Cold is the Sea (36 page)

“Realistic, you say! Realistic!” The word had triggered something, the wild irrationality Laura had already sensed. “I'm the one who's realistic! I'm sick of everything about the Navy, I tell you!” Peggy rose to her feet, face flushed, hands clenched at her sides. “I'm not part of it, and Keith's not part of it either! It does anything it wants to you. Anything!” Her eyes were glaring, her breath came in short quick pants through reddened nostrils. “I hate it, I tell you! And I hate both of you, too! You're both part of the clique that's running things. You've had your own way too long! I know all about that patrol on the
Eel
when old Commodore Blunt was killed, and I know all about the Lastrada dame, too. She had a much bigger piece of Jim than you ever did, Laura, my dear. She serviced half the men on Oahu at one time or another. She had a piece of Rich, too, before you got him. She was screwing him every night for a while! There's a lot more to that story than you know, I guess!

“And Rich should never have brought old Blunt back to Pearl Harbor in a torpedo tube. He should have dumped the body at sea, the way they do everyone else. The Navy docs tried to cover by saying he died of a brain tumor, but they never explained that broken neck he also had. . . .”

The livid, twisted look on Peggy's face was positively leering. Her mouth held a distorted, exulting expression. Laura stood rigid, her hand an inch from Peggy's shoulder. For an insane instant, there was the temptation to smash her across the face with open palm and every bit of strength she possessed. Instead, she steeled herself to speak coldly, contemptuously. She pronounced each word distinctly, knowing that doing so helped her retain that shred of control which alone kept her from succumbing to the tearing outrage within her. “Peggy, that is absolutely
unforgivable. There is nothing more I can do for you. You are unwelcome in my house. Please go away. Now.”

Cindy hustled Peggy to the hall closet, draped Peggy's coat around her shoulders and threw on her own, and then, nervously but determinedly, led her out the door.

Alone at last, Laura found her hands trembling as she carried her tea tray back into the kitchen. They were trembling only partly in suppressed rage, for even though she knew she was privy to no secrets (thank God Rich had protected her) she had come perilously close to saying too much to a woman she did not trust.

14

U
nlike Keith, Rich and Buck planned no ceremonial inspection of the edge of the ice cap.
Manta
simply remained deeply submerged and at high speed, aware of the approximate location of the southern boundary of the cap from ice patrol reports, and specifically, as she passed under it, from her upward-beamed fathometer—and went immediately from the domain of light and air to that of darkness and ice. Henceforth she would be confined to her stored oxygen and waste removal capabilities. After a final recharge of air from the surface, a regular schedule was begun of bleeding oxygen into the ship from her storage bank of compressed oxygen and eliminating carbon dioxide and the sinister carbon monoxide through absorption and burning. The daily slow depletion of oxygen, causing lassitude and discomfort during the couple of hours preceding the snorkel period when the air was changed, became a thing of the past. “We're keeping the oxygen above twenty percent by volume, and we figure we can stay completely submerged for thirty days,” said Buck. “After that, we might have a problem. We could stretch things some by bleeding good
air out of one of our compressed air banks while we're pumping it down with our compressors into a different one.”

“You trying to teach me some new submarining, old man?” Rich grinned at Buck over their afterdinner coffee cups. “Seems to me, in the dim dark ages of the diesel boats, we used to do that to save the compressed oxygen. We had to pay for oxygen out of our ship's quarterly allotment back then, not like now. You modern submariners don't know what it was like, in the bad old days.”

“You go right straight to hell, Commodore. We're doggone glad we don't. And so are you, very respectfully, sir, and all that.” The best part of the day was at hand. The strenuous and sometimes ingenious drills were over, the air in the confined hull was sweet and invigorating, the evening movies were being set up in the wardroom and crew's mess hall. Everything was as it should be. The entire calculations of strain on the towing gear, from initial contact to the steady-state towing phase, had been gone over. The devices themselves had both been inspected, their few moving parts lubricated, the strain gauges tested. They had suffered no deterioration from their week in the slimy cold of the stern torpedo tubes, were as ready as they could be.

To the gratification of Rich and Buck, the new settings on the reactor controls had worked out to twenty-three percent increased power, and with everything wide open the
Manta
had actually logged almost twenty-four knots, beyond the capability of the electronic log to measure. Speed had been computed from propeller rpm. Following the test run, however, and except for short periods during certain of the new drills, they had decided to continue at the old speed and keep the new power in reserve for use when and if the situation demanded it.

By this time,
Manta
's course was due north. There were less than a thousand miles to go to reach the
Cushing
's estimated position at grid Golf November two-nine. Tomorrow Buck would shift navigational plot and the inertial navigation system to the polar grid.

“We're nearly there, Buck,” Rich said after a moment, the easy smile on his face fading slightly. “We should be making contact with Keith within forty-eight hours. I've got to admit the whole thing's beginning to build up in my mind. It's been a great trip up to now. . . .” He paused. His face grew more serious. “I
mean, it's been really relaxing. But do you feel like a movie tonight? I sure don't.”

“Me neither,” said Buck, “but I wasn't going to say so. We'll be trying this thing out for real day after tomorrow. But we ought not cut the wardroom off from movies just because we don't want one—why don't we get another cup of coffee, and I'll tell them to go ahead without us.”

Prior to
Manta
's departure from New London, a carefully drafted priority message had been sent to Keith via the special low-frequency station in Maine in the hope that even though unable to transmit,
Cushing
was still able to receive signals through her underwater antenna. At Donaldson's insistence, Rich himself had drafted the message. Coded in Washington before transmittal (in deference to the hour, the CNO had offered to have this done by his own coding board), the message conveyed the purpose of the
Manta
's voyage, details of the submerged hookup, and the procedures required of the
Cushing
. On the day of
Manta
's projected arrival,
Cushing
was directed periodically to echo-range on her active sonar, blow a police whistle on her underwater voice communication set or release an air bubble through her main ballast tanks, all in a complicated time sequence. She was to keep this up, precisely as specified, until further instruction.

In the meantime, with her receiving senses at maximum alert,
Manta
would patrol the vicinity of
Cushing
's last known grid position and home in on the noises: a combination of locating device and recognition signal. Once the two submarines were at close range, conversation was authorized over the UQC in plain language and at minimum volume. Keith was to have ready and transmit directly to Rich, by voice, an already enciphered message stating his condition and, most specifically, any information he might have regarding the aircraft the Russians claimed to have lost in his vicinity. Then, before doing anything else, the
Manta
was to seek a polynya in which she could surface to relay the message.

Not until then would
Manta
be free to begin the hookup and extraction operation. Although acting as a radio relay link had initially been Rich's suggestion, he had privately argued strenuously against requiring the additional delay the message would
involve. “If the
Cushing
's in the shape we think most likely, without propulsion but otherwise okay, there'll be a good chance of getting both ship and crew out of there. If that's true, and nothing else is changed, then the idea of abandoning ship and scuttling her will be put on standby, right? Then why waste time? If there's any kind of skulduggery going on, as soon as whoever's doing it realizes there may be a chance of our getting them out . . .”

But this argument he had lost. Admiral Donaldson shook his head, interrupted him. “I know exactly what you're saying,” he said, “but I've got my orders, too. This came right from the National Security Council to the Joint Chiefs. This is an affair of state, now, and they want answers just as soon as they can get them. Sorry, Rich, but that has to stay in the message, and it's a direct order to you.”

“Don't they see this puts Keith and his crew in even greater jeopardy?” Rich said desperately, momentarily forgetting he was speaking with the Chief of Naval Operations, the highest officer on active duty in the Navy. He was thinking only of the possibility of the lengthy sonar or radio transmissions being overheard, of their arousing curiosity (he almost said “the enemy's curiosity”) and then allowing time for possible inimical reaction. He recovered himself in confusion. “Sorry, Admiral, But look. Whatever happened that made Keith go off the air so suddenly came right after his long second message. Direction-finding is a fact of life in radio communications. We've got to figure they have the capability, whoever they are. They could have DF-ed him and homed in on him. Maybe they even homed in on our single side-band talk, but that was so short it's less likely, especially with the frequency shifts we made. Now we're telling him to make a long transmission on the UQC, the most easily detected sonar there is!”

Admiral Donaldson was listening gravely, nodded slightly as Richardson spoke.

Encouraged, Rich continued with even greater urgency. “If they pick it up, they'll know there's another sub there. And then the
Manta
has to go find a thin place in the ice cover, break through, and repeat the same thing on the air. Even if they don't pick up the low-power UQC, there's nothing secure about our ship-to-shore frequency. If they DF-ed him then, they'll DF us
too. We've got to expect they've got a direction-finder. Either way, they'll know another sub has got up there, or else that the
Cushing
has repaired things enough to do it herself. They'll be alerted that something's going on. If their sub is still around, and if the collision was no accident, it will join the party for sure!” Richardson suddenly realized he had raised his voice, dropped it precipitantly. Thank God they had closeted themselves privately to compose the message!

“I know it, Rich,” said Donaldson steadily. “Don't apologize for telling me what you think. I was in the war too, remember, and we had to think this way all the time. If I can get the JCS to lift the requirement, I'll get a message off to you right away, but for now this is the way it's got to be.”

But no message had ever come. Without doubt, Donaldson had made the effort. He must have been turned down. The information must be considered vital. Rich could not help wondering if the NSC planning-group functionary who had demanded it had any concept of the cost it might exact.

Richardson said nothing to Buck of his misgivings, nor did he mention his private protest to Donaldson on the subject. With the slow fading of the hope that a message would arrive negating the requirement, he realized he must try to dismiss the problem from his mind. All the more so since there was nothing he could do about it. He concentrated on the pleasure of being at sea on an extended voyage, on the companionship of Buck and his officers, on the sheer joy of seeing a magnificent combination of men and machinery running faultlessly, apparently effortlessly, doing the daily drills demanded of it with precision and élan. He concentrated also on the necessity of keeping every sense alert, every possible situation analyzed in advance, every conceivable contingency prepared for, in anticipation of the trial that lay ahead. It had been difficult at first, but he had managed it.

Then gradually, as the magic of the submarine and its extraordinary capabilities—so different from those he had been accustomed to for so many years—enfolded him, the tension evoked by the interview with Donaldson drifted away. Not entirely away, but into the recesses of consciousness. There it remained, only occasionally to be brought out and examined. Donaldson was not given to unconsidered, impulsive action. At least, not in these later years. Why, then, had he contrived to
make it seem as though sending Rich along with Buck had been an afterthought, almost a whim of his own? And if, as Rich now had begun to suspect, Admiral Donaldson had intended to do this all along, there must be some important function for Rich to perform.

But what? He had received no instructions whatever, unless those strange words the admiral had used on board the
Proteus
, later reinforced by his additional comment in the Navy sedan as the two rode to the airport, were to be so considered.

Finding the
Cushing
proved not an easy task. She was not where she was supposed to be, not at Golf November two-nine—at least, according to the
Manta
's navigation, checked and rechecked. It was necessary not to alert the Soviets, if their submarine happened still to be in the area, or if they were listening in another way. There was, too, the worry about collision with the other sub or, for that matter, with the
Cushing
, if somehow the notorious capriciousness of sonar expressed itself at just the wrong time and in the wrong way. One could not simply go blundering ahead at full speed.