Convoy to Atlantis
Convoy to Atlantis
by William P. McGivern
Copyright © 1941 by William P. McGivern
This edition published in 2010 by eStar Books, LLC.
www.estarbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-61210-110-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Other Works by William P McGivern
Never Mind a Martian
Captain Stinky
Captain Stinky's Luck
John Brown’s Body
The Visible Invisible Man
Yellow Mud for Cowards
People of the Pyramids
The Perfect Hideout
Dynamouse
Adopted Son of the Stars
Killer’s Turnabout
The Fate of Asteroid 13
Dictorgraphs of Death (PF Costello)
The Masterful Mind of Mortimer Meek
The Quandary of Quintus Quaggle
Sidetrack in Time
Doorway of Vanishing Men
Mr. Muddle Does as He Pleases (w/ David Wright O’Brien)
Peter Fereny’s Death Cell
Flame for the Future (PF Costello)
Tink Takes a Hand
Thunder Over Washington
Convoy to Atlantis
Al Addin and the Infra-Red Lamp
Planet of the Lost Men (PF Costello)
Rewbarbs Remarkable Radio
Daughter of the Snake God
Plot of Gold
The Tireless Leg
When Destiny Dealt (PF Costello)
Duncan’s Dreadful Doll (PF Costello)
The Giant from Jupiter (Gerald Vance)
Double in Death (Gerald Vance)
The Lady and the Vampire (PF Costello)
The Contract of Carson Carruthers
Mystery on Base Ten
Rehearsal for Danger (PF Costello)
Kidnapped into the Future
The Cosmic Punch of Lefty O’Rourke
Howie Lemp Meets and Enchantress
Bertie and the Black Arts
They Forgot to ‘Remember Pearl Harbor” (PF Costello)
The Avengers
Tink Takes a Fling
The Battle of Manetong
Safari to the Lost Ages
Vengeance on Venus
Convoy in Space
Goddess of the Fifth Plane
The Voice
The Picture of Death
Monsoons of Death (Gerald Vance)
The Ghost that Haunted Hitler
Silver Raiders of Sirius (PF Costello)
Flight of the Sirius (PF Costello)
Visitor to Earth (PF Costello)
Larson’s Luck (Gerald Vance)
Death Makes a Mistake (PF Costello)
The Man Who Cried “Werewolf” (PF Costello)
Spawn of Hell
The Chameleon Man
The Willful Puppets
Victory From the Void (with David Wright O’Brien)
Enchanted Bookshelf
Genie of Bagdad
World Beyond Belief
Tink Fights the Gremlins
Double Cross on Mars (Gerald Vance)
Professor Thorndykes Mistake (PF Costello)
The Needle Points to Death (Gerald Vance)
Phantom City of Luna (PF Costello)
The Curse of El Dorado (PF Costello)
The Mad Robot
The Musteteers in Paris
A Horse on Thorndyke
The Thinking Cap
Manchu Terror
Goddess of the Golden Flame
Voice from a Star
The Ring of Faith
Order for Willie Weston
Double Cross in Double Time
The Wandering Swordsmen
The Death of Asteroid 13
Dark Wish
The Reluctant Genii (PF Costello)
The Galaxy Raiders
Survival
Tink Takes Over (PF Costello)
No Medal for Captain Manning
Fix Me Something to Eat
Conditioned Reflex
There’s No Way Out!
Some Wolves Can’t Kill!
The Secret of John Marh
The Travelling Brain
The Man Who Bought Tomorrow
Roman Holiday
The Machine That Knew Too Much
He Played With Dolls
I’ll Follow You to Hell
Star Child (Bill Peters)
Jinn and Tonic
Operation Mind-Pick
Amphytrion 40
The Chase (Bill Peters)
I Love Lucifer
Little Tin Solider (Bill Peters)
Miracle in Manhattan (Bill Peters)
Mr. Dittman’s Monsters
The Moon and Nonsense
Love That Potion
The Sound of Murder
Original Cover
Chapter 1
The incident which the entire world had been anticipating for months finally occurred at nine-fifteen on the evening of September twenty-second.
It was a warm night and the air was still. The long slow swells of the North Atlantic moved as silently and heavily as molten lead. Everything was calm and quiet and peaceful.
One minute before it happened—at nine-fourteen to be exact—Brick Harrington, United States seaman, first class, sauntered to the side of the American convoy ship, Vulcan, and rested his arms on the rail. Glancing down at the frothing waves formed by the swiftly cutting prow of the boat, he yawned sleepily.
He was a tall young man with heavily muscled shoulders and quiet, level gray eyes. A thick unruly thatch of red hair topped his six-foot frame, accounting for his nickname, Brick.
His features were clean cut, almost harsh in their angularity, but they were relieved by the humorous twist of his lips and the pleasant glint in his eyes. That glint, however, could on occasion freeze to the color of chilled steel on a frosty morning. Summed up, he was what he looked: an American seaman, tough and efficient and about as dangerous to hit as dynamite.
Still yawning, he turned from the rail, just as a wiry little man popped from a companion-way behind him and trotted over to him.
"It's time you turned in," the little man snapped wrathfully. "You glorified deck swabbers are all alike. Think you're too tough to need an hour of sleep in twenty-four. You can't do it, I say. You can't do it. Now get down to your bunk before I forget my age and good sense and larrup you across the stern with an anchor chain!"
Brick grinned good-naturedly. Pop Carter's bark was infinitely worse than his bite. Although only a seaman, first class, he didn't let that stop him from fussing over, and worrying about, every man on board the Vulcan. For twenty years Pop had pounded decks from one end of the world to another, and his red, monkey-like features had faced salty breezes and gales in all the seven oceans. A better indication of the man, than his nagging fretful mannerisms, were the two sparks of humor that sparked deep in his sea-blue eyes and occasionally prompted an unwilling smile to his leathery cheeks.
Brick liked the peppery little man a lot, but he could seldom resist the opportunity to wave a red flag before his quick and highly volatile temper. He wiped the grin from his face and looked gravely at the little man.
"Okay, Pop," he said with mock seriousness. "I’ll get below. But I just had to take a last look to see for my-self that there weren't any subs nosing up alongside to steal our life preservers. Now that I know things are clear I'll sleep a lot easier."
"Dang it," Pop snorted explosively, "you're goin' to push me too
far one of these times, Brick, and I'm goin' to teach you some manners with a belayin' pin. You know as well as me that there ain't a sub within a hundred miles of here."
"Sure," Brick grinned. "I know it. But up till now you've been swearing that we were practically sailing over their backs. I just wanted to hear you admit that things aren't as bad as all that."
"Oh did you?" the little seaman boiled. "Well if you ain't in your bunk inside ten seconds I'll make you wish you'd never been born with that lop-sided sense of humor of yours."
"You win," Brick laughed. "You've got me scared to bits, Pop. What time is it now?"
"I don't know what difference it makes," Pop grunted, fishing his watch from his pocket, "but it's exactly nine fifteen."
It happened then! The incident which Statesmen and Correspondents had been prophesying for weeks became a fact at that instant, as the ugly speeding snout of a six thousand pound torpedo smashed into the armored hull of the U. S. convoy boat, Vulcan, it was determined later, by Navy officials, that the explosion of the ship's magazine chambers occurred almost simultaneously with the impact of the torpedo!
*When the Lease-lend bill was passed by Congress, it was the opinion of many statesmen and correspondents that it would eventually mean United States navy convoying of the materials to be shipped to Britain. As it turned out, this was what happened, and U. S. ships took up patrol duty far into the Atlantic, and cooperated with British ships in warning of the presence of raiders. No actual fighting, or shooting was the result, except one instance reported by Secretary Knox, of a destroyer dropping depth bombs during rescue work.—Ed.*
Because of the blackness of the night the starboard lookout had not seen the deadly streak of churning white heading directly for the ship. The torpedo had scored a hit—a fatal hit—at exactly nine-fifteen.
Brick had been turning to the companionway when the projectile smashed into the armored side of the ship jarring it like the impact of a mighty fist. There was not time to think; no time to reason. A hoarse scream sounded for an instant over the sudden tumult that swept the ship, and then two explosions roared into the night's silence smothering the ship with a blanket of incredible sound.
Brick was thrown to the deck by the torpedo's impact.
The explosions occurred before he could crawl to his feet. Under his body he could feel the armor plate of the Vulcan buckling and twisting like cardboard. The ship was shuddering mightily, and the heaving, wrenching groans of its steel structure sounded in his ears like the death agonies of a wounded giant. Through the dazed fog of shock and terror he could hear the terrible roar of escaping steam and the greedy, sucking rush of water as it poured into the ship's vitals.
His body rolled drunkenly as the ship listed. A smothering, battering wall of water smashed down on him, hurling him against the rail with rib-cracking force. Strangling and stunned he had no power to resist the swift clutch of the water dragging him over the side and into the boiling turmoil of the ocean.
A timeless instant followed. An instant in which screams and the sound of hissing water and groaning steel blended with the deafening roar of the smashing, surging waves.
For an instant his head broke through the water and his lungs automatically jerked in a mouthful of air. Then he was caught in the tremendous suction created by the sinking ship and dragged helplessly down and down.
Instinctively his arms thrashed out, fighting blindly and desperately against the strangling, crushing pressure. For minutes, it seemed, the downward suction of the Vulcan continued to hold him in its fatal grip. With the desperate strength of a man fighting for life, Brick lashed out with arms and legs in a last frantic effort. The pressure on his lungs was like that of a giant vise. Through the pain and the desperation, one foggy section of his numbed mind cleared enough to realize that the fight he was waging was hopeless.
His arms were almost too heavy to move and his tortured lungs were at the bursting point, when the clutch of water released him suddenly. A roaring torrent of noise sounded beneath him and almost simultaneously a tremendous rush of air and water caught hold of his limp body and carried it in a rush to the surface.
His lungs gulped air gratefully. Groggily, he realized that it must have been another explosion in the settling Vulcan that had created the sudden upsurge of air and water that had hurled him to the surface.
Huge, choppy waves covered with an inch of slimy oil were battering against him, but by dog-paddling frantically he managed to keep afloat. As his brain cleared he realized the hopelessness of his position. His body had been weakened by the terrific buffeting it had received and there was a dull pain creeping up the right side of his body from his hip to his collar bone. He was still too dazed to realize the enormity of what had happened to himself and the Vulcan. In one devastating explosion his ship, with all hands aboard, had plunged to the bottom of the Atlantic. His own life had been spared momentarily, but he was alert enough to know that his chances of survival were practically non-existent.
The supply boats which the Vulcan had been patrolling were proceeding slowly at a distance of about thirty miles behind the convoy. Other destroyers had been flanking the supply chain at about the same distance to the rear. Before they would reach him, providing he could maintain his position against the undertow and currents, his exhausted body would have been claimed by the wet embrace of the ocean.
These things he realized instinctively, almost subconsciously. Consciously his stunned senses were aware only of the heavy, oil-blanketed water on his body and the soft, warm wind on his face.
It was probably because of this that he was conscious of the first sluggish swell that lifted his body in the water. It was followed by another, steeper swell. Then he felt the unnatural eddying currents that were boiling beneath him and causing the uneasy movement of the water.
He twisted his body in the water and saw the heavy ripples were originating about a hundred yards from where he was floating. They were growing higher by the minute, rocking him up and down in six foot swings.
Then, as a particularly deep swell lifted above the water he saw a slim, black hull break the surface of the water. Hissing white streams of bubbles broke and poured from its shining sides, as it rose steadily from the depths. With the unhurried majesty of a killer shark the sinister gleaming length knifed the blackness of the night until it rested silently and ominously on the choppy crests its rising had created.
*This is the accepted method of convoying. Subs usually lie in wait, motors silent, or come up from the rear, or flank a convoy. Thus, the "ears" of the destroyers must detect them before they get within striking distance, and chase them away or sink them with depth bombs. This is possible because of their great speed.—Ed,*
Brick stared at the silent specter in amazement. For he recognized the sleek, dangerous lines of the emerging craft as a German sub, of the latest and most mercilessly efficient type!
CHAPTER II
Rescue!
For a minute silence held over the water and then Brick heard the metallic sounds of steel clamps releasing their grips and the hissing noise of compressed air.
A door swung upward from the conning tower and he saw three figures emerge and clamber down to the narrow deck of the sub. Guttural voices reached him across the hundred-yard stretch and he could hear the faint hollow sounds of heavy shoes on the steel decks of the sub.
After another few seconds a bright, powerful finger of light probed forth from the side of the undersea craft and began a searching sweep of the dark water.
Again he heard guttural orders issuing from the Nazi seamen on the deck, and then the brilliant finger of light touched him, bathing him for an instant in glaring whiteness, swung on. A sharp exclamation reached him from the sub and the light swung hastily back, blinding him again with its revealing glare.
Brick waved a tired hand in the air. He could see figures on the sub wave back and several shouts reached him. He saw then that preparations for launching a boat were getting underway
.
He paddled toward them slowly, favoring his right side as much as possible. This sub, he knew, was probably the one that had launched the torpedo that destroyed the Vulcan.
The conclusion was automatic. Till that instant the thought of a German sub being responsible for the sinking had been far from his thoughts. It just hadn't occurred to his numbed mind. But seeing the deadly length of a German sub brought it to him forcefully.
It had done the job, he knew. There was no rancor or bitterness in his reasoning. Just a dull feeling of inevitability.
Watching the shadowy stripe of the collapsible rowboat nearing, a peculiar, irrelevant thought came to him. If shooting did mean war, what part would Brick Harrington, seaman, first class, play in that war?
The boat was almost next to him now, so he stopped paddling and treaded water feebly. It wasn't until he stopped swimming that he became aware of his exhaustion. The pain in his right side had localized itself along his ribs and every breath he took was a new ache.
Spots of black and white were dancing before his eyes when the small boat pulled alongside of him. He hardly felt the strong arms that pulled him from the water and lifted him over into the boat. For a long, sweet moment he relaxed completely, breathing heavily and deeply in spite of the pain.
But by the time the boat reached the sub he had recovered enough strength to crawl to his feet and clamber onto its deck without assistance. He felt a queer pride in doing this. Though desperately weak, he straightened and stared levelly at the German seamen who were regarding him curiously. With deep stubbornness he wanted them to know that he was ship-shape and right.
He heard a sudden, sharp cry from one of the sailors at the opposite rail and turning, he saw the searchlight flashing again in widening circles over the black water. The seamen at the side of the sub, he saw, were preparing to launch the small rowboat again.
Brick started to cross the deck to see what was going on, but a German seaman took him by the arm and pointed to the conning tower.
"It is best you go below," he said in halting English. The man's voice was gruffly impersonal, but Brick could sense a halting sympathy in it.