The Lost Bradbury by Ray Bradbury

pounding, their screws thrashing a wild water song.
    “Conda, do something! Conda!” Alita shivered as her mind thrust the thoughts out at the red-bearded giant. Conda moved like a magnificent shark up toward the propellers of the U-boat, swift and angry.
    Squirting, bubbling, jolting, the sub expelled a child of force, a streamlined torpedo that kicked out of its metal womb, trailed by a second, launched with terrific impetus—at the destroyer.
    Alita kicked with her feet. She grasped at the veils of water with helpless fingers, blew all the water from her lungs in a stifled scream.
    Things happened swiftly. She had to swim at incredible speed just to keep pace with submarine and convoy. And—spinning a bubbled trail of web—the torpedoes coursed at the destroyer as Alita swam her frantic way.
    “It missed! Both torps missed!” someone cried; it sounded like the old woman.
    Oh, Richard, Richard, don’t you know the sub is near you. Don’t let it bring you down to… this, Richard! Drop the depth charges! Drop them now!
    Nothing.
    Conda clung to the conning tower of the U-boat, cursing with elemental rage, striving uselessly.
    Two more torpedoes issued from the mouths of the sub and went surging on their trajectories. Maybe—
    “Missed again!”
    Alita was gaining. Gaining. Getting closer to the destroyer. If only she could leap from the waters, shouting. If only she were something else but this dead white flesh….
    Another torpedo. The last one, probably, in the sub.
    It was going to hit!
    Alita knew that before she’d taken three strokes more. She swam exactly alongside the destroyer now, the submarine was many many yards ahead when it let loose its last explosive. She saw it come, shining like some new kind of fish, and she knew the range was correct this time.
    In an instant she knew what there was to be done. In an instant she knew the whole purpose and destiny of her swimming and being only half-dead. It meant the end of swimming forever, now, the end of thinking about Richard and never having him for herself ever again. It meant—
    She kicked her heels in the face of water, stroked ahead, clean, quick. The torpedo came directly at her with its blunt, ugly nose.
    Alita coasted, spread her arms wide, waited to embrace it, take it to her breast like a long-lost lover.
    She shouted it out in her mind:
    “Helene! Helene! From now on—from now on—take care of Richard for me! Watch over him for me! Take care of Richard—!”
    “Submarine off starboard!”
    “Ready depth-charges!”
    “Torpedo traces! Four of them! Missed us!”
    “Here comes another one! They’ve got our range this time, Jameson! Watch it!”
    To the men on the bridge it was the last moment before hell. Richard Jameson stood there with his teeth clenched, yelling, “Hard over!” but it was no use; that torp was coming on, not caring, not looking where it was going. It would hit them amidship! Jameson’s face went white all over and he breathed under his breath and clutched the rail.
    The torpedo never reached the destroyer.
    It exploded about one hundred feet from the destroyer’s hull. Jameson fell to the deck, swearing. He waited. He staggered up moments later, helped by his junior officer.
    “That was a close one, sir!”
    “What happened?”
    “That torp had our range, sir. But they must have put a faulty mechanism in her. She exploded short of her goal. Struck a submerged log or something.”
    Jameson stood there with salt spraying his face. “I thought I saw something just before the explosion. It looked like a…log. Yeah. That was it. A log.”
    “Lucky for us, eh, sir?”
    “Yeah. Damn lucky.”
    “Depth-charge! Toss ‘em!”
    Depth-charges were dropped. Moments later a subwater explosion tore up the water. Oil bubbled up to colour the waves, with bits of wreckage mixed in it.
    “We got the sub,” someone said.
    “Yeah. And the sub almost got us!”
    The destroyer ran in the wave channels, in the free wind, under