He glanced at the deck hatches and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were already closed, for the rolling seas were washing over the decks and none of the crew men had wanted to come up for fresh air on a day like this. In a few seconds only the word came back to him, “Boat rigged for crash dive!” He had already motioned the lookouts down into the hatch, and the control man was securing his gear on the bridge. “Take her down!” he ordered, as the control man slid down the hatch. He heard the bubbling hiss of air from the main ballast vents, the roar of water as it rushed into the tanks through the huge Kingston valves. With a last glance, he saw in a flash many details on the freighter. Most of all, he saw that it looked tremendous, that it seemed almost on top of him, although he realized that its size in comparison with the half-submerged sub made it look closer than it really was. He saw officers on the bridge shouting orders, and men rushing to man a three-inch gun on the forward deck. Then he slipped below, swung the hatch shut after him and dogged it down before slipping on down into the control room. [Illustration: _The Big Freighter Came Head On_] The Diesels had stopped their roar, and the electric motors were whining a high-pitched song as they drove the boat with all their power. He glanced at the “Christmas Tree” and smiled to see nothing but green lights. Every opening, every vent, was closed and the boat was tight. The inclinometer showed them close to a fifteen degree angle of dive, the maximum that was safe before the acid in the batteries would spill out. Only then did he notice Larry Gray and Ray Corvin and McFee standing motionless, tense, in the middle of the control room. They were listening, waiting. And March listened and waited too, expecting any moment the rending, tearing sound of a steel bow crashing through their superstructure, through their outer hull, through the inner pressure hull—and then, the deluge as the ocean poured in upon them. One second—two seconds—three seconds—four seconds passed, and then March relaxed. “All right now,” he said. “She’d have hit now if she were going to. She was that close.” He saw a few of the men relax a bit and begin to breathe again. But most of them remained silent and tense. They did not share his confidence, or have confidence in his judgment. He glanced at the depth gauge and saw it at fifty-five feet. Well—it all depended on how much water that freighter was drawing. Maybe it would still knock a few pieces off the conning tower, at least. But then he heard the soundman say, “Propellers passing over.” “How close?” Gray asked sharply. “Just about kissing us,” came the answer. “But passing over—past now.” Then everyone _did_ relax. The crewmen began to talk a bit among themselves. Scotty looked at March and grinned, wiping a hand over his brow as if to brush away the sweat of fear, and then clasped both hands in a congratulatory signal. March just nodded.