The First Team

16

The first darkness of the new night saw no visible letup in the intensive work that was being done in and around the inert, silent submarine. The eerie, white-suited figures from Mare Island contrasted starkly with the dead black hull of the Magsaysay which lay in the water with only the sail and the top of her deck visible. On the dock the radiation detector still indicated a level close to the danger point; the men of the regular work crew who had been detained were gathered on the opposite side of the pier, keeping out of the way.

The commander was there also, nervously pacing up and down from time to time, then stopping to ponder some additional problem. It was not all acting; he had good cause to worry and he knew it. During the next several hours the effects of surprise would all wear off and in the coldly realistic small hours of the night it would be a different ball game. Furthermore, there was a great deal to be done yet and every bit of it would be difficult and dangerous. All the enemy had to do was to bring in a qualified crew of nuclear experts and it would all be over. They could appropriate the decontamination suits and have a look for themselves. If that occurred, everyone concerned would be lined up on the dock and shot right there.

Inside the hull of the Magsaysay a great deal was going on. In the forward part of the ship, which had been screened off from the live radiation, three men who had stripped down to their skivvies were carefully getting into wet suits which were part of the submarine’s standard equipment. They helped each other to strap on SCUBA gear and then went through a series of careful checks, particularly on the rebreathers. As they were finishing another man came into the compartment. He still had on his decontamination suit, but he had taken off his headpiece and was holding it under his arm. He was a little less than normal height, slightly dark in complexion, and of slender build.

The nearest of the divers nodded to him. “Ready, captain,” he said.

“Good. The pre-launch check is set in eight minutes. The best of luck, Hank.”

“Thank you, sir, we’ll do our best.”

There was no more time to spend in conversation; the captain refitted his headgear and went back through the hatch. Down the passageway he was met by a colleague who was waiting for him.

“So far, so good,” the man said. “The light-up crew is ready and standing by.”

“The emergency isotope?”

“Positioned and ready.”

“Carry on. Keep me informed about the situation on the pier — that’s the uncertain element.”

“Ay, sir.”

Slightly more than six minutes later Morrison, the man who had been doing the talking for the Mare Island team, came across the brow, removed his headgear, and went up to speak to the commander. Kepinsky joined them to hear what was being said.

“All right, I can give you the preliminary word,” he reported. “We have a leak, and a potentially very dangerous one, in the pile. We haven’t got it pinpointed yet, but we know the general area and we’ve started to get in there.”

“How dangerous is it?” the commander asked.

“Bad enough. We’re working in very short shifts, but we’re protected and the crew knows what it’s doing.”

The commander did not like the use of the word “crew,” it was too suggestive of the truth, but his lined face gave no clue to that fact. “How about the day men?” he asked.“We’re still keeping them here.”

“Why don’t you send them up to get something to eat; by the time that they get back we’ll know whether we’re going to need them or not,” Morrison suggested.

“Good idea. Anything else?”

“We may need a lot of wash water; if you can rig some hose lines that would be a help. Also, since we’re going to be here all night at least, could you have some food sent down. We can’t leave the job and there may be contamination.”

“Show me what is happen,” Kepinsky interrupted.

“I need something to draw on.”

The commander went to his car and produced a block of paper. He supplied a pencil from his pocket and then walked over to where the day crew men were still waiting at the opposite side of the pier. “You guys go and eat,” he said. “We may need you, we don’t know yet. Tell them at the cafeteria that I said it’s on the house.”

The men got up and started down the pier. The commander looked about and saw that the number of enemy guards had been somewhat decreased; a half dozen were still in evidence as well as the omnipresent gun crew, but there was no evidence that they were more than casually interested in what was going on. They stood and waited, and would continue to do so until they were given orders to the contrary.

Apparently Kepinsky was satisfied with the explanation he was given; he even looked a trifle worried when he rejoined the commander. “It is ungood,” he said.

“I don’t like it, either, but I have confidence in our boys,” the commander responded. Wearily he raised his arms and rubbed his fingers through his hair.

Morrison recrossed the brow and went down the rear hatch. As he did so the radiation detector suddenly showed a gain and a red light mounted on the dial went on. It remained that way for several seconds and then subsided. Kepinsky moved back a few feet but stayed where he could keep a careful watch over the instrument. He had had experience once with a leak in a nuclear pile in his own country and the results had been disastrous. There was, however, no way that he could leave; he remained because he had to, and waited.

The fresh spurt of radiation produced a noticeable reaction from the guards who remained on the pier. Apparently they were not sure what was happening, but it was obvious that they were suddenly afraid. One by one they drew back as far from the submarine as they dared. They could not leave their posts and they knew it, but self-protection was uppermost in their minds.

None of them heard the slight noise which came from the opposite side of the ship when the lead diver, his face and hands blackened, opened the sail door as quietly as he could and looked out carefully into the night. The South Pier was sufficiently far away to give him a measure of protection. With practiced care he slipped through the opening, crossed the few feet of curved decking, and slid all but silently into the water.

Five seconds later the second man followed. In addition to his SCUBA gear he had a sack of tools. He too slid into the water so expertly that there was a minimum of noise or movement to betray him. The two men below the surface swam carefully, one behind the other, toward the stern. When they reached the propeller they waited until the third member of the team joined them, then with the aid of a carefully shielded faint light they tried to measure the extent of the task before them.

The propeller itself was formidable: it was more than nineteen feet in diameter and dwarfed the men who hovered near it appraising the substantial chain which had been woven around it and the rudder post a half dozen times. One end reached over in a lazy underwater arc to the base of the pier.

The lead diver followed it quietly and invisibly until he saw how it had been secured. He did not touch it; instead, using a tiny light of his own, he studied it carefully until he saw two thin electrical wires which had been fastened with insulating staples to the back of the post to which the chain was attached.

He maneuvered into the limited space behind the post and with his diver’s knife removed three of the staples. One at a time he very carefully scraped the wires completely around for a distance of four inches. When he was entirely satisfied with his work he used the limited amount of available play to wind them tightly together. He was careful not to put too much strain on the joint until he was absolutely sure that he had a secure electrical connection. Then he swam back to see how his two companions were doing.

The job of putting the chain around the propeller had been crudely accomplished, probably because the men who had done it did not expect that any inspection would be made of their work. It had simply been wound around the propeller blades and the rudder post enough to insure the fact that the drive system was immobilized until it was removed. Silently the underwater trio conferred by signs. The head diver held up two fingers; each of his companions showed three. He accepted their verdict; he swam to the side of the submarine and with the aid of his light looked at his underwater watch. He waited ninety seconds, then at the exact five-minute interval he tapped very gently against the pressure hull.

He was answered almost at once by four evenly spaced knocks which could have been someone at work in another part of the ship. A full minute of silence passed; sixty measured seconds to break the continuity in case anyone had taken note of the audible signals. Then the diver tapped twice, waited, then tapped three more times.

A single knock acknowledged the message; as soon as he had heard it the diver swam away.

Inside the hull the crewman who had been listening went forward to find the captain as rapidly as he was able. “Sir,” he reported, “I’ve got the word from the Seals. The screw is fouled, but they estimate that they can clear it within three hours.”

Although he already knew the time to the minute the captain consulted his watch once more, then turned to his exec who was close by. “We’ll gamble on that — we’ve got to. Pass the word to the light-up crew to get started and to make the best time that they can.” He knew that the job would take close to six hours, and that it was an extremely critical operation which could not be hurried beyond a certain point.

The men in the reactor compartment were anxiously awaiting that order. The three who were assigned to this important duty knew that from the moment they were authorized to start, time would be vital and that none of it could be wasted. The dropped isotope would mask the increased radiation level; the cooling water was another matter, but there was a cover for that — at least so they had been informed. Their job was to get the pile going and to ignore everything else.

On the dock Kepinsky was having second thoughts. He knew the acute danger that a mishap in the nuclear pile represented, but to remain on the pier without making a personal inspection could be interpreted as negligence. He had been rationalizing, he realized that, and danger or no danger, he would have to go below. If some eighty Americans could brave the peril no excuse would be accepted for failure on his part to make a personal inspection and determine what was going on. He spoke to the commander. “I wish a suit,” he said. “At once I myself going to see.”

The burly man who ran the shipyard looked at him and shook his head. “All right, it’s your neck. I’ll get someone.” He walked to the end of the brow and shouted.

It took a moment or two before he was heard, then Morrison came up on deck. The commander motioned him to come onto the dock and then waited until the man had removed his head covering. “Mr. Kepinsky has decided to make a personal inspection of the interior of the hull,” he said. “He wants a suit and would like to go on board as soon as he can.”

“We don’t have any spares,” Morrison answered. “I’ll have to get one of my men up and they can change here on the dock.” He went back on board and disappeared down the hatch once more. He returned within a minute followed by another man, then came across the short brow with enough evidence of speed to keep Kepinsky satisfied. Without being instructed the man in the decontamination suit began to remove the protective clothing; he was obviously unhappy, but carried on because he had no choice.

It was some minutes before Kepinsky was ready to enter the hull. In that interval of time a considerable change had taken place within the submarine. The three suits worn by the diving team had been carefully hidden and the team had been warned by an emergency signal. The slight sounds coming from the extreme rear of the ship ceased almost at once. The isotope which Chief Summers had placed had already been moved to a suitable and difficult-of-access position in the reactor compartment where it continued to pour out its raw radiation, no less deadly because it was invisible and unheard. Within two minutes all superficial evidence of light-up had been removed and even to an expert eye the environment of an authentic emergency was close to complete. If the unwelcome visitor brought any kind of a Geiger counter or other instrument with him, it would give all of the properly misleading answers.

It took Kepinsky considerably longer than he wished to get into the somewhat complicated decontamination suit that he had borrowed. He was helped, but the assistance seemed to do nothing to speed him on his way. As he struggled to encase himself properly he cursed the weakness within himself that had kept him standing on the dock for so long when, as he knew now, he should have been inside the submarine making a firsthand inspection of everything. His stomach knotted when he realized that the only report he could give as of that moment would be based on what he had heard and what he had been told by the Americans. The only tangible thing he had seen himself was the reading on the radiation detector on the dock. When he was fully ready he went across the brow behind the supervisor and climbed down inside the hull.

He was almost relieved to discover that every one of the men on board was hard at work doing all of the things he knew to be necessary. Because of his suit he could not be recognized, but he was unaware of the red flashlight signals that had been given just prior to his coming on board.

He spent almost thirty minutes examining everything and was satisfied, first that this was a real and authentic nuclear mishap and second that he could so report on the basis of close personal inspection. His own position was now far more secure, and with that knowledge relief flooded through him. He still could not explain his delay in seeing things for himself, but with the data he had now he was confident that he could conjure some kind of a realistic excuse that would sound valid.

He was tapped on the shoulder by Morrison, who then indicated the dial of his watch. A radiation counter close to the reactor compartment was going like mad, which was adequate warning. It had to be genuine because the independent instrument on the pier, which was known to be untampered with, had been telling the same story. Kepinsky turned his back on the hard-working men crowded into the available space and made his way up the ladders with no regrets. Later on, at an appropriate time, he would go inside again.

Not until he was well out of his protective clothing did the real work inside the submarine resume. The waiting divers were signaled, the light-up crew went back to work, and the cooling pumps were started. On the dock the day-shift men came back as a group, escorted by two guards, obviously both tired and unhappy. When the decontamination suit had been returned to its proper owner and the man had gone about getting into it once more, Morrison joined the yard commander for a brief conference with both Kepinsky and the commander’s overseer tuned in.

“I think we can*let most of the day-shift men go home,” he said. “I’d like to keep a few on hand for extra work if that can be managed, particularly plumbers if there are any.”

“How about relieving them and calling some fresh men on the job?” the commander suggested.

“You might have trouble getting anyone to come in; the word will be out now all over town. One suggestion: the men are used to this ship. Up in the forward end, shielded from the radiation, there are some bunks which they could use. Then when we need them we can wake them up.”

The commander appeared to consider that. “Why not,” he said finally, “if we can depend on them to stay out of the way until they’re needed.”

“They will, I can guarantee that — if they value their skins.” “How many do you think you’ll need?”

Morrison glanced over at the waiting men. “Half of them would be enough.”

The commander walked over to where the day-shift workers were gathered. “Some of you can go home now,” he said, “the rest of you we’ll keep on for a while longer. You’re all getting overtime, so take it easy.”

There was a brief murmur from the men, but the assurance of the extra pay was obviously what they wanted to hear. Quickly the commander sorted them into two groups, then he dismissed the first contingent and saw them start down the pier — anxious now to get away. “We’ve made some arrangements for the rest of you,” he announced. “We’ve got the radiation shielded off from the forepart of the ship. There are plenty of crew bunks down there that you can use. So you might as well sack out, and if we need you we’ll wake you up.”

“I don’t think we’d like that,” Summers said. “It’s too dangerous.”

The commander bristled. “Listen, you, in case you haven’t heard, things aren’t the way that they used to be. We’re all taking orders now whether we like it or not. Personally I don’t like it, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. Right now the job is to protect our own men and the people that live close around this base.

“We still get paid?” Summers pressed.

“Yes, you get paid — overtime rates even while you’re in the sack.”

“All right.” Resignedly Summers got to his feet.

Slowly the others followed suit. Morrison, bulky in his decontamination clothing, led them on board and escorted them down the front hatch well forward of where the critical work was being done. Kepinsky carefully counted them; there were twenty-three. They could do no harm where they were going because he personally had seen the thorough precautions that had been taken to seal off the front end of the submarine.

A Jeep driven by an enemy security agent came slowly down the pier and stopped beside Kepinsky. “A report is wanted,” the agent said in his own language.

“I just came up from the submarine a few moments ago,” Kepinsky answered. “I made a personal inspection in detail. It is presently very hazardous down there.”

“Is there any question?”

Kepinsky shook his head emphatically. “None at all; our own equipment was the first to detect the leak. They are working to repair it very efficiently; they have no desire to have a disaster in their own community. If they fail they will all die and so will many others all around here.”

“You are taking a chance, are you not?”

“Yes, but it is my duty. You can read the meter for yourself.”

The security man was satisfied. As he turned his vehicle around he reflected on the fact that it was his good fortune that he was not a nuclear expert. If Kepinsky lived through it the rot might still be buried deep in the marrow of his bones and there was a good chance that he would never sire any more children. He left the area at a steady pace and was grateful that the security headquarters lay on the other side of a low hill.

With the day crew no longer in evidence, the night settled down to stillness and waiting. A truck arrived from the cafeteria and set up a chow line of sorts to feed the men who were working inside the ship. When the word was passed they came up in small groups, ate hastily, and then went back below again. They showed the strain of their work on their faces and Kepinsky did not envy them. He kept no count of the number that ate, but it would not have helped him if he had because he did not know the exact number of men who were working down inside the pressure hull. He therefore was unaware that one man chose not to show himself. This man’s features were somewhat distinctive and his smaller build was in contrast to some of the others’. Because there was a slight element of risk, he chose to go hungry.

The commander had left together with his omnipresent shadow, the overseer, who followed him even when he went to the latrine. A small handful of guards remained on duty, but they were relaxing as much as they dared. The depressive effect of the inert night was thick in the air. A small truck came with a relief gun crew which took over the heavy fieldpiece on the extreme end of the pier, exercised it briefly, and then settled in to maintain watch for the next several hours.

On the side of the hull of the submarine two light taps followed after a pause by a third drew a prompt reaction from the man who was stationed to listen for that signal. He reported at once to the exec. “Sir, the Seals report ready to come aboard.” He did not elaborate; to do so would have been unnecessary. The word was passed to the con and to the captain that Seal recovery was under way.

From the starboard sail door a thin line was tossed into the water. When the man who had thrown it felt a pull on the other end he carefully scanned the visible area and saw no evidence of any observers. He gave a quick tug and then watched as a man in SCUBA gear appeared almost silently out of the water. When he was safely inside the procedure was repeated. The lead diver was the last to come up, his flippers also leaving froglike marks on the otherwise dry decking.

At almost the same moment a crew of two men came up from the rear hatch, activated a hose, and began to wash down the above-water part of the decking. Kepinsky silently approved of that; decontamination washing had been going on off and on since shortly after the men from Mare Island had arrived. Three minutes later there was no sign whatever that anyone had made use of the sail door or left footprints of any kind.

Inside the con the lead diver was making his report. “The screw is clear; the chain that was fouling it was equipped with an electrical circuit, but I shorted it out. Before we came back on board we made a full inspection of the hull to the best of our ability. Everything looked all right.”

“That’s fine, Hank,” the captain said. “You know the importance of what you did. When you’ve changed and your hair is dry, you’ll find some chow up on the pier.”

“We can use that, sir. How’s everything else coming?”

“So far, on schedule. But we don’t know what they may do at any time.”

“Is the diversion all set?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to use it except as a last resort; it’s too risky for the personnel involved. Pass the word I said ‘well done.’ ” “Ay, ay, sir.”

Some twenty minutes later Kepinsky decided that it was time for him to make another inspection. Once more he had to go through the business of getting into a decontamination suit; by the time he was ready to go below the necessary preparations for his visit had been made. The light-up was well advanced, but as much as possible had been done to mask that fact; Kepinsky would have to be alert indeed to detect what was actually going on. If he did, then he would have to meet with an incapacitating accident almost at once — a dangerous procedure, but under the given circumstances there would be no choice.

Fortunately that drastic procedure did not prove necessary; the enemy nuclear specialist spent only sixteen minutes below this time, and it was his extreme good fortune to meet the chief of the night security force just as he was returning to the pier. At first the security chief did not recognize Kepinsky, but when he pulled off his headpiece and came up to him, it was proof positive that he had been diligently on the job. The security man had a brief visit with him and then left rather quickly, particularly since Kepinsky had said something about stray radiation sticking to his garments. The security chief confirmed the report of his man who had been down on the dock previously that Kepinsky was letting nothing get by him and that the nuclear trouble was very real. He was also convinced that the men at work were doing their utmost best to prevent a catastrophe and that they would in all probability succeed. He fervently hoped so, because he had only recently arrived in this new land where there were so many highly attractive girls, and as yet he had not had an opportunity to go to bed with even one of them.

The few security personnel stationed on the pier were relieved and replaced; a few more men from the submarine came up and ate. After that the food was taken away and the night was still. Kepinsky was grateful that it was not colder; as it was he felt a decided chill and knew that it would be much worse before morning. He had not dressed for this sort of thing and his native pride would not allow’him to borrow anything other than the essential decontamination suit from the subjugated personnel.

But he did not go away. He remained stubbornly on duty because he had not been relieved and no one had told him that his job was finished.

Below decks his continuing presence forced a firm decision. “If he shows again,” Morrison said, “we’ll have to pull the emergency isotope to chase him out of here, and that will make things a lot harder all around. If we can’t do that, then we have no other choice than to take him out of the picture.”

The exec agreed. “I can’t see it any other way — in fact I’d save the isotope for a last-resort stand. He’s the enemy and I know it, although he’s individually a decent enough guy.”

“When it hits the fan they’ll shoot him anyway, so it doesn’t make much difference.”

“True.” The exec looked again at his watch and made a decision. “Things are getting too close now for us to play any more games. If he wants to come down, do everything that you can to discourage him short of giving the show away. If he won’t be persuaded, then we’ll simply have to take the only way out.”

Morrison agreed. “I’ll set it up. We have a plan ready.”

“It’s in your hands.”

At three-thirty in the morning the night security chief decided to have another look, not because he wanted to, but because he knew that he might be criticized if he didn’t. He took a Jeep and went back to the pier where Kepinsky was still visible in the near darkness. The floodlight had been turned off shortly after midnight in accordance with the usual procedure since the graveyard shift had been shut down. The few security guards were silent and still, on duty but not within earshot. “Any changes?” he asked.

Kepinsky shook his head. “It is a long slow process; I know this. They are very skillful men. Very privately I tell you that in some respects they are ahead of us.”

“It is best that you not say that publicly.”

“I have no such intention,” Kepinsky agreed. “I tell you because you are entitled to know everything.”

The security man was properly flattered. “I shall say nothing. You have been down again?”

“Yes,” Kepinsky lied. The guards could disprove him, but he knew they would not be questioned.

“You are a brave man,” the security chief said, and drove away. Like many others he placed a higher value on the lives of his own people than he did on those who had been subjugated.

After the chief was once more out of sight, Kepinsky, for lack of anything better to do, looked up into the sky. Overhead the massive bulk of the heavy lift crane obscured many of the stars. In the east, across the waters of the bay, the first very faint hints of lightening were beginning to show. It was probably the false dawn, he thought, but when the real one came he would receive credit for having been continuously on the job throughout the night. He was not a warlike man; he had chosen to become a scientist and had expected to work only in his own homeland. Now he was standing on a shipyard pier many thousands of miles from the home that he loved and from his small family that had seen him off with tear-streaked faces. He thought about them and wondered if they would enjoy life in this new land.

He was colder now and he wanted very much to go to bed. He crossed the pier to the north side and seeking the even darker shadow of one of the crane’s legs he urinated into the water. He felt much better after he had finished; he had not been aware of the pressure that had been building inside his bladder; it was like that sometimes when his mind was fully occupied elsewhere. He looked toward the east once more and saw that the sky was perceptibly lighter — it was later in the decaying night than he had thought. He looked again at the submarine, then at the radiation level indicator. For the first time the reading had changed; it was encouragingly lower. The Americans, he had to admit, were good. They had worked the whole nuclear thing out in the first place; Russia had gotten it through Fuchs, MacLean, the Rosenbergs, and the others who had fed them the secrets and saved them years of laborious research. After that France had come into the picture, England, and the People’s Republic of China. The Chinese had botched it; there were strong rumors of nuclear disasters at their testing grounds. How the Americans had ever been conquered was something that he did not understand. The word “subversion” was often used, but that sort of thing was out of his ken. He had at first hoped that he might see America one day as a visiting scientist, but that was not the way it had worked out.

He was cold and it was sure to be much warmer inside the submarine. And the decontamination suits were warm too. Plus which it was undoubtedly his duty to take one more look; the meter indicated that things were coming under control and he could confirm it when he was asked. He went to the brow and called to a man who was on the deck.

Morrison, when he appeared, did his best to dissuade him, but Kepinsky knew what would be expected of him; despite the consideration he was being shown he felt he had to insist. Once more a man was called on deck to give him his suit and once more he went through all of the motions of being properly encased in the radiation protection.

He went down the hatch feeling a little better; the chill was already disappearing from his body and he was in an environment that appealed to him even though the circumstances were far from agreeable. Obviously the Americans were doing well; when he saw the results himself he wondered if it would be within his dignity as a member of the occupying forces to commend them on their work. Someday all men would have to get along together, and that would be accomplished only through millions of relatively small personal contacts. He would see.

He went to the power compartment with no suspicions whatever. He began to look about him and then he realized something; the reactor pile was working — it had to be. That meant only one thing, and in a startling, upheaving moment of revelation he saw the whole truth. He stood stock-still and used his brain; then he turned and raised both of his enclosed arms in front of him, placing his palms together in an unmistakable gesture. He walked quickly out of the compartment and went forward. He made no attempt to go up the hatch when he passed the ladder, but he held his arms up in a gesture of surrender.

When he had gone as far as he was able he pulled off his headpiece and faced the several men who had followed him. The man immediately behind him took off his own headgear and revealed a strange face, hard-set and determined. “You are escaping,” Kepinsky said.

‘Yes, we are.” It was the exec, although Kepinsky did not know that.

“Please, who is in charge?”

“I will do.”

Kepinsky gathered all of the courage he could muster. “Please take me. If stay, I am shoot.” He stopped. He wanted greatly to put his case more eloquently, but his knowledge of English was largely only a reading skill for technical material.

The executive officer hesitated for a bare moment. In that interval Kepinsky remembered a phrase he had read. “Political asylum,” he said.

Another man pushed by and came forward. Kepinsky reacted when he saw him, for despite his smaller stature he realized who he was.

“He knows, captain,” the exec explained. “He’s asking for political asylum — he wants to come with us.”

“Political asylum?”

“Yes, sir. We had every intention of taking action, but he raised his arms…”

“I understand.”

“I help,” Kepinsky pleaded. “Will work.”

Morrison ventured to speak. “He’s been decent enough, sir, just doing his job.”

The captain wasted no more time. “Asylum granted. The first misstep of any kind — dispose of him.”

Kepinsky’s face burst out in sweat. Morrison pushed him by the arm into a tiny cabin and quickly posted a guard; there wasn’t time for anything else.

The captain had already left to return to the con. He glanced at his watch, then dismissed the matter of the unwanted guest from his mind — Morrison was highly responsible and would take care of it.

The quartermaster spoke. “Eleven minutes.”

The captain heard but did not answer; his mind was totally on his ship and the job immediately ahead. The long night was all but past and the near impossible had been accomplished; the screw had been cleared, the pile had been lit, and power was ready. All of this had been done directly under the eyes of the enemy by a group of icy-nerved, exceptionally resourceful men. Navy men. Then in a moment of strict fairness he conceded that the Air Force was good when it had anything to fly, the Army too, and of course the Marine Corps. That mental obligation discharged, he turned back completely to the mission at hand. “Final check,” he ordered.

The departments reported quickly; the crew was in command of the ship even though she was still tied to the dock and under the barrel of a rapid-fire field gun that could pierce her hull with a single round. The responses were all affirmative; the Magsaysay was ready. The captain looked once more at his watch, then folded his arms and stood still in the middle of the con. All he could do now was wait.

Colonel Gregor Rostovitch had had a very large evening and night. He had not had a woman for some time and the need for one had been growing on him. He had had no time for any niceties or any desire to be subtle; he had given orders that he was to be provided with a qualified female, and he had expected results. Then he had returned in savage mood to his self-assigned task of ferreting out the American underground organization. It was not going well. The usual devices were not bringing in the leads; no convenient informers had appeared since the incident in the Midwest, and that had concerned only an impotent group of college students. The colonel wanted and demanded more action; he maneuvered an increasingly large number of agents into every critical area that he could pinpoint and read their reports with total attention, but the solid results were not there. Whoever his opponent was, whoever was playing the game from the other side of the board, was no amateur and the fact that no evidence of activity had appeared above the surface meant nothing. Something had to be going on; the colonel knew that, and he was determined to find out what it was. When he did he would smash it: smash it so hard that no one else would dare to challenge the new authority that had been clamped onto the United States of America.

The one satisfaction the colonel had was the relentless progress of the Jewish segregation program. His hatred of those people was complete, and where Hitler had failed, he would succeed. Hitler had been a maniac, a madman who despite his incompetence had very nearly succeeded. If men like Rommel had been allowed to run things, professionals who knew their work, it would have been different: Churchill would have danced at the end of a hangman’s rope, England would have been swept into Fortress Europe, and iron discipline would have broken the back of resistance.

Discipline! The lack of it had destroyed the United States, the command of it would very shortly raise Gregor Rostovitch to the peak of his country’s hierarchy, and after that… He dropped it because he had thought it out many times before to its conclusion and he knew what was to come. He knew his own strength, his relentless toughness, and the power of his intelligence. He knew accurately that he was vastly superior to the Austrian paperhanger and that he would not and could not be stopped. The military power behind him was absolute, and the man did not live who would dare to get in his way. Except for some subversives in the occupied United States, and they would be exterminated!

The woman who was delivered to him was in her early thirties, attractive enough to be interesting, and willing if she knew what was good for her. After five minutes in her company he sensed that she too knew her business and was ready to deliver the merchandise. That mollified him to a degree: his physical appetites were as strong and driving as his political thirsts and he had no compunctions about gratifying either.

He took the woman to his quarters and in a preliminary tryout found her as competent as he had expected. On the strength of that he had a good dinner sent up for both of them and after that plenty of side delicacies and top-quality liquors. He got very little actual sleep that night and he desired none; his animal instincts were at their peak and the woman gave him great satisfaction. When at last he ceased, because the alcohol he had taken into his system would no longer be denied, he sank into a kind of stupor and remained that way until early morning. Then he roused himself, shaved, dressed, and was ready to do battle.

He was in his office well before nine, going through the reports which had accumulated on his desk, searching every one of them for the vital piece of information he needed. He was two-thirds of the way finished with this task when he read again with incredulity the words before him and then slammed his clenched fist hard against the desk top. If he felt any pain he was unaware of it. “Fools!” he screamed aloud. “Fools!”

Disbelief racked him: somehow, in some manner, his people in charge of a West Coast shipyard where a fully armed, nuclear-powered, ballistic missile submarine was berthed had allowed more than eighty unidentified Americans to board the potent ship at one time and to occupy it throughout an entire night. The colonel was in a frenzy; his rage boiled like liquid oxygen as he grabbed for the telephone. All of *his persistent questions about what had been going on behind the fagade of nothingness were answered; the Americans were preying on the gross stupidity of his people.

He got on the line with blazing fury and demanded an instant connection to San Francisco.

At precisely minus six minutes the commander of the yard, who had caught a brief catnap in his office, arrived with his overseer in his vehicle and climbed out in the thinning darkness. He first read the meter to determine the radiation level and then called to a man who was patiently hosing down the deck. In response a message was passed to the supervisor on board the submarine, and moments later Morrison came across the brow. As the three men met, a slow-moving, flatbed truck appeared rumbling its way down the pier. It had aboard one of the massive dumpsters used in the yard, a steel open-topped container used to collect scrap and waste material. Laboriously the truck turned around and backed into position somewhere near to the submarine’s stern.

“We’ve got things under control now,” Morrison reported. “Another four hours and we’ll be able to shut down.”

The commander wiped his sleeve across his brow. “We’ll be safe, then?”

“That’s right; no problem. We’ve called the day workmen onto the job. Some of them have responded, the rest want to go home.”

“God damn them!” the commander exploded. “They’re working for me; let me handle this. Mind if I go on board?”

“Be my guest.”

In visibly mounting rage the commander strode rapidly across the brow and clambered down the front hatchway. The overseer started to follow, but Morrison held up his hand. “He’ll be right back,” he promised.

Less than a half minute after the commander had disappeared the first of the day crewmen began to come up. Stiff-jointed and still shaking off the effects of sleep, they came across the brow and waited on the pier for directions. They sat on convenient bollards, one or two of them yawning and rubbing the upper part of their legs, the others contenting themselves by staring across the water. They were men who had slept in their clothes and who had no desire to be up to witness the first light of the day.

Far above them the overhead crane came alive. The sling slowly descended from the end of the boom as the whole upper assembly began to rotate to the left. The maneuver was neatly done; the cables hung in almost perfect position to be hooked onto the pier dumpster. Since it was almost half the size of a boxcar the truck driver beckoned for help; two of the day workmen responded and gave a hand in fitting the hooks into the four corner shackles. When the brief job was done the driver stepped back and signaled to the operator far overhead.

In response the cable came tight and the dumpster with its load lifted off the concrete. Again the whole massive upper structure of the high crane began to turn to the left, the dumpster hanging at the end of a hundred feet of extended cable. The turning motion increased slightly, then stopped abruptly. Because of the long cable, the dumpster continued in motion, arcing forward lazily over the water off the north side of the pier.

Then the crane mechanism began to rotate in the opposite direction, and with gradually increasing speed. The dumpster resisted the change in direction, but as the angle of the cable increased, its inertia was overcome and it began to swing back. Its momentum built up rapidly; someone shouted, but the boom continued to turn and at the same time to come down a few degrees in angle.

The dumpster swept across the pier just above the concrete with inexorable power directly toward the heavy mobile field gun mounted at the end. Its speed was not too great, but its sheer mass was overpowering. The gun crew had less than five seconds of actual warning; one man jumped successfully flat onto his face — then a violent terrible crash of steel against steel tore the still air. Despite its tons of weight, the gun and its carriage were driven by the impact over the edge of the dock; there was a second’s pause, then a massive splash as it disappeared into the water.

At that precise moment action erupted among the men on the pier. The workmen who had been resting against the bollards grabbed the lines which held the submarine and threw them over; the truck driver raced for the brow. On top of the sail two men suddenly appeared holding automatic weapons in their hands. One of them fired a short warning burst over the heads of the startled enemy guards, then he leveled his weapon in an unmistakable command. The man toward whom he aimed threw up his arms; he had no chance otherwise and he knew it. Quickly his colleagues understood and did the same. They stood frozen as the few workmen on the dock ran one after the other back across the brow onto the deck. Then, very slowly, the long black shape of the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay began to creep forward.

The brow began to turn, lost its support, and fell clumsily down between the pier and the moving submarine. On the deck some of the workmen were rapidly pulling in the lines while those not needed lost no time in getting down the hatchways.

On the middle of the pier one man who was being left behind came abruptly to life; suddenly he lunged forward and started sprinting toward the ship with desperate speed. When he reached the edge of the concrete he jumped with all the strength he had, hurling himself toward the sharply curved, smooth deck of the submarine. A workman saw him coming, braced himself as best he could, and grabbed him as he landed. He had no idea who the jumper was, but the man’s face was a mask of fright. The workman had not a moment for anything but his assigned duty on the lines; he grabbed them up again and jerked his head toward the hatchway.

In the enemy security office the direct-line telephone rang. The chief picked it up, listened for a few seconds, then paled in sudden alarm. He jumped to his feet, yelled out an order, spoke rapidly into the phone, and then dashed out of his office. With urgent gestures he assembled his total force on hand, then he got behind the wheel of a vehicle as fast as he could and turned the key with shaking fingers.

At the bottom of the hatch ladder the commander of the shipyard confronted his overseer, who had just jumped for his life. “Keep out of my way!” he roared, and cursed the luck that had allowed the man to come on board. Then he thrust his head through the hatch to check on what was happening.

On the bridge atop the sail more men appeared. A coolly efficient Officer of the Deck was already directing the still very slow forward progress of the submarine. There had been no opportunity to warp away from the dock, and moving this close to the edge of the pier was dangerous. The bow was already past the end, which relieved the pressure somewhat; once the stern could be swung a safe distance away from the piling the acute hazard would be over.

The captain stood silently on the bridge, watching everything that was going on. The phone talker who was also there was young but determined; he relayed the orders crisply and showed no signs of fear.

What was left of the dumpster still dangled from the great high boom which stretched well out over the water.

“Left five degrees,” the OD directed.

“Left five degrees,” the talker repeated and passed the order below. Seconds later the stern began to show movement away from the pier.

Then the captain looked up. Very high overhead the figure of the crane operator was visible out on the catwalk which ran the length of the boom. He was bent low and moving forward as fast as he safely could. He continued on, right to the end, and then stopped with nothing but dizzying height and a vast emptiness before him and looked down fearlessly at the submarine far below. Carefully he judged the rate of her progress; when the turn was well begun he raised his arms to shoulder height, held them out, and slowly leaned forward into the open void.

For several fractions of a second he seemed to hang there at an angle over empty space, then he began to fall. Gradually at first, then with increasing speed, he dropped, his body rotating slowly in the air as he held it straight, his arms now at his sides. He plunged downward at mounting speed for a long three seconds like a hurtling meteorite, and then hit the water. He went straight in, feet first, and disappeared. Seven seconds later his head came up less than fifty feet from the port side of the submarine, which was moving a little faster now as it turned into the channel.

A crewman who had been waiting safely behind the sail stepped forward and threw a light line expertly behind him. As the ship moved forward the diver caught it and held on while some mechanism he could not see pulled him in. As he felt the hull with his feet he heard the shouts of men from the pier behind him; a bullet plowed the water beside him.

He was on the deck in another three seconds and running in a zigzag pattern the few steps to the sail. He found sanctuary behind it where the crewman who had thrown him the line was holding open the door. As he stepped inside he noted that all of the top hatches were already closed and secured.

On the bridge the OD said, “Seventy turns.” The scattered shooting at the submarine had stopped; she was pointed at 355 degrees now and the Oakland Bay Bridge was visible in the first light some four and a half miles ahead.

The speed of the ship began to increase until there was a visible bow wave beginning to build.

“All ahead full.”

“All ahead full, sir,” the talker repeated and relayed it below. In the now almost unearthly quiet well before sunrise the whole desperate venture seemed to be suddenly almost a peaceful cruise. The captain, with binoculars, was carefully studying the shoreline on the port side. The enemy knew now and had known for some minutes, and they could be expected to be taking some action. What that action might be he did not know but he was gravely concerned. Although the tide was in and just beginning to ebb, he knew that he could not depend on more than fifty feet of water depth, and Magsaysay drew almost thirty-seven feet on the surface.

He felt a sense of comfort in the increasing speed. The ship was accelerating now as fast as she could without causing excess cavitation, but he still had a fourteen-minute run to reach the Bay Bridge at the rate they were going. The bow wave built up slowly, giving testimony to faster progress through the water.

“All ahead flank,” the OD said.

“All ahead flank.” The order went below for maximum speed. Once that order was given nothing more could be done to hurry the ship’s progress; hopefully the very early hour would catch some of the enemy forces literally asleep.

A mile out from shore the Magsaysay passed the Army Street terminal; she was moving better now and her forward speed provided a light breeze on the bridge. The OD felt it gratefully and nodded to the captain, who smiled a little tensely. By the grace of God there was no visible traffic ahead likely to get in the way. There was plenty of water, but a big freighter maneuvering in could have forced an alteration of course which would be expensive in time, and every minute was increasingly precious.

“Steer three four seven.”

“Three four seven.”

In the calm water of the bay the submarine rode so smoothly as to seem almost still. When the speed at last reached and passed twenty knots, the OD could almost sense the captain’s reaction, although he gave no outward indication. There was nothing more that could be done now that was not being done, running on the surface toward the open water of the Pacific. There was a little comfort in the fact that full surface speed had not yet been attained, the ship was still accelerating; the bow wave was still building up.

“I know the temptation to save an extra five minutes,” the captain said, “but don’t let her get within small-arms range of the shore. Two thousand yards minimum except where we can’t help it.”

“Yes, captain, will do.”

Magsaysay was making twenty-one and a half knots and still gaining slightly. She could go much faster submerged, but that would not help her now. Ahead the Oakland Bay Bridge was visibly much closer than it had been.

“Steer three three zero,” the OD directed.

“Three three zero, sir.” The phone talker retained his calm and passed the order crisply. He was a good young professional and the captain took note of it. Because of the extraordinary circumstances, he knew very few of the crew members who were serving under him, but that would be rectified.

Twenty-two and a half knots showed — that was about the best that she could do, although her full performance spectrum had not yet been determined; she was the first of her class and she incorporated a number of refinements that had not yet been fully explored. In the east the sky was very bright now and there were beginning hints of the sunrise to follow.

Four minutes later Magsaysay began to pass under the Oakland Bay Bridge.

“Steer three one zero.”

“Three one zero, sir.”

The OD checked a bearing on the Alcatraz water tank.

“They could be laying for us at North Point,” the captain reminded.

“Yes, sir, I’m keeping Blossom Rock on the port side.”

The mile-and-three-quarter run to the rock took an agonizing five minutes; during most of the time the captain kept a careful watch on the sky, looking for planes. The OD was tense now; the element of surprise had been dissipated and all hell would be breaking out wherever in the area the enemy had forces in being. The fearful firepower that Magsaysay represented was well known, and every possible means that could be employed on short notice to stop her would be totally committed.

One more landmark: the Blossom Rock was passed. “Steer two six nine.”

“Two six nine, sir.”

With unruffled dignity Magsaysay slowly turned until she was aimed straight toward the Golden Gate, three and a half miles ahead. Ten precious minutes would be needed to reach it. After that the land area would be left behind, but beyond the gate there lay eleven and a half miles more of shallow water and Four Fathom Bank that would force the submarine to use the ship channel until at last she reached hundred-foot-deep water and minimum diving depth. Meanwhile she was moving on the surface in clear and gaining daylight, a broad wake marking her exact position.