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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Silence is—
Deadly
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Language: English
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—
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!"
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."