Commander Ford decided upon a desperate plane of action. A special bomb with a time fuse was rigged and Charlie Gill donned his diving suit again and went outside. They saw him working his way along the hull of the Southern Queen. Somewhere out there he would plant the bomb in the hope that the explosion would loosen the wreckage and allow the _S-18_ to shoot toward the surface. Fifteen minutes later he was back. In five more minutes the bomb would go off. Tim literally counted every second. The crew waited at their posts and the motors were ready to push the _S-18_ toward the surface if they broke free. The _S-18_ shook slightly. The propellers threshed madly, but there was no upward movement. 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. Tim fumbled for his blankets. The air was cold. He laid down on the bunk. Up ahead was the steady splashing of the water. Back of him a man was quietly praying. Tim closed his eyes. His head was splitting. Perhaps sleep would bring peace. There was no sound in the _S-18_ except the low breathing of men who were saving every precious breath and the sound of the water coming in through the opened seam. "When the water reaches the batteries there'll be chlorine," someone muttered.