This time Russ Graham went outside. When he came back he shook his head.
“Explosive won’t budge the wreckage,” he said. “It would take a bucket of nitro at this depth and we haven’t any nitro.”
Despair lined the face of every man who heard those words. Most of them were submarine men, and they knew what was ahead—bad air, headaches, dimming lights, then darkness for the S-18 and for them.
“We might as well save the electricity,” said Commander Ford. Lights were turned off until only one bulb gleamed in each compartment.
Some of the men got together a meal. Tim didn’t feel like eating. Still true to the code of reporters, he sat down and with pencil and paper wrote the story of the last dive of the S-18. For an hour he wrote. Time meant nothing to the men now. The end would come when the light faded and the air gave out.
Tim’s head pounded to the throbbing of the blood through his body. A few of the men rolled into their blankets, trying to sleep. The treasure chests were forgotten.
The hours passed and Tim wrote slowly, recording his impressions.
The storage batteries had been drained of their reserve by the heavy pulls of the motors in trying to free the submarine and now only two lights were on, one in the control room, the other in the crew’s quarters.
It was hard to breath. The air was thick and foul. A thin stream of water was spurting into the engine room where a seam had opened under the pressure and the weight of the wreckage above it. Tim could hear the water splashing on the floor.
The light was dimmer, only a faint glow now. Then it was gone. Writing was a thing of the past, but in his hands he held the record of their tragedy. Perhaps someday the S-18 would be found and their story known.