief Minister of Applied Sciences and Technology of the Russian Federation, and Special Consultative Officer to His Excellency the President."

Dr. Nemastov was a white-haired, heavyset man with eyes that twinkled behind thick spectacles. He nodded, but with eyebrows raised comically. "I would offer my hand," he said, "but even this advanced tele-cinematic system of yours cannot yet accommodate flesh and bone." He spoke flawless English, with a cultured intonation.

"We met three years ago, Dr. Nemastov, in St. Petersburg," noted Mr. Swift. "You were gracious enough to address the convention I was attending, and we spoke afterwards."

"Indeed yes, I do remember," Nemastov replied. "And now we meet again. Or rather, now we sit at three separate spots upon this earth and pretend to be together in one room."

After a pause, Krevitt spoke up. "When Dr. Nemastov approached ONDAR with his problem, representing his government, I knew this was the sort of thing you Swifts could help us with."

"More than likely," said Mr. Swift smoothly. "A technological problem?"

"Oh, in a way, in a way," replied Nemastov. He then added what seemed to be a non sequitur. "I understand young Tom is planning a voyage to look beneath the waters of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico."

"That’s right, sir," Tom responded, puzzled.

"Then perhaps
you
will be the one to assist us. But let me tell you a story."

Nemastov took a deep breath and settled back in his chair. "Damon Swift, my friend, do you remember the incidents of October of 1962?"

Mr. Swift gave a brisk nod. "I surely do. I was in grade school. I went out onto the playground and looked up at the clouds, wondering what it would be like to never see them again." He half-turned to Tom. "The Cuban missile crisis."

"Yes, so it is called," agreed Dr. Nemastov. "Your country and the country I was born in, the Soviet Union, now deceased, almost came to nuclear blows."

Tom began to see the connection. "In the Caribbean and the Gulf!"

"Indeed," said Nemastov, "where you are to be going. A terrible moment—and I tell you, young man, not all has been revealed about that year, that month. It has now become known in my circles that a Soviet submarine, bearing missiles and powered by an atomic reactor, was diverted from the North Atlantic to a posting in the Caribbean Sea. This was the
Vostok
. During passage through the Yucatan Channel, near to Cuba, all communication was lost—it fell silent. An extensive but discreet search availed nothing. And so the matter stood."

"Then it was presumed lost at sea, I take it?" asked Mr. Swift.

"That is correct. Now we move forward in time thirty years. My poor Soviet Union has expired. A man in Moscow, a black-market czar, dies and leaves his widow a great deal of money. Her name is Aia Ozkhodskaya. She decides to travel the world and indulge her fancies, one of which is the search for the lost lands of myth, such as Atlantis. Did you know, my friends, that lost Atlantis has been sought everywhere in the world by the cultists and adventurers? Well, she read a book and came to think Atlantis was on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. And so she purchased a great deal of specialized equipment, photographic and sound-based, as well as a large yacht; and she began to explore. She did not find ruined temples. Instead, something ominous and unexpected."