Chapter XXXII: A Submarine Encounter

"THERE is one thing I didn't mention to the Admiral," remarked Whittinghame on his way back to the airship. "It has been worrying me somewhat. The 'Meteor's' supply of ultra-hydrogen is running low."

"I thought so too, sir," said Dacres. "We've had quite a series of accidents."

"And we cannot risk another mishap with equanimity," added Whittinghame. "Even under the best conditions we must be back in England before the next fortnight; otherwise we must remain here until we get a fresh supply from home. If, in the event of--Hulloa! The 'Meteor' seems to be lower in the water than when we left her."

Whittinghame's surmise was quite correct. The airship was floating with a pronounced list to starboard and slightly down by the stern.

"Anything wrong?" he demanded briskly as he ascended the swaying ladder and gained the interior of the "Meteor."

"Yes, sir," answered Setchell. "There's a leak in No. 5 compartment. We have located it, and exhausted the ultra-hydrogen from the three sub-divisions affected."

"It's lucky that the gas wasn't wasted," remarked the Captain. "The ballonette sub-divisions are flooded, I presume?"

"Yes, sir, a fairly large hole, I should think. We tried compressed air, but could not expel the water."

"Shall we lift her and ascertain the extent of the damage?" asked the sub.

Whittinghame shook his head.

"It's my belief that some rascally agent of Durango has been at work," he said. "If we rise we shall create suspicion in his mind, and frighten him away. Now we know we can take steps to protect ourselves accordingly. I'll ask the flagship to lend us a couple of divers. Fortunately the damage is easily repaired provided we save the ultra-hydrogen."

"I'll go down, sir," volunteered Dacres, "and Callaghan will accompany me."

"I'll be delighted to accept your offer," said Whittinghame gratefully. "I'd go myself only I've had no experience in submarine work of any description. Mr. Setchell, will you please signal the 'Repulse' and ask the loan of two Restronguet diving-suits?"

Callaghan expressed his willingness to accompany the sub. The Irishman had been a first-class seaman-diver in the Royal Navy, and, although unaccustomed to the modern diving-dress, could be relied upon to do his work thoroughly.

Without delay a motor pinnace from the flagship came alongside, bringing the required apparatus. The Restronguet diving-dress, the invention of the late owner of the famous submarine, "Aphrodite," had been generally adopted by the Royal Navy.

The dress was entirely self-contained, the chemically-charged air-supply being carried in metal cylinders attached to the diver, while airtubes and life-lines were no longer required.

The sub was well acquainted with the Restronguet diving-dress, and it required only a brief explanation to acquaint Callaghan with its simple peculiarities.

"Another sub-division flooded, sir," announced Setchell.

"The rascal, or rascals, must be still at work, by Jove!" ejaculated Whittinghame. "Have your knives ready in case there's any resistance."

"We have something better than that, sir," said Dacres, holding up an instrument resembling a tuning-fork. "These are issued with the diving-suits in case the divers are attacked by sharks or human beings."

"What is it?" asked Whittinghame curiously.

"Be careful, sir," cautioned the sub as his chief stretched out his hand to take hold of the weapon. "It is electrically charged, and will temporarily paralyse any living thing it touches with these two barbs. My friend Commander Hythe had a dose of it once. He said he will never forget it. It simply knocked all the stuffing out of him."

"A good substitute for the 'cat,' then," commented Whittinghame. "Now, all ready?"

The metal headpieces were placed over the wearer's heads and clamped on to the collar-plates. The two men, deprived of the outside air, were now dependent solely upon the supply contained in the portable reservoirs.

Dacres led the way. Shuffling awkwardly to the entry port he made his way slowly down the ladder till the water reached to his shoulders. Then releasing his hold he sank gently to the bed of the Zandovar Harbour.

Fortunately there were no tidal currents. The bottom was composed of fine gravel and sand, and practically destitute of marine growth. The depth being less than thirty feet, the brilliant sunshine penetrated the clear water with very little loss of intensity.

The sub waited till the Irishman joined him, then pointed significantly towards the after end of the floating airship, whose rounded hull could be traced through almost its entire length.

Callaghan raised his hand to signify assent, and slowly the two divers made their way aft.

Suddenly Dacres came to a dead stop. His quick eye detected a foreign movement. In the deep shadow cast by the lower horizontal plane a man in a diving-dress was at work. An air-tube and life-line showed that the villainous diver was equipped with an old-fashioned apparatus, but the question was, how far was he working from his air-supply? Was he alone?

Cautiously Dacres and his companion approached, but before they could get within striking-distance the bubble caused by the escaping air from the valves in the helmets gave the alarm. The fellow, dropping a large drill with which he had been studiously employed, slid off the flange on which he had been seated and gained the bed of the harbour.

Evidently his chief aim was flight, for he made his way off as fast as he could, his life-line and airtube trailing in an ever-increasing bight upon the sand. His cumbersome diving-dress so impeded his efforts that he was no match for his pursuers. Once he turned, and seeing that flight was impossible, he drew a huge knife with his left hand, while in his right he grasped a formidable-looking axe.

All prospect of taking the marauder by surprise being at an end, Dacres realized that both he and his companion were at a disadvantage. The only vulnerable portions of their antagonist to which the electric fork could be applied were his bare hands. To get in a knock-out blow would entail a great risk on the part of the attackers, for the fellow evidently meant to make good use of his weapons.

The sub did not fear the axe so much as he did the knife. Owing to the density of the water the force and velocity of the blow of the former would be considerably diminished, but a thrust of a sharp steel knife, meeting with very little resistance, was not to be regarded lightly.

Dacres stopped, and grasping the other's life-line cut it with his knife. He could, of course, have easily settled the submarine encounter by severing the rascal's airtube, but this he was loth to do. On the other hand how could the fellow be secured? If he surrendered, he could not be taken ashore, especially if there were, as was quite likely, a crowd of accomplices. The only solution, according to the sub's idea, was to compel the man to surrender, take him to the surface, and there disconnect his airtube.

Again the sub bent down, this time laying hold of the flexible armoured hose. He raised his knife threateningly, and indicated that his antagonist should either surrender or be deprived of his supply of air.

The fellow's reply was more than Dacres had bargained for. Either he mistook the invitation to give in, or else he meant to die gamely. Raising his axe he floundered towards the place where the sub stood grasping the airtube.

Dacres dropped the pipe like a piece of red-hot coal, and promptly retreated. Brave as he was he did not like the look of that long, keen knife glistening in the pale green light.

As the stranger advanced Callaghan made his way behind him, and poising his electric fork awaited an opportunity to seize the fellow by the arm and prick him on the back of his hand.

Again the mysterious diver halted and, turning alternately to his right and left, contemplated the two points of attack. By this time the sandy bed of the sea had been considerably disturbed, and the water was rapidly becoming mingled with a muddy deposit that greatly curtailed the range of vision.

It was now a complete deadlock. Neither of the unknown's antagonists could bring themselves to start the attack at close quarters, while the stranger would not surrender.

Awaiting his opportunity the Irishman stealthily gained possession of the airtube, and, grasping it in his powerful hands, attempted to curtail the supply of air. The attempt was a failure, for he was quite unable to compress the stout wire coil running around the rubber hose. He fancied he could see a grim smile of contempt upon the features of his foe. Suddenly Callaghan changed his tactics. Still holding on to the airtube he began to retreat towards the "Meteor." The unknown diver had, perforce, to follow, and since his speed was less than that of the men equipped with the Restronguet apparatus, he could not hope to overtake the Irishman. Dacres saw the latter's plan, and he, too, made for the side of the partially-submerged airship.

It seemed as if nothing could prevent the stranger from being ignominiously hauled to the surface alongside the "Meteor's" wire ladder, until he caught sight of one arm and a fluke of an old anchor that was almost buried in the sand. Round the projecting ironwork he took a turn with the flexible pipe, and the united efforts of his two foes were unable to make him budge another step.

The only solution as far as Dacres could suggest was to return to the surface and get hold of a length of rope wire. By this means the unknown diver could be capsized, made a prisoner and be taken to the airship. The only objection was that some time must necessarily elapse before the wire could be obtained, and in the interval the stranger would make good his escape.

While he was pondering over the problem Dacres saw a huge object heading straight towards him with tremendous speed. The next instant his antagonist was thrown forward, his legs working convulsively in spite of the leaden weights on his boots, while his weapons dropped from his outstretched arms. Then came a terrific blast as the air under considerable pressure burst from the man's diving-dress, while all around the water was tinged with blood. An enormous swordfish, its bulk intensified by the magnifying effect of the water, had charged the unfortunate diver from behind and had impaled him on the long, sharp, horny spike that projected from its head.

Shaking the lifeless body like a terrier does a rat the swordfish strove to disengage its formidable weapon. Dacres knew that either he or his comrade would be the next object of attack, since the ferocious swordfish is never satisfied with one victim. Discretion urged him to make a speedy retreat while there was still an opportunity, but his sense of devotion to his companion soon put that idea out of his head.

Holding his electric fork well in front of him, the sub steeled his nerves and approached his latest foe, which was still striving to withdraw its "sword" from its victim's body.

But Dacres was forestalled. Callaghan, being more in the wake of the fiercely-struggling fish, made his way through the blood-stained water and drove his electric weapon deeply into the leather-like skin. Giving one tremendous jerk that sent the Irishman on his back the swordfish became as rigid as if it were a frozen carcass of mutton in a ship's refrigerator.

As quickly as possible Callaghan regained his feet. His Hibernian blood was up. Securing the knife that had fallen from the grasp of the slain diver he plunged the blade deeply--not once but many times--into the carcass of the swordfish.

At length, satisfied with his efforts, Callaghan desisted, and pointed towards the "Meteor." Although encased in the metal helmet the sub shook his head. The Irishman saw the gesture. Dacres meant to follow the length of airtube, through which the air was still being pumped by the dead man's assistants, who were in ignorance of what had occurred, although the manometer told them that something was amiss.