message.
Over."

He was a long way from the station. He repeated the call three times. At
last a faintly audible voice came from the set.

"... this is Commsubron Killer. You are ordered to return
immediately...."

The voice faded again.

"Listen!" Mitch bellowed. "Four, no--_five_ enemy submarine--position
31 deg.50' North, 73 deg.10' West, proceeding northwest--roughly, toward
Washington. Probably carrying an answer to Garson's ultimatum. Get help
out here. Over."

He heard only a brief mutter this time. "... ordered not to proceed
toward Washington. Return immediately to--"

"Not me! You fool! Listen! Five--enemy--submarines--" He repeated the
message as slowly as he could, repeated it four times.

"... reading you S-1," came the fading answer. "Are you in distress? I
say again. Are you in distress? Over."

Angrily Mitch keyed the carrier wave, screwed the button tightly down,
and kicked on the four-hundred cycle modulator. Maybe they could get a
directional fix on his signal and home on it.

The blips were gone from the radar scope. The subs had spotted him and
submerged. In a moment he would be catching a torpedo, unless he moved.
He started the engines quickly, and the surfaced sub lurched ahead. He
nosed her toward the enemy craft and opened the throttle. She knifed
through the water like a low-running PT boat, throwing a V-shaped fan of
spray. When he reached the halfway point between his own former position
and the place where the enemy submerged, he began jabbing a release at
three second intervals, laying a trail of deadly eggs. He could hear the
crash of the exploding depth-charges behind him. He swung around to make
another pass.

Then he saw it--the wet metal hulk rearing up like a massive whale dead
ahead. They had discovered the insignificance of their lone and
pint-sized attacker. They were coming up to take him with deck guns.

Mitch reversed the engines and swung quickly away. The range was too
close for a torpedo. The blast would catch them both. He began
submerging quickly. A sickening blast shivered his tiny craft, and then
another. He dropped to sixty feet, then knifed ahead.

God! Why was he doing this? There was no sense in it, if he meant to run
away. But then the thought came: they're returning Old Man Garson's
big-winded threat. They're bringing a snootful of radiological hell, and
that's the damned bayonet-line across the road.

* * * * *

D