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SQL Server On Azure Virtual Machines Instant Download

The document provides links to various eBooks related to SQL Server and virtual machines available for instant download. It also includes a fictional narrative titled 'Silence is—Deadly' by Bertrand Shurtleff, which revolves around a naval commander and a scientist dealing with a radio silence invention amidst a storm at sea. The story highlights the tension between the need for communication and the potential dangers of the scientist's technology.

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0% found this document useful (0 votes)
228 views36 pages

SQL Server On Azure Virtual Machines Instant Download

The document provides links to various eBooks related to SQL Server and virtual machines available for instant download. It also includes a fictional narrative titled 'Silence is—Deadly' by Bertrand Shurtleff, which revolves around a naval commander and a scientist dealing with a radio silence invention amidst a storm at sea. The story highlights the tension between the need for communication and the potential dangers of the scientist's technology.

Uploaded by

fowlinmalako
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Silence is—
Deadly
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Silence is—Deadly

Author: Bertrand Shurtleff

Illustrator: William A. Kolliker

Release date: February 22, 2020 [eBook #61481]


Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online


Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILENCE IS—


DEADLY ***
SILENCE IS—DEADLY
By Bertrand L. Shurtleff

Radio is an absolute necessity in modern


organization—and particularly in modern
naval organization. If you could silence all
radio—silence of that sort would be deadly!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from


Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door.
Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from
his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That
would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that
way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all.
Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved
slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the
man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech
scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser
Comerford.
The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of
concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board.
Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his
lips relaxed in a faint smile.
Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she
sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus
and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen
tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had
watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen,
and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had
been assigned as his laboratory.
Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist
whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his
country under the domination of the Nazi gestapo. At other times,
the man seemed a genius. Perhaps that was the answer—a mad
genius!
Curtis opened the door and looked out. Rain whipped against his
face like a stinging wet lash. Overhead, the sky was a storm-racked
mass of clouds, broken in one spot by a tiny patch of starlit blue.
His eyes rested inquiringly on the face of the man who stood before
him. It was Nelson, his shaggy blond brows drawn scowlingly down
over his pale eyes; his thin face a mass of tense lines; his big hands
fumbling at the neck of his slicker. Rain was coursing down his white
cheeks, streaking them with glistening furrows.
The fellow was a headache to Curtis. He was overfriendly with a
black-browed bos'n's mate named Joe Bradford—the worst trouble
maker on board. But there was no question of his ability. He was a
good navigating officer—dependable, accurate, conscientious.
Nevertheless, his taut face, restless, searching eyes, and eternally
nervous manner got Curtis' goat.
"Come in, Nelson!" he said.
Nelson shouldered his way inside, and stood there in his dripping
oilskins, blinking his eyes against the yellow light.
Curtis closed the door and nodded toward the bent form of Zukor
Androka, with a quizzical grin. "Old Czech-and-Double-Czech is
working hard on his latest invention to pull Hitler's teeth and re-
establish the Czech Republic!"
Nelson had no answering smile, although there had been a great
deal of good-natured joking aboard the Comerford ever since the
navy department had sent the scientist on board the cruiser to carry
on his experiments.
"I'm worried, sir!" Nelson said. "I'm not sure about my dead
reckoning. This storm—"
Curtis threw his arm around Nelson's dripping shoulders. "Forget it!
Don't let a little error get you down!"
"But this storm, sir!" Nelson avoided Curtis' friendly eyes and slipped
out from under his arm. "It's got me worried. Quartering wind of
undetermined force, variable and gusty. There's a chop to the sea—
as if from unestimated currents among the islets. No chance to
check by observation, and now there is a chance—look at me!"
He held out his hands. They were shaking as if he had the chills.
"You say there is a chance?" Curtis asked. "Stars out?"
"As if by providence, sir, there's a clear patch. I'm wondering—" His
voice trailed off, but his eyes swung toward the gleaming sextant on
the rack.
Commander Curtis shrugged good-naturedly and reached for the
instrument. "Not that I've lost confidence in you, Nels, but just
because you asked for it!"

Curtis donned his slicker and went outside, sextant in hand. In a few
minutes he returned and handed Nelson a sheet of paper with
figures underlined heavily.
"Here's what I make it," the commander told his navigating officer.
"Bet you're not off appreciably."
Nelson stared at the computations with shaking head. Then he
mutely held up his own.
Curtis stared, frowned, grabbed his own sheet again. "Any time I'm
that far off old Figure-'em Nelson's estimate, I'm checking back," he
declared, frowning at the two papers and hastily rechecking his own
figures.
"Call up to the bridge to stop her," he told Nelson. "We can't afford
to move in these waters with such a possibility of error!"
Nelson complied, and the throbbing drive of the engines lessened at
once. Nelson said: "I've been wondering, sir, if it wouldn't be
advisable to try getting a radio cross-bearing. With all these rocks
and islets—"
"Radio?" repeated the little Czech, thrusting his face between the
other two, in his independent fashion that ignored ship's discipline.
"You're using your radio?" He broke into a knowing chuckle, his keen
old eyes twinkling behind their thick lenses. "Go ahead and try it.
See how much you can get! It will be no more than Hitler can get
when Zukor Androka decrees silence over the German airways! Try
it! Try it, I say!"
Bob Curtis stared at him, as if questioning his sanity. Then he
hastened to the radio room, with Nelson at his heels, and the Czech
trotting along behind.
The door burst open as they neared it. A frightened operator came
out, still wearing his earphones, and stood staring upward
incredulously at the aërial.
"Get us a radio cross-bearing for location at once," Curtis said
sharply, for the operator seemed in a daze.
"Bearing, sir?" The man brought his eyes down with difficulty, as if
still dissatisfied. "I'm sorry, sir, but the outfit's dead. Went out on me
about five minutes ago. I was taking the weather report when the
set conked. I was trying to see if something's wrong."
The Czech inventor giggled. Curtis gave him another curious look
and thrust himself into the radio room.
"Try again!" he told the operator. "See what you can get!"
The radio man leaped to his seat and tried frantically. Again and
again, he sent off a request for a cross-bearing from shore stations
that had recently been established to insure safety to naval vessels,
but there was no answer on any of the bands—not even the blare of
a high-powered commercial program in the higher reach, nor the
chatter of ships or amateurs on the shorter.
"Dead!" Androka muttered, with a bitter laugh. "Yet not dead,
gentlemen! The set is uninjured. The waves are what have been
upset. I have shattered them around your ship, just as I can
eventually shatter them all over Central Europe! For the next two
hours, no radio messages can enter or leave my zone of radio
silence—of refracted radio waves, set up by my little station on one
of the neighboring islets!"
There was a long pause, while commander and navigator stared at
him. Curtis was the first to speak.
"Your secrecy might well cost the United States navy one of its best
light cruisers—and us our lives!" he said angrily. "We need that
check by radio at once! If you're not talking nonsense, call off your
dogs till we learn just where we are!"
Androka held out his palms helplessly. "I can do nothing. I have
given orders to my assistant that he must keep two hours of radio
silence! I can get no message to him, for our radio is dead!"
As if to mock him, the ship's radio began to answer:
"Station 297 calling U. S. Cruiser Comerford. Station 297 calling U. S.
Cruiser Comerford—"
"U. S. Cruiser Comerford calling Station 297!" the operator intoned,
winking at the two officers over Androka's discomfiture, and asked
for the bearings.
The answer came back: "Bearings north east by a quarter east, U. S.
Cruiser Comerford!"
Curtis sighed with relief. He saw that Nelson was staring fiercely at
the radio operator, as the man went on calling: "U. S. Cruiser
Comerford calling Station 364. U. S. Cruiser Comerford calling
Station 364—"
Then the instrument rasped again: "Station 364 calling U. S. Cruiser
Comerford. Bearings north west by three west. Bearings north west
by three west, U. S. Cruiser Comerford from Cay 364."
Commander and navigator had both scribbled verifications of the
numbers. Ignoring the gibbering Androka, who was wailing his
disappointment that messages had penetrated his veil of silence,
they raced for the chart room.
Quickly the parallels stepped off the bearing from the designated
points. Light intersecting lines proclaimed a check on their position.
Curtis frowned and shook his head. Slowly he forced a reluctant grin
as he stuck out his hand.
"Shake, Nels," he said. "It's my turn to eat crow. You and the radio
must be right. Continue as you were!"
"I'm relieved, sir, just the same," Nelson admitted, "to have the radio
bearings. We'd have piled up sure if you'd been right."
They went on through the night. The starlit gap in the clouds had
closed. The sky was again a blanket of darkness pouring sheets of
rain at them.
Nelson went back to the bridge, and Androka returned to the
commander's cabin. Curtis lingered in the wireless room with the
radio operator.
"It's a funny thing," the latter said, still dialing and grousing, "how I
got that cross-bearing through and can't get another squeak out of
her. I'm wondering if that old goat really has done something to the
ether. The set seems O. K."
He lingered over the apparatus, checking and rechecking. Tubes
lighted; wires were alive to the touch and set him to shaking his
head at the tingle they sent through his inquiring fingers.
Curtis left him at it, and went to rejoin Androka in the cabin. He
found the little inventor pacing up and down, shaking his fists in the
air; pausing every now and then to run his bony fingers through his
tangled mop of gray hair, or to claw nervously at his beard.
"You have seen a miracle, commander!" he shouted at Curtis. "My
miracle! My invention has shattered the ether waves hereabouts
hopelessly."
"Seems to me," Curtis said dryly, "this invention can harm your
friends as much as your enemies."
The scientist drew himself up to his full height—which was only a
little over five feet. His voice grew shrill. "Wait! Just wait! There are
other inventions to supplement this one. Put them together, and
they will defeat the Nazi hordes which have ravaged my country!"
Curtis was a little shocked by the hatred that gleamed in Androka's
eyes, under their bushy brows. There was something of the wild
animal in the man's expression, as his lips drew back from his
yellowed teeth.
"Those tanks you have below," Curtis said, "have they some
connection with this radio silence?"
A far-away look came into Androka's eyes. He did not seem to hear
the question. He lowered his voice: "My daughter is still in Prague.
So are my sister and her husband, and their two daughters. If the
gestapo knew what I am doing, all of them would be better dead.
You understand—better dead?"
Curtis said: "I understand."
"And if the Nazi agents in America knew of the islet from which my
zone of silence is projected—" Androka paused, his head tilted to
one side, as if he were listening to something—

On deck, there was shouting and commotion. Curtis rushed out,


pulling on his slicker as he went. The shout from the watch forward
had been picked up, and was being relayed all over the ship. The
words struck on Curtis' ears with a note of impending tragedy.
"Breakers ahead!"
He was beside Navigating Officer Nelson on the bridge, and saw the
helmsman climbing the rapidly spinning wheel like a monkey as he
put it hard aport.
Then the ship struck. Everything movable shot ahead until it brought
up at the end of a swing or smacked against something solid.
Curtis felt Nelson's hand grip his shoulder, as he put his lips close to
his ear and shouted: "You must have been right, sir, and the radio
bearings and my reckoning wrong. We've hit that reef a terrific
smack. I'm afraid we're gored!"
"Get out the collision mat!" Curtis ordered. "We ought to be able to
keep her up!"
And then he became aware of a deadly stillness. A vast wall of
silence enveloped the entire cruiser. Looking over the side, he could
no longer see the waves that a few minutes before had beaten
savagely against the ship.
The Comerford was shrouded in a huge pall of yellowish-gray mist,
and more of it was coming up from below—from ventilators and
hatchways and skylights—as if the whole ship were flooded with
some evil vapor.
Somehow, Curtis' mind flashed to the stories he'd heard of the forts
of the Maginot Line, and of other forts in Holland and Belgium that
had fallen before the early Nazi blitzkrieg, when their defenders
found themselves struck numb and helpless by a gas that had been
flooded into the inner compartments of their strongholds.
There were those who said it was the work of sappers who had
tunneled under the foundations, while others laid the induction of
the gas to Fifth Column traitors. There were a hundred more or less
plausible explanations—
The vapor clouds that enveloped the Comerford were becoming
thicker. All about the deck lay the forms of unconscious seamen,
suddenly stricken helpless. And then Curtis saw other forms flitting
about the deck—forms that looked like creatures from another world,
but he recognized them for what they were—men wearing gas
masks.
Nelson was nowhere in sight. The steersman lay in a limp heap
beside the swinging wheel. Then a gas-masked figure appeared
through the shroud of mist and steadied it, so that the cruiser would
not be completely at the mercy of the wind and the waves.
Curtis heard the anchor let down, as if by invisible hands, the chain
screaming and flailing its clanking way through the hawse hole.
Then he was completely walled in by the yellowish-gray mist. He felt
his senses swimming.
Voices droned all around him in mumbling confusion—guttural voices
that ebbed and flowed in a tide of excited talk. He caught a word of
English now and then, mixed in with a flood of Teuton phonetics.
Two words, in particular, registered clearly on his mind. One was
"Carethusia"; the other was "convoy." But gradually his eardrums
began to throb, as if someone were pounding on them from the
inside. He couldn't get his breath; a cloud seemed to be mounting
within him until it swept over his brain—
He felt something strike the side of his head, and realized that he
had fallen in a heap on the bridge. And after that, he wasn't
conscious of anything—

The rain had abated to a foggy drizzle. The wash of the surf swung
the Comerford in a lazy, rolling motion, as she lay with her bow
nosing into the sandbar at the entrance of the inlet.
From her bridge, Navigating Officer Nelson watched the gas-masked
figures moving about the decks, descending companionways—like
goblins from an ancient fairy tale or a modern horror story. Nelson
looked like a goblin himself, with his face covered by a respirator. At
his side, stood his fellow conspirator Bos'n's Mate Joe Bradford, also
wearing a gas mask.
Nelson spoke in a low tone, his lips close to Bradford's ear. "It
worked, Joe!"
"Yeah!" Bradford agreed. "It worked—fine!"
The limp bodies of the Comerford's crew were being carried to the
lowered accommodation ladder and transferred into waiting
lifeboats.
Nelson swore under his breath. "Reckon it'll take a couple of hours
before the ship's rid of that damn gas!"
Bradford shook his head in disagreement. "The old geezer claims
he's got a neutralizing chemical in one of them tanks of his that'll
clear everything up inside half an hour."
"I'd rather get along without Androka, if we could!" Nelson
muttered. "He's nothing but a crackpot!"
"It was a crackpot who invented the gas we used to break up the
Maginot Line," Bradford reminded him. "It saved a lot of lives for the
Fuehrer—lives that'd have been lost if the forts had to be taken by
our storm troopers!"
Nelson grunted and turned away. A short, thick-set figure in the
uniform of a German naval commander had ascended the
accommodation ladder and was mounting to the bridge. He, too,
was equipped with a respirator.
He came up to Nelson, saluted, and held out his hand, introducing
himself as Herr Kommander Brandt. He began to speak in German,
but Nelson stopped him.
"I don't speak any German," he explained. "I was born and educated
in the United States—of German parents, who had been ruined in
the First World War. My mother committed suicide when she learned
that we were penniless. My father—" He paused and cleared his
throat.
"Ja! Your father?" the German officer prompted, dropping into
accented English. "Your father?"
"My father dedicated me to a career of revenge—to wipe out his
wrongs," Nelson continued. "If America hadn't gone into the First
World War, he wouldn't have lost his business; my mother would still
be living. When he joined the Nazi party, the way became clear to
use me—to educate me in a military prep school, then send me to
Annapolis, for a career in the United States navy—and no one
suspected me. No one—"
"Sometimes," Bradford put in, "I think Curtis suspected you."
"Maybe Curtis'll find out his suspicions were justified," Nelson said
bitterly. "But it won't do Curtis any good—a commander who's lost
his ship." He turned to Brandt. "You have plenty of men to work the
Comerford?"
Brandt nodded his square head. "We have a full crew—two hundred
men—officers, seamen, mechanics, radio men, technical experts, all
German naval reservists living in the United States, who've been
sent here secretly, a few at a time, during the past six weeks!"

The three—Brandt, Nelson and Bradford—stood on the bridge and


talked, while the efficient stretcher-bearers worked industriously to
remove the limp bodies of the Comerford's unconscious crew and
row them ashore.
And when that task was completed, lifeboats began to come
alongside with strange-looking radio equipment, and more gas tanks
like those Androka had brought aboard the Comerford with him, and
dynamos and batteries that looked like something out of a scientific
nightmare.
And bustling all over the place, barking excited commands in
German, pushing and pulling and pointing to emphasize his
directions, was the strange figure of Professor Zukor Androka!
"The professor's in his glory!" Nelson remarked to Kommander
Brandt.
"Funny thing about him," Bradford put in, "is that his inventions
work. That zone of silence cut us off completely."
Kommander Brandt nodded. "Goodt! But you got your message
giving your bearings—the wrong ones?"
"Yes," Nelson said. "That came through all right. And won't Curtis
have a time explaining it!"
"Hereafter," Brandt said solemnly, "the zone of silence vill be
projected from the Comerford; and ve have another invention of
Androka's vich vill be even more useful vhen ve come to cut the
Carethusia out of her convoy."
"The Carethusia?" Nelson asked, in a puzzled tone.
Brandt said: "She's a freighter in a convoy out of St. Johns—twelve
thousand tons. The orders are to take her; not sink her."
"What's the idea?"
"Her cargo," Brandt explained. "It iss more precious than rubies. It
includes a large shipment of boarts."
"Boarts?" Nelson repeated. "What are they?"
"Boarts," Brandt told him, "are industrial diamonds—black,
imperfectly crystallized stones, but far more valuable to us than
flawless diamonds from Tiffany's on Fift' Avenue. They are needed
for making machine tools. They come from northern Brazil—and our
supply is low."
"I should think we could get a shipment of these boarts direct from
Brazil—through the blockade," Nelson said, "without taking the risk
of capturing a United States navy cruiser."
"There are other things Germany needs desperately on board the
Carethusia," Brandt explained. "Vanadium and nickel and hundreds
of barrels of lard oil for machine-tool lubrication. Our agents have
been watching the convoys closely for weeks for just such a cargo as
the Carethusia is taking over."
"Can we trust Androka?" Nelson asked, with a sudden note of
suspicion in his voice.
"Yes," Brandt assured him. "Of all men—we can trust Androka!"
"But he's a Czech," Nelson argued.
"The gestapo takes care of Czechs and Poles and Frenchmen and
other foreigners whom it chooses as its agents," Brandt pointed out.
"Androka has a daughter and other relations in Prague. He knows
that if anything misfires, if there is the slightest suspicion of
treachery on his part, his daughter and the others will suffer.
Androka's loyalty is assured!"
Nelson turned to watch the forward fighting top of the Comerford.
The masked German seamen were installing some sort of apparatus
up there—a strange-looking object that looked something like an
old-fashioned trench mortar, and which connected with cables to the
room that served as Androka's laboratory and workshop.
Another crew was installing radio apparatus in the mizzentop turret.
Descending a companionway to see what was going on below,
Nelson found that portholes were being opened, and men were
spraying chemical around to rid the below-decks atmosphere of the
lethal gas that had overcome the Comerford's American crew.
Returning to the bridge, he found that the tide in the inlet had risen
considerably, and that the cruiser was riding more easily at her
anchor.
Then, at Brandt's orders, the anchor was hauled in, and lifeboats
and a motor launch were used as tugs to work the vessel entirely
free of the sand bar. This was accomplished without difficulty.
Brandt came over to where Nelson was standing on the bridge and
held out his hand.
"Congratulations, Herr Kommander Nelson!" he said. "Ve have stolen
one of the United States navy's newest and fastest cruisers!" He
made a gesture as if raising a beer stein to drink a toast. "Prosit!" he
added.
"Prosit!" Nelson repeated, and the two grinned at each other.

Stars were twinkling in a patch of black-blue sky, and broken


mountains of gray cloud were skudding before the east wind.
Commander Bob Curtis found himself lying in wet sand, on a beach,
somewhere, with the rain—now a light, driving mist—beating on his
face. He was chilled; his limbs were stiff and numb. His nose and
throat felt parched inside, as if a wave of searing heat had scorched
them.
According to his last calculations, the Comerford had been cruising
off the Maine coast. This probably was one of the islets of that
region, or it might be the mainland.
It was hard work getting to his feet, and when he did manage to
stand, he could only plant his heels in the sand and sway to and fro
for fully a minute, like a child learning to walk.
All around him in the nearly total darkness, he could make out the
dim forms of men sprawled on the beach; and of other men moving
about, exploring. He heard the murmur of voices and saw the glow
of lighted cigarettes.
A man with a flashlight was approaching him. Its white glare shone
for a moment in Curtis' face, and the familiar voice of Ensign Jack
Dillon spoke: "Commander Curtis! Are you O. K., sir?"
"I think so!" Curtis' heart warmed at the eager expression in Dillon's
face; at the heartfelt concern in his friendly brown eyes. The young
ensign was red-headed, impetuous, thoroughly genuine in his
emotions. "How about yourself, Jack?" Curtis added.
"A bit of a headache from the gas, but that's all. Any orders, sir?"
Curtis thought for a moment. "Muster the crew, as best you can.
We'll try to make a roll call. Is there any sign of the ship?"
There was a solemn note in Dillon's voice. "No, sir. She's been
worked off the sandbar and put to sea!"
The words struck Curtis with the numbing shock of a blow on some
nerve center. For the first time, he realized fully the tragedy that had
swept down on him. He had lost his ship—one of the United States
navy's fastest and newest small light cruisers—under circumstances
which smelled strongly of treachery and sabotage.
As he thought back, he realized that he might have prevented the
loss, if he had been more alert, more suspicious. For it was clear to
him now that the Comerford had been deliberately steered to this
place; that the men who had seized her had been waiting here for
that very purpose.
The pieces of the picture fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle—
Androka's zone of silence; the bearings given by radio; Navigating
Officer Nelson's queer conduct. They were all part of a carefully laid
plan!
All the suspicious circumstances surrounding Nelson came flooding
into Curtis' mind. He had never liked the man; never trusted him.
Nelson always acted as if he had some secret, something to hide.
Curtis recalled that Nelson and Androka had long conversations
together—conversations which they would end abruptly when
anyone else came within earshot. And Nelson had always been
chummy with the worst trouble maker in the crew—Bos'n's Mate
Bradford.
Curtis went around, finding the officers, issuing orders. There were
still some unconscious men to be revived. In a sheltered cove among
the rocks, an exploring group had found enough dry driftwood to
make a fire—
In another hour, the skies had cleared, and white moonlight flooded
the scene with a ghostly radiance. The men of the Comerford had all
regained consciousness and were drying out in front of the big
driftwood bonfires in the cove.
Curtis ordered a beacon kept burning on a high promontory. Then he
got the men lined up, according to their respective classifications, for
a check-up on the missing.
When this was completed, it was found that the Comerford's entire
complement of two hundred and twenty men were present—except
Navigating Officer Nelson, and Bos'n's Mate Bradford! And Zukor
Androka was also missing!
With the coming of dawn, a little exploration revealed that the
Comerford's crew was marooned on an islet, about a square mile in
area; that they had been put ashore without food or extra clothing
or equipment of any kind, and that no boats had been left for them.
One searching party reported finding the remains of what had been
a radio station on a high promontory on the north shore of the islet.
Another had found the remains of tents and log cabins, recently
demolished, in a small, timbered hollow—a well-hidden spot invisible
from the air, unless one were flying very low; a place where two
hundred or more men could have camped.
There was a good water supply—a small creek fed by springs—but
nothing in the way of food. Evidently food was a precious commodity
which the recent inhabitants of the islet couldn't afford to leave
behind.
Curtis was studying the wreckage of the wireless station, wondering
if this might have been the source of Androka's zone of silence,
when Ensign Jack Dillon came up to him.
"There's a coast-guard cutter heading for the island, sir," he
announced.

From the coast-guard station on Hawk Island, a fast navy plane


whipped Commander Bob Curtis to the naval base at Portsmouth,
New Hampshire. But he was received there with suspicious glances.
Even some of his old buddies from way back did no more than give
him a limp handshake and a faint "Good luck, Bob!" when they
heard of his misadventure.
Within two hours of his arrival, he was facing a court of inquiry,
presided over by Rear Admiral Henderson—a sarcastic, leathery-
faced seadog, who had fought as an ensign under Schley at
Santiago in '98, and had since seen service on the North Sea patrol
in the First World War. Even to his best friends, he was known as
"Old Curmudgeon."
Curtis fidgeted uncomfortably under his questions. They were so
hostile in tone, phrased in such a way as to imply guilt on his part,
that Curtis could not help feeling that he was making a bad
impression.
"Will you kindly repeat that statement in a clear voice, so that
everyone can hear you, commander?" the rear admiral demanded,
with a stinging sharpness in his tone.
Curtis cleared his throat and repeated his former explanation: "The
radio bearings from the two shore stations checked exactly with the
dead reckoning of my navigating officer, refuting my astronomical
observation. Naturally, I conceded that I must be wrong, although I
could not understand how I made such a mistake."
The voice of Old Curmudgeon became suave and silky—the kind of
voice he used when he wished to be nasty. "Commander, did you
hear the radioed replies from the island stations in answer to your
operator's inquiries?"
Curtis squared his shoulders and faced his questioner boldly. "I did,
sir. The radio man on duty reported that he was unable to get
anything from the set; claimed it was dead. I insisted that he try,
although Androka claimed he had instituted a period of radio silence
by some device operating on a neighboring island. He was intensely
disappointed when both stations answered clearly and distinctly,
giving us bearings that checked with Lieutenant Commander
Nelson's dead reckoning."
The rear admiral sneered. "A very pretty story, commander—but all a
fabrication!"
Curtis stiffened. His eyes blazed anger for a full minute, out of a face
already drawn and white.
"I shall now proceed to prove my accusations," Old Curmudgeon
continued. "Bring in those operators!"
There was a commotion at the door, and two radio men came in,
saluting smartly. Curtis wondered what was coming.
Old Curmudgeon smiled at them. "You are the radio operators on
island stations 297 and 364?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you were both on duty during the mysterious two hours of
silence on the night of July 7th?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Did you at any time during the two hours leave your posts?"
"No, sir!"
"Did you, during those two hours, receive any call whatsoever or
give out bearings to any ship, particularly the U. S. Cruiser
Comerford?"
"No, sir!"
"You are positive about that?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Gentlemen," the rear admiral said triumphantly, turning to the
board of inquiry, "I submit to you that this evidence proves that
Commander Curtis has told an untruth. I recommend that he be
court-martialed on charges of gross negligence in the loss of
government property intrusted to his care and of misrepresenting
facts regarding the circumstances of loss!"
During the awed silence that followed, Curtis felt his world whirling
to pieces.
The rear admiral's voice went on in its most rasping tone: "I
recommend further, gentlemen, that Commander Curtis be relieved
from active duty, placed on parole, and confined to this station on
his own recognizance until the disappearance of the Comerford can
be thoroughly investigated."
The members of the inquiry board conferred and voted. There was
no dissenting voice from the opinion expressed by Old Curmudgeon.
Angry, ashamed, dazed, Curtis stood to hear the verdict announced.
"Gentlemen," he managed to say, his tongue almost choking him,
"my only hope is for speedy recovery of the ship!"
Later, in the room assigned to him in the naval barracks, Curtis
listened for almost an hour to his short-wave radio set; but it told
him nothing of the Comerford—and that was all he cared about.
He shut it off and reached for the telephone. A new idea had come
into his mind—something he had vaguely remembered from the
night before, the two words overheard as he lay half conscious on
the Comerford's bridge—"Carethusia"—"convoy."
"Is there an officer of the British naval intelligence in town?" he
asked the operator.
"Yes, sir. Captain Rathbun. Shall I get him for you?"
"Please!"

Fifteen minutes later, Curtis was in the small office where the British
naval man made his headquarters, on the main street of the town.
Rathbun listened with close attention to Curtis' story, throwing in a
question now and then.
"Yes," he said, "there is a ship called the Carethusia carrying
supplies to Britain. But it'd take a little time to locate her. I'd have to
wire Halifax!"
He sent off a code telegram and waited. An hour elapsed—two hours
—then came the reply. Rathbun decoded it and read it to Curtis.
"Carethusia, carrying valuable cargo to Britain, left St.
Johns, Newfoundland, in convoy midnight Friday.
American destroyers will join, according to instructions."
"That," Curtis said, "solves part of my problem. The Comerford's
after the Carethusia. There must be something of particular value
aboard that the Comerford wants!"
"Yes," Captain Rathbun agreed. "There must be!"
Curtis stood up. "Thank you, captain! You've helped me a lot! You've
shown me where to look for the Comerford!"
Captain Rathbun shook hands with him. "Right-o! Come and see me
again, if there's anything else I can do!"
"Do you suppose you could wire the Carethusia and warn her—or
warn the commander of the convoy?"
"That would have to be done from Halifax, or St. Johns," Rathbun
said. "I'll ask them."
"And will you let me know what happens?" Curtis asked.
"Gladly," said the Britisher.
Outside, Curtis walked at a breathless pace, almost knocking over a
couple of pedestrians and innocent bystanders in his haste. Reaching
the naval administration building, he ran up the stairs two at a time
to the top floor and barged unannounced into the office of Rear
Admiral Henderson.
Old Curmudgeon looked up from his desk with a sour grin on his
leathery face. "What d'you mean, Curtis—" he began.
But Bob Curtis ignored his indignation, let the door swing to behind
him, and sat down in the vacant chair beside the desk.
"This is no time to stand on ceremony, sir!" he stated firmly. "I've
come to give information as to where the Comerford is most likely to
be found!"
A sneer twisted Old Curmudgeon's hard features, and anger blazed
coldly in his blue eyes. "You wish to make a clean breast of the
whole thing, Curtis?"
"I've been proved guilty of nothing," Curtis reminded him. "I have
nothing to confess. If you don't want to listen to me—"
Old Curmudgeon's eyes softened. The lines of his face relaxed. "I'm
listening."
Curtis quickly told him of the words he'd overheard as he lay half
conscious on the bridge of the Comerford, and of how they
dovetailed with the information obtained from the British Intelligence
Service.
Henderson seemed impressed. There was a more respectful note in
his gruff voice. He picked up his telephone and started to dial.
"Remember, Curtis, I'm doing this at your insistence!"
Crisply, concisely, he gave his message, then got up from his desk
and went to the window. His eyes turned toward the basin, where
the big navy patrol bombers lay at their floats. His head cocked, as if
listening for the roar of their motors.
Curtis moved toward him. His eyes lighted with hope as he heard
the man-made thunder, saw the big birds taxi out, pick up speed, go
soaring into the air, after kicking their spiteful way off the tops of a
few waves.
"They'll have our answer," Henderson said, "within a few hours. I'll
let you know what happens!"
Curtis took the words as meaning that he was dismissed. He
thanked Old Curmudgeon and started back for his quarters.
There, he crouched over the short-wave radio set and waited and
listened. The air was alive with calls and messages. From time to
time, he caught the reports from the three navy planes that were
winging steadily on their flight after the Comerford.
Then, just after midnight, the reassuring words of the operator on
one of the bombers were cut off short.
"They've struck the zone of silence," Curtis whispered. "The
Comerford must have spread it, so that it encircles the entire convoy.
Those bombers'll shove in, see what's happening and come back out
of the zone to report, even if their radios are silenced. Nelson never
figured on that!"
His telephone shrilled. It was Captain Rathbun, of the British
Intelligence. His words confirmed Curtis' suspicions.
"I've just had word from Halifax. They arranged to contact the
Carethusia's convoy by wireless every night at eleven-thirty, but
tonight, they got no answer. The convoy must be caught in the zone
of silence."
Curtis couldn't keep the note of triumph out of his voice. "Then all
we've got to do is locate the convoy—and we've got the Comerford!"
"Cheerio!" said Rathbun's voice, and he hung up.

Curtis relaxed in his chair beside the short-wave set. Dawn came and
found him still alert, listening, wakeful. He had breakfast sent up,
but touched nothing except the pot of black coffee.
Several times, he computed the probable flying time of the three
planes, and the distance the slow-moving convoy could have
covered since sailing at midnight on the previous Friday. Then he
tried to find the position of the convoy on the map.
Again the phone rang. A strange voice spoke over the wire. "This is
Rear Admiral Henderson's office. He'd like you to come over at
once."
"I'll be there!" Curtis said.
He found Old Curmudgeon pacing nervously up and down, chewing
savagely on a half-smoked cigar which smelled vilely. From the
expression on the old seadog's face, he knew there was bad news.
"I've just had a message from the Lexington," Henderson said.
"She's found the bombers!"
"Found them?" Curtis was puzzled.
The rear admiral's face was gloomy. "They were floating—in a
sinking condition. The crews of all three were dazed. None of them
could understand what had happened, but they all told the same
story!"
"And what was it?" Curtis asked, as Old Curmudgeon paused.
The older man slumped into his chair, his shoulders sagging wearily.
"They were circling about the Comerford, ready to close in, when a
sudden blinding flash, which seemed to come from the foremast
turret, killed both radio and motor."

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