“The usual, I guess, Commodore. Get us ready for the next drill. My crew is tired, though, and I am too, after the pressure they put us to down there. We’ll be glad to turn the ship over to Bud Dulany and the gold crew next week.” In what was an unaccustomed gesture for him, Keith passed his hand wearily across his face.
“After that welcoming committee I saw on the dock yesterday I thought maybe you’d been gone on a regular deployment, instead of only a month.” Richardson grinned.
Keith grinned back. “It was the longest we’ve been away yet, so I guess the families were pretty glad to see us. How did you get the word to them all that we were coming in early? I don’t think there was a single individual on board who didn’t have at least someone waiting on the dock for him. Having the gold crew set up the security watch so we could all get ashore was a great idea, too. Who thought of that?”
“They did, so far as I know,” said Richardson. “Are you on holiday routine today?”
“Yes, we sure are. Till noon, that is. We couldn’t pass up a chance like that.”
“Well, I’ll not keep you long, Keith. You deserve some time off too. My apologies to Peggy and little Ruthie for asking you to come over this morning at all.”
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got to lay a special mission on you. If you want it, that is.”
“On me? You mean on the Cushing?”
“Right. Washington has delayed Cushing’s deployment. They want you to do something else first.”
“But it won’t be us, you know. The gold crew takes over Monday. Bud Dulany’s the one.” There was disappointment in Leone’s voice.
“That’s why I had to send for you, old man. The powers-that-be down there must have been impressed with what they were hearing from the missile-testing range. They want you and the blue crew for this one.”
“Gee, that’s great, Rich—I mean, Commodore! But won’t that mess up all the Polaris scheduling? I mean, I thought that was supposed to be inviolate!” Keith’s tiredness seemed to have disappeared. His posture was now animated.
“That’s not our worry, Keith.” Richardson felt himself reacting to his friend’s enthusiasm. “If the Joint Chiefs tell the Navy, and the Navy tells Special Projects, and Special Projects calls ComSubLant, and his operations officer calls me, we can assume that’s already been covered. The big question now is if you can do it.” Richardson rose, swiftly shut the door between his room and the dining area. He started back to his chair, reversed himself, closed the door to his bedroom also. “Keith,” he said, “it’s a top-secret mission. There may be danger—in fact, we know there will be. You don’t have to take it on. If for any reason you’d rather not, you can say so and that will be the end of it. They’ll send another submarine, one that’s already got a patrol or two under its belt, as soon as they can fit her with an ice suit. The reason they picked you first is that you’re not yet deployed. Your operational routine will suffer less. The record you turned in at Cape Canaveral with your firing tests and the other readiness inspections is what convinced them. But there’ll be no prejudice against you or the Cushing if you feel you should decline.”
“We’ll not decline anything,” said Keith. “What is it? Is it something only a missile submarine can do? Tell me more.”
“All I personally know is in this folder. It was sent by messenger from Washington a week ago, but I thought I’d hold it until you’d been in overnight. No need to spoil your first night in port.” As he was speaking, Richardson took a large, already opened manila envelope from the top drawer of his desk, held it in his hand. “You’ll want to study this privately, in your own stateroom in Cushing, Keith. Come back before you talk to anyone about it. You’ll have a lot of questions. I’ve already read it three times. Don’t let it out of your possession.”
“What is it?” Keith asked again. He restrained his eagerness to reach for the envelope. Richardson had not yet handed it to him, obviously wanted to say more.
“It’s an under-ice mission. Being the newest missile sub, Cushing is better off than the others in under-ice capability, and that’s another reason Washington picked you. Basically, they want you to make a test deployment in the Arctic Ocean. The mission is to see if it’s feasible to fire missiles through the ice. If we can do it, the whole capability of the missile system will be radically improved.” Rich could recognize the look on Keith’s face. He had seen that contemplative evaluation many times before.
“I guess we’ve all done some reading about the Arctic lately,” said Keith. “Probably it is possible in some areas up there at least part of the year, when the ice cover is less.” He spoke slowly, his brow creased in concentration.
Rich said, “You’ll see in this set of papers that what we’re looking for is a year-round capability. In other words, a certainty. That’s another reason for sending you right now. We’re about to come out of winter into spring here in Connecticut, but the ice is thicker now in the Arctic Ocean than at any other time of the year.”
“Do they expect us to shoot missiles up anywhere, no matter how thick the ice is? There’s no way! They’re pretty impressive coming out of the water, all right, but the launching system has nowhere near enough power to break through heavy ice cover. If there are enough polynyas maybe we can always stay near one. In winter most of those are also pretty heavily iced, though.”
“Well, read the operations proposal. They’ve thought of that, and they have a couple of things they want you to try.” Richardson thrust the envelope toward Keith.
To reach his ship, Keith had to climb down three decks and walk through Proteus’ big machine shop to the cargo door in her side, through which a portable walkway, a brow, had been laid over to the Cushing. To his surprise, there was another submarine outboard, much smaller, lacking the raised deck over the sixteen missile tubes which were Cushing’s total reason for existence. She must have come in during the night or early morning. The number on her sail was a familiar one: Buck Williams’ boat, the Manta. Keith felt warmed by the thought of the proximity of his friend. Before he left for home he must see him. His own gangway watch was saluting, but he was a stranger. One of the gold crew. There was a second brow directly opposite, leading to Manta’s much narrower deck, and a second gangway watch was visible standing nearby.
Manta and Cushing were totally dissimilar in design, save for the nuclear power plant, and already Manta was outmoded by the more powerful whale-bodied Skipjack class now coming into service. Buck would probably have the Manta for only a couple of years and then, in his own turn, shift over to one of the much faster Skipjacks or Threshers, or even directly to one of the new ballistic missile ships like the Cushing. Keith toyed with the idea of going on over the second brow and surprising Buck down below. No doubt he had long since finished breakfast, but he might catch him drinking a second cup of coffee while going over some of the never ending paperwork.
But that would have to wait. The large, slit-open envelope in his hand—from the feel of it there might be anywhere up to two dozen sheets in it, lying flat, plus some pamphlets—had a magnetism he had felt before. Keith returned the salute of the watch. “Is Captain Dulany aboard?” he asked, to ascertain in advance whether his stateroom was free down below.
“Nosir. There’s just us standby gold crew here, sir. Lieutenant Ridgely has the watch. He’s down below. I didn’t see you coming, so he don’t know you’re here, sir.” Good. He would make himself known to Ridgely of the gold crew, then lock himself in his room. By noon the changeover back to the blue crew would be complete and Cushing entirely his once more. Bud Dulany, knowing that the presence of another skipper must halt all productive activity on Keith’s part, would probably not appear at all.
The ladder leading below was inside a vertical tube, with a watertight hatch at each end. Its inner surface was lined with shiny sheet metal, stainless steel (officially, corrosion-resisting steel, or CRS, in building-yard jargon), and its diameter was such that a person could ascend
or descend the ladder with his back sliding against the slick smooth surface, thus with his hands free. Negotiating the twelve-foot distance to the linoleum-covered deck below was second nature. Keith stepped swiftly through the maze of instruments in the control room, allayed Ridgely’s embarrassment at not having been topside to greet him, and retreated with a cup of coffee into the sanctuary of his own tiny stateroom. There was an aluminum door as well as the traditional green baize curtain at the entrance. He gently closed the door and locked it from the inside. Each of the thirty heavily typed sheets of bond paper in the manila envelope bore a stamped notation in large red letters: TOP SECRET. EYES ONLY. So did the two printed pamphlets.
This is not an Operation Order. Conditions are not yet clearly enough defined to permit definitive treatment. An Operation Order for conduct of this mission will be prepared later, after consultation. Whoever undertakes this mission must be prepared to improvise according to conditions and circumstances found. The purpose is to investigate the Arctic Ocean as a potential area for SSBN strategic operations and to determine appropriate tactical and materiel adjustments as may be necessary. Safety of ship and crew is paramount, but certain potential hazards must be recognized from the rigorous environment and from possible interference by unfriendly powers.
The most favorable entry for a submarine into the Arctic Ocean basin is via the Greenland or Barents sea. Entry may also be made from Baffin Bay via Barrow Strait, or via Smith Sound and the Lincoln Sea, but neither of these routes offers assurance it may not be totally choked by layers of rafted ice. Entering through Bering Strait presents even greater difficulty because of the extremely shallow water, lack of deep channels and near certainty of heavy rafted ice. Nautilus’ first attempt to transit the Arctic Ocean failed through inability to penetrate this barrier. Ice cover is heaviest during early spring, in both extent and thickness, and during this period it must be assumed that entry will only be possible via the Atlantic Ocean (i.e., Greenland or Barents sea). Undetected submerged entry should be possible here at any time of year.
The Arctic ice pack generally retreats north of Spitsbergen during summer, reducing in size through surface melting and wave action. Warm water from the North Atlantic Current assists in pushing it back. During winter it has on occasion been solid well south of Spitsbergen, and may extend as far as the north coast of Iceland. Iceland’s south coast, however, is generally ice-free. The edge of the ice pack is always marked by block and brash ice which has broken loose from the parent floe. Occasional icebergs of much greater size may be encountered frozen into the ice cover, and they will, of course, survive much longer in the sea, drifting to a far more southerly latitude in the process. . . .
Keith was surprised to find he had been reading for most of the morning. He had covered only part of the material when his own exec, Jim Hanson, knocked on the door to announce lunch. Carefully, he locked the refilled envelope in his desk and composed a plausible cover story for his morning’s activities. He would have to confide in his officers in due course, for there were many preparations which must be made, but this could wait. For the time being it was best they not even know something was brewing. Besides, he had promised Richardson. . . .
8
The promises of eventual spring were freshening along the banks of the Thames River—what there could be of the signs of spring among the few forlorn plants able to exist amid the obscene ugliness placed there by man. A few buds were beginning to become evident, still wrapped tightly in their protective sheaths. There was a slightly warmer flavor to the still, cold air; for two days it had come from the south instead of the north. It was a lovely morning for late February, 1961. Richardson had just shaken hands with Keith and crossed the brow from the Cushing to the Proteus. The huge, delicately balanced crane with which the submarine tender was fitted had already been attached to the long brow bridging between her cargo port and the flat missile deck of the big submarine, and he had to duck under the wires. The brow was gone by the time the squadron commander of Submarine Squadron Ten reached the upper deck of Proteus.
The shorter brow between the Cushing and the Manta had already been removed. Manta’s own crew was at mooring stations, ready to cast off the Cushing’s lines and allow her to back out. Then she would warp herself in alongside the Proteus, bringing in with her the submarine outboard of herself, the Swordfish, which had arrived a few days before. The heavy mooring wire from the Cushing’s bow had already been shifted to the Manta. High on Proteus’ forecastle, the inboard end of the wire cable had been led to a hydraulic winch. All this was routine preparation for letting an inboard submarine out of a nest. Once the Cushing was clear, the Manta’s line-handling crew would pass their own lines around the heavy bitts built into the tender’s sides and then, with bow and stern capstans, gently bring her, with Swordfish clinging outboard, into the Cushing’s place alongside the wooden float—the camel—which served as a fender to keep steel from grinding on steel. In the meantime the cable to Manta’s nose would be heaved in by a capstan on Proteus’ forecastle, until Manta was located in precisely the desired position along the submarine tender’s starboard side.
It was a carefully orchestrated maneuver, one which had been done many times over and was consequently second nature to all those involved. Richardson saw with approval that Buck Williams was on the bridge of his ship, alongside his in-port duty officer, whose responsibility it was to supervise the line handling. A few feet beyond, on Swordfish’s identical bridge, the same situation existed, and there were men on deck at her mooring lines standing by in the event action was needed. Down below, in both ships, there would be an engineering watch on station ready to respond to orders to the propellers, should such be necessary. The reactors of both submarines had been shut down, however, and all maneuvering would have to be done on the much lower power available from their batteries. Because nuclear submarines are underpowered on battery alone, the squadron tug was lying off, ready to assist with her big, slow diesel. A couple of times in the past some unexpected current in the river, a poorly executed maneuver in one of the submarines alongside or inexpert handling of the wire cable had caused the tug to be called into use. A gentle shove at just the right place had prevented bent propellers or other expensive damage.
But there would be nothing of this sort today. Keith and Buck, the principal actors, would make no mistakes. The state of current, tide and wind would have been thoroughly considered. Orders to the lines and to the screws (if necessary) would be timely and forehanded. Only the most unexpected of situations—a sudden line squall, a ship passing too close aboard, at too high speed—would disturb the deceptive simplicity and ease with which the complicated maneuver would be carried out. Watching, so far as Rich was concerned, was purely ceremonial, a way of saying good-bye, a private farewell.
A regular mooring line already had been led from the Manta across the Cushing’s bow to one of the bitts in the tender’s side. By heaving in with her bow capstan, Manta had eased her stern clear, so that Cushing’s rounded belly would not brush against her vulnerable inboard propeller. Two sailors with coiled heaving lines appeared on Manta’s forecastle, two more on deck aft of her sail. Their presence was precautionary; they would probably not be needed. Rich glanced at his watch. It was precisely ten a.m., the agreed-on time for getting underway. Both Keith and Buck had grown up with Rich’s method of line handling, to pass all routine orders by telephone to the various stations. Except in emergency, there would be no frantic-sounding shouts from the bridge of either ship. Evolutions would be done quietly, in virtual silence, the better to be heard if voice commands became necessary. Watching, Richardson realized that these two skippers whom he had known so long were maneuvering their ships almost as though an extension of himself were doing it. In effect, they were extensions of himself, for he had trained them. And there was another ingredient, in a way much like the war days—and suddenly the old tense miasma enveloped him in clammy vapors: a gut feeling of unspoken anxiety. The ship
getting underway was going on a special mission, into danger above and beyond that usually associated with a submarine voyage. As in the war years, she might, indeed, never return.
Richardson’s reverie was broken by the blast of a foghorn. One long blast: the Cushing was backing. Water surged gently up from abaft her rudder, swept forward until it lapped the rounded hull where it emerged from the water. The remaining lines attaching the departing submarine to the Proteus on her port hand and the Manta on her starboard were cast loose, swiftly hauled in: Cushing’s, which had held her alongside Proteus, to be quickly stowed in her deck lockers; Manta’s to be merely kept on deck in readiness to be put over to the tender as soon as the missile submarine was clear. Movement was now evident. Cushing’s sail was slowly drawing aft. As it passed clear, heaving lines were flung down from the tender to land their weighted ends on Manta’s deck. At first they were merely hand-held until danger had passed of inadvertently snagging someone or something on the departing Cushing. As soon as she was clear they were successively attached to Manta’s mooring lines and the lines dropped into the water, so that unseen hands on board the tender could haul them in. By the time Cushing’s bow had passed from between the ships the space between Proteus and Manta was already spanned by four mooring lines. Two of them, powered by capstans on Manta’s bow and stern, were slowly hauling her and her immobile sister, Swordfish, across the intervening water preparatory to reestablishing the cobweb of lines and communications which had been broken only minutes before.
Now clear in the Thames River, Cushing had the problem of turning around in the relatively narrow channel. Of a later design than Manta, Cushing had only a single propeller, necessarily behind the rudder instead of ahead, as in the more conventional configuration. She had been able to turn slightly while backing, now lay almost exactly across the channel. Backing and filling was possible with a smaller ship, and could also be done with Cushing’s ponderous bulk and great length, but there was an easier solution at hand. The tug carried out its second mission of the morning by putting its heavily fendered nose against the missile submarine’s bow and pushing it downstream. After a suitable interval, screw turbulence showed astern, the topside section of the Cushing’s rudder indicated it had gone to full left, and the sleek whale-shaped form began to gather headway.
Cold is the Sea Page 12