Cold is the Sea (47 page)

“Have you calculated the extra stress?”

“Yes. It's well within the tensile strength of our hoist rods. The problem is that our hydraulic hoist cylinders don't have the area to overcome sea pressure at our present depth. They can't lift them below about two hundred feet. Maybe not then.”

“Well, it sure would be good to do this deeper, but let's stop our rise as soon as the 'scopes can lift. I'd like to be under both subs, with them silhouetted against the light coming through the ice cover. If we can only see what we're doing, we might be able to figure out something. We'll only have one shot, you know!”

Buck knew very well. Once the enemy realized he had been fired on by the submarine he thought he had eliminated, there would not be another chance. Without speaking, Buck reached for the periscope hoist controls, put them both on Raise.

Plot and the DRT both indicated they were under the calculated position of the immobile
Cushing
, and Tom Clancy had been directed to bring
Manta
upward very slowly. A small air bubble in safety tank had started the ascent, and now he was judiciously venting it inboard—into the interior of the
Manta
—so that no betraying air could escape into the water. The enemy submarine, estimated to be a mile or so away, was approaching cautiously. A Mark Fourteen torpedo salvo, judged to have the best chance of being immune to whatever exotic defense system he had, nevertheless required point-blank range and a positive depth determination.

The torpedoes themselves had been modified to accept depth settings of up to one hundred fifty feet. A minimum setting of ninety feet would guarantee safety of the
Cushing
resting against the ice, even if she happened to be in the line of fire. But the vertical dimension of the enemy sub, except in the small conning
tower and bridge area, might be as little as thirty feet. The depth setting chosen would have to be within this thirty-foot spread. And, of course, the torpedoes would have to be correctly aimed.

Manta had passed the two-hundred-foot mark before Jerry Abbott, at the periscope station, called his superiors from the sonar room. “ 'Scopes starting up!” he reported.

“Holding her at one-eight-five, Captain!” called Clancy. Jerry Abbott quietly slipped into the sonar room as Rich and Buck took his place at the periscope station. Both 'scopes were rising slowly.

“They'll be mighty hard to turn when they're up, Skipper,” warned Buck.

“Can't be helped,” grunted Rich impatiently. He grasped the hoist rods with both hands, tried to force his periscope to rise faster. It did no good. The progress of the bottom of the periscope out of its well was excruciatingly slow. With his hands on the barrel or the hoist rods, he could feel the movement, but there was hardly any way to discern it in its shiny steel surface, which was the same from top to bottom. Lights had been dimmed in the control room because of the limited illumination expected in the water. Looking down into the well, Rich was gratified to see faint light shining out of the exit pupil, striking the oily surface of the narrow steel well. At least it appeared there might be enough to see by!

Buck had the shorter periscope, as was his right because its eyepiece would be the first out of the well and it had the greater light-gathering power. He fixed himself to it as soon as it came above deck level, slowly rose with it. Heaving it around with difficulty he said, “The bottom of the ice is almost white. It's translucent. But there's no black hull anywhere!”

One minute later Rich duplicated Buck's action. It was much easier to swing the periscope while it was rising than after it had reached the top of its ascent. “The same,” said Rich. “Nothing in sight!” It was a disappointment, but Richardson told himself they should not have expected to see the
Cushing
immediately. Now would be the time for Keith to do more pounding, but they had not been willing to risk calling him on the underwater telephone. Either the intruding submarine or Keith's would come into view sooner or later. Patience!

After two hours of lugging on the periscope handles, Richardson's
arms were sore. He suspected Buck's were too. He would have liked to give up his vigil to someone else, Jerry Abbott, for instance. But he could not, would not. Neither would Buck, he knew.

A thought struck him. Not knowing
Manta
was there, if Keith were to get an unexpected sonar contact he might shoot a Mark Forty at it. Well, this risk would have to be accepted. Keith would not shoot unless sure of his target. He would keep on hoping
Manta
had survived, would know his friends would return if able, might even divine their stratagem. Because it was what he would have done. Then Rich's thoughts took another tack.
Cushing
's sonar was at least as good, and a great deal more modern, than
Manta
's. If
Manta
could hear the approaching enemy, the
Cushing
should also—unless, this time, sound conditions right up against the ice were poor.

“I'm having Jerry swing us around to put our bow on the noise,” said Buck's voice in his ear. “He's drifting slowly right. Plot calls his speed at four knots, range no more than half a mile.” How could they know that? It must be a sheer guess. It did make sense—maybe because he wanted it to. “Jerry says Schultz gives it half a mile also.” Now, that was good news. Schultz, at least, had something to go on, and to him the sonar was an extension of his senses. Half a mile away, a thousand yards. How far could one see horizontally? Not far. A ship would have to be almost directly overhead for its hull to be outlined against the dull light through the ice. Where the devil was Keith? Why didn't he start pounding again? And had he hauled up his anchor? If not, the chain would present an additional hazard.

Another hour passed; an hour and a half. Rich's shoulders were aching with his unaccustomed straining. Following Buck's instructions, Jerry had been slowly traversing the area where
Cushing
should be, keeping
Manta
's bow whenever possible on the bearing of the enemy to reduce the possibility of detection. The Soviet submarine, also, must be searching. Probably in much the same way, and with no more to go on.

And then Jerry Abbott suddenly jumped on to the periscope platform. “He's pounding again!” he whispered. “Very close!”

“Bearing?” said Buck.

“No bearing! Schultz says it's right overhead! He and JT hear it all around the dial!”

“Even if we don't see Keith, Buck,” said Rich, “that will bring our playmate over here.”

“We're ready!” said Buck. “But we have to be sure which is which before we shoot!”

“What do you think I've been thinking about!”

Both men had kept their eyes to the eyepieces, faces pressed tightly to the face guards of their respective periscopes. And then Buck saw the
Cushing
. “I've got Keith in sight!” he said. “Bearing, mark! Almost straight up! As high as you can elevate!”

“Two-four-eight,” said the quartermaster, who had been hovering nearby, almost totally idle, for hours.

“Put me on him!” Forgetting he was not the skipper of the submarine, Rich had barked the order as if he were. No one seemed to notice, or think anything of it. He felt someone's hands, the quartermaster's, helping swing the heavy periscope. It was already at full elevation.

There, in silhouette, surprisingly near and quite distinct in outline, was the unmistakable shape of a U.S. missile submarine! He was looking from beneath, saw a fisheye view, but there could be no mistake. He searched the bow section, saw the thin line of the anchor chain hanging vertically down. Keith was snug against the underside of the ice pack. He might even be under a relatively thin place, for there seemed to be considerable light around him. Now where's the other one? As he thought the question, he heard Buck ask it, and Abbott's answer.

“Very close! On zero-two-three, coming in slow!”

“We may see him in a minute, Buck! I hope he's shallower than we are!”

“He will be, boss! He won't be able to raise his periscopes any deeper than we can. Probably not as deep. He'll be coming in to look Keith over!”

“That's the way I figure it, too. He'll be checking for the damage his fish did.”

“You know what he'll do if he thinks it'll be too big a job to bring her in, don't you?”

“There's no doubt what his instructions are.” Rich spoke very quietly. The thought had been growing in his mind for the past several hours. Dead men tell no tales. Enough of life, treasure and national prestige had been risked in this operation already. A negative decision on the part of the foreign submarine skipper
would dictate another torpedo, and one for the
Manta
, too, once her continued existence was inevitably revealed. The silence of the sea would claim yet two more victims, and no one would ever know what had happened under the silent white overlay which had, since before history, sealed the mysteries of the Arctic.

Some portions of the U.S. Navy, aware of
Manta
's rescue attempt, would assume that it had gone too far, had been too unorthodox. Ergo, it must have resulted in disaster to both submarines—a comforting thought for the mediocre mind, illogical though it might be. Poorly informed speculation, nonetheless articulate, would suggest dozens of ingenious solutions of the mystery, some of them ranging into the occult. Some would even have both submarines transported through time warps, or black holes in space. Nowhere in the West, probably, except in some secret drawer of the U.S. National Security Council, would there be an accurate appraisal of what had most likely actually occurred.

Rich and Buck had kept their periscopes trained on the bearings given by Schultz, relayed by Jerry Abbott, and they saw the enemy submarine simultaneously.

She was moving very slowly, with three periscopes up, passing between the
Manta
and the
Cushing
at a depth roughly halfway between them. She had a very large bulbous bow, a small bridge structure well forward, a conical stern section and a large single propeller, barely turning over. She was larger than the
Manta
but considerably smaller than the
Cushing
. As she came into view what instantly struck both Americans was the strange structure wrapped around her bridge and forward portion. It looked almost like an afterthought to her design and added greatly to the outsize bulge of her bows. Massive, heavy, askew, deformed even—and then Rich realized what it was. Great steel beams and thick protective plates, built around the sleek basic form. The askew condition was due to some strong force that had bent and twisted them out of their original shape!

“That's the damage he took when he hit Keith,” said Rich.

“Right, boss! I was wondering. That's got to be it!”

“What depth do you figure him at?”

“He's looking her over through his 'scopes. So he must be at about the same depth we were when we did. Keel depth a
hundred forty or so. Thank goodness we're well below him. It's dark below. There's no way he could see us.” Buck spoke rapidly, in a low tone suited to the dim light in the control room and the secrecy of their effort.

“Hear us, either, the way you've got this boat of yours silenced.”

“Ship. We've got her pretty quiet, all right. Damn good thing!”

“Ship. I was estimating his depth as a hundred thirty feet. We can hear him plain. Keith should, too.”

“Yes, but he's been tied up with those emergency repairs.”

Rich and Buck had become growingly conscious of the noise level of the enemy submarine. Schultz and Abbott had been hearing it for a long time through the sonar equipment. So had the JT. The enemy skipper had evidently shifted to the silent mode, but he had his reactor running—heavy machinery of some kind, anyway—and there was a strong hum, a whine of high-speed gears, which was what Schultz had heard at first. Now, at close range, the sound of the gears was coming directly through the water into
Manta
's hull, where it could be heard by all hands. The eerie feeling associated with the foreign noise, the noise which had done its best to destroy them, affected everyone.

“Keith's bound to hear him now, but the bastard's too close to shoot. When he moves off a bit Keith may try a shot. That's a chance the Russian knows he's taking, but he's still got that thing that stops electric torpedo motors, and by now he knows it works. We don't have it, and we'd better be on the other side of the
Cushing
when Keith shoots!”

“Listen!” A series of short, staccato whistles came over the Gertrude speaker. “Keith's sending
RI KE
! There it is again!
RI KE!
He wants to know if it's us!”

“Well, we can't answer him! Not yet, anyway.”

Rich had been gradually training his periscope to the left, following the enemy submarine. So had Buck. He could feel Buck's nearness, the smell of his sweat, the occasional foot in the way of his own. The intruder was slowly passing beyond the
Cushing
. Soon he would turn, probably, for another pass on her other side. “All right, Buck. I think this is our chance. You know what to do!”

The
Manta
swam slowly, silently, in the opposite direction, turned. Buck was using as much speed as he dared. At the depth, her screws were silent.