Water slapped the hull. Bjarnsson started the motors. They went forward slowly, through doors that opened electrically.
Ballast hissed and snarled into the tanks.
Bjarnsson said, "If we can get through this first pack, into deep water, we may make it." He pointed to a knife-switch. "Pull it."
Fallon did. Nothing seemed to happen. Bjarnsson sat hunched over the controls, cold blue eyes fixed on the periscope screen. Fallon had a swift, horrible sense of suffocation—the steel wall of the sub curving low over his helmeted head, the surge of huge floundering bodies in the water outside.
Something struck the hull. The little ship canted. Fallon gripped his seat with rigid, painful hands. Bjarnsson's armored, unhuman shoulders moved convulsively with effort. Fallon felt a raw panic scream rising in his throat....
He choked it back. Heavy muffled blows shook the submarine. The motors churned and shook. Fallon was afraid they were going to stop. Sweat dripped in his eyes, misted his helmet pane.
The screws labored on. Fallon heard the tanks filling, and knew that they were going deeper. The blows on the hull grew fewer, farther between. Fallon began to breath again.
Einar Bjarnsson relaxed, just a little. His voice came muffled by his helmet. "The worst, Fallon—we're through it."
Fallon's throat was as dry as his face was wet. "But how?"