“We’re giving the tanks all we’ve got,” said Gaunt. “There’s 1,500 pounds of air pressure pushing that water out.”
“Hold it for a minute,” ordered Ford as Charlie Gill, the chief diver, stumbled into the room.
Charlie’s face was white, strained.
“We’re stuck, chief, we’re stuck. This bottom is as soft as a mud pie and the current has rammed us against the side of an old derelict. We’re settling deeper into the stuff every minute.”
“Stand by your posts,” cried the Commander. Grabbing Gill by the shoulder, he hurried him forward. Tim, who had no duty to attend, followed them into the diving compartment where a special quartz window to observe diving operations had been placed. A powerful searchlight had been turned on by Gill and it revealed the trap into which the S-18 had settled. They were tight against the slime-encrusted hull of an old barge, probably a garbage scow used in hauling the refuse from New York City.
“That also explains the soft bottom,” said Ford. “They’ve been dumping garbage out here.”
“It may make garbage of us,” said Gill bitterly.
“Can you get into your diving outfit and get outside and place a bomb?” asked the Commander.
“Not at this depth. I’ve got to be in the diving compartment and come down gradually. The pressure would break me in two if I walked out there now.”
“Then how about a bomb?”