“Coded dots and dashes are fine, Rich, but just think what it will do for Keith and his whole crew if we can talk to him by voice!” Buck was speaking rapidly now, throwing all he had into it. “We don’t know anything at all about what kind of shape he’s in. He’ll tell us in his next message. He’s probably already got it drafted. What he and his whole outfit want to hear is that we’re right in there with them, and using every resource the Navy’s got. There’s no rule against voice, is there?”
“No—voice doesn’t have the range CW has. But you can’t encipher voice. No voice code is secure. If our guess is right there’s bound to be an army of unfriendly communication types monitoring everything that goes on the air in that area.”
Buck could sense his superior’s desire to be convinced, could hardly wait to press the argument. “I’m talking about morale, boss, not security. We don’t need to say anything at all that refers even to where they are, or what they’re doing. Don’t you think Keith knows us well enough to read between the lines of whatever we say to him?”
Weakening, Rich nodded at the justice of this point. However, he persisted. “The problem is that we’ll be making him transmit a second time. If they’re monitoring the Arctic, maybe with direction finders, we’re making it that much easier for them to locate him. We’ve no idea what they’re up to. I agree it will be good for his morale—and ours, too—if we can come up on voice with him. And he is in international waters, and has every right to send anything he wants. But if there’s something funny going on it would be wrong to make him send a lot of procedural transmissions to establish the voice contact.”
Satisfied that he had won, Buck nodded in his turn. “That’s no problem, boss. The call-up procedure and all that, I mean. We can get around that easy. We’ll use our old wolfpack code. He’ll be sitting there in his own radio room and hear it himself, and it’ll work like a charm!”
Richardson felt his own enthusiasm beginning to match that of his junior. “You did say that you and Keith had resurrected that old wolfpack code of ours. How would you use it?”
“We wait for him to send the next message, right? We hear it come in, right in our radio shack. The minute he gets the receipt from the shore station working him, we break in with the wolfpack code and tell him what we’re up to. He won’t have to come back at us on CW, and there’ll be no prelims on voice either. Then we shift right over to the single side-band set and talk to him. He won’t transmit one single syllable until he opens up to answer, and he’ll not have to do that if he doesn’t want to.”
“Looks like you’re planning for us to break a couple of our communication rules, Buck, but it sounds good. The most important thing of all, though, will be that message he’ll be sending. No interference with that, and no making him repeat on voice what he’s already put in the message!” He stopped, then continued, “I want to get on top of that right away, as soon as it comes in. Do you want to help me be the decoding board?”
“You know you couldn’t keep me away, Skipper,” said Buck with a warm smile. “But do you think a broken-down old submarine skipper and squadron commander will be able to run one of those new coding machines?” The smile of anticipation on his face belied the words.
“Then you’d better take over one of the division commanders’ staterooms and get what sleep you can. When the message comes in we’ll be up for quite a while, working on it. Maybe you should tell Cindy you’ll not be home tonight.”
Buck grinned. “I did already,” he confessed.
The ship intercom phone buzzed on the bulkhead above Richardson’s steel bed. He reached for it swiftly, alertness awakening throughout his body.
“Commodore, this is Radio. We’re intercepting a message from the Cushing to NSS Annapolis. He’s coming in loud and clear.”
“Call Commander Williams in ComSubDiv One-oh-One’s room. I’ll be right up!” He slammed the telephone into its cradle, jammed his feet into slippers, ran out the door in his pajamas.
Buck, barefooted, carrying his shoes, arrived in the radio room only seconds after he did. Evidently he had been sleeping in his underwear, had delayed only to pull on his trousers.
There were three crewmen there, one a supervisor. “I called you as soon as the message started coming in, Commodore,” the senior said with a hint of pride in his accomplishment. “We’re copying it at two stations.” He indicated the two radiomen seated at their typewriters, earphones on their heads, clacking the keys with measured simultaneous cadence as their eyes stared miles beyond the radio receivers banked directly in front of them.
“Have you another set of earphones?” Richardson knew there must be, automatically reached out his hand. Buck Williams, he saw, likewise could hardly contain his eagerness.
“Yessir. But we can only plug you in at one station.” The supervisor handed Richardson a single set of earphones, swiftly plugged in the other end of the six-foot cord. Rich fumbled with the headpiece, detached one of the earphones from its clip, handed it to Buck, put the headpiece with now a single earphone to his head. Buck, crowding close to be within range of the wire attached to his earpiece, held it to his near ear. The earpieces were fitted with earmuff-type coverings to cut out extraneous sound. Both men cupped their hands over their unused ears, strained to blot out all other sensation.
XVTMW, said the radio waves. PLTMV ZAWLN MMPTL XZBKG—the rhythm was steady, hypnotic. Glancing over the shoulder of one of the radiomen, Williams could see the encrypted message forming before his eyes. There were already three lines of type, ten five-letter groups per line, all neatly columnar, the letters coming one by one as the distant operator hammered them out with his radio key. Like many officers, Williams had learned Morse code early in his career. He had never become as good at it as the radiomen who dealt with it every day, but he could recognize the letters, although not fast enough to receive a message at normal transmittal speed.
“Dash-dot-dash-dot,” went the faint signal. The letter C. C appeared on the paper as the radioman hit the typewriter key. Then a single dash, the letter T. Then three more: o. Holding both hands, one with an earphone, to his head, Buck could visualize the distant operator, far to the north, beating out the dots and dashes as rapidly as he could, yet well aware that a rhythmic swing, and steady, precise formulation of the letters was vital to accurate receipt. He was obviously a professional. Buck would have described him as having a “copperplate hand,” meaning that the dots and dashes were crisply distinguishable, the spaces between them always the same, the spaces between letters slightly longer but also exactly the same, the spaces between groups longer yet but still unvarying. Keith must also, at that very moment, be hunched in a chair alongside his radio operator, a spare set of earphones on his head, following his radio transmission with his ears and with his mind. He would hear the signals streaming out from his ship, imagine them crossing the frozen ocean, bouncing at least once off the ionosphere and finally coming within range of the tall, huge antennas across the Severn River from the Naval Academy. There, the so-carefully-tuned receivers would amplify them back into the audible range to be copied. In his own receivers he would hear also the much fainter notes of the distant station as Annapolis responded to his call and indicated readiness to receive the message. He would listen as his radiomen confided his enciphered letters to the aether, hear the procedure signals calling for repeats of doubtful passages if any, finally hear the R for receipt that indicated the shore station now assumed responsibility for the message and its delivery to the addressees. Not until a message of this importance had cleared completely would Keith himself—short of urgent matters elsewhere—leave his radio room.
But would Keith know that his two closest friends were similarly occupied, that they had lain in wait to intercept his expected second message, had carefully planned to be in the Proteus’ radio room to hear it directly, from his own transmitters? It was what Keith himself would do were the situation reversed, and if he was anywhere within reach of the proper recei
vers. But there was no way Keith could be sure that Rich and Buck, his most immediate associates, had monitored the ship-to-shore frequency and were taking his message directly, that they were at that moment directly connected to him by the tenuous, invisible, fragile radio waves emanating from his own radio room. For that matter, he expected Buck to be at sea in the already-begun barrier exercise.
But, beyond doubting, the hope would have been in his mind. Positive confirmation would be a tremendous booster to morale. If possible it should be done. How to alert him?
“Chief,” Buck said to the radio supervisor, speaking in a low voice so as not to interrupt the concentration of the men receiving the message, uncovering his left ear as he did so, “Chief, is your transmitter on this frequency?”
“Yessir. The Commodore had us do that this afternoon—I mean yesterday. But we don’t have the power to reach the Cushing where she’s at.”
“You mean we don’t have the power of a big shore station. We can hear Cushing okay, and we have bigger transmitters than she has. So she ought to be able to hear us.”
“Sometimes it works,” said the supervisor doubtfully, “but the Cushing didn’t know which shore station in the whole world would be the one that could hear her message. You never know that.”
“Sure, but maybe she aimed it at us, Chief. She picked a time when we’d be in darkness. Maybe she’s hoping we would think of putting this watch on her frequency.”
“Annapolis answered her call-up, sir,” the chief radioman said earnestly. “All we’re doing is copying her message. There’s no way she could know we’re on the circuit. Since we’re in port, we’re not allowed to use the ship-to-shore frequency. Even if we did open up as soon as she’s finished with NSS, we might be just enough off-frequency from her that she won’t hear our weak signal.”
“I know,” Buck said, containing his impatience. “But if we can hear him, isn’t right now the best chance we’ll ever get for him to hear us?”
“Where is he at, sir?”
“Oh. Sorry, Chief.” Buck quickly covered his near breach of security. “Anyway, he’s in about the same longitude as we are, and so is Radio Annapolis. So that means the radio conditions in this north-south line right now are at their best, and we ought to be able to work him direct ourselves.” Richardson had become an interested and approving onlooker, Buck noticed.
It would be necessary to disregard the rule against transmitting while in port. Proteus’ transmitter, already on the frequency, would be fine-tuned to Annapolis’ transmissions. Then, as soon as Annapolis receipted to the Cushing, Proteus, acting as though she were another ship at sea waiting for the circuit to clear, would open up with the cryptic call signs of the old wolfpack code. These would mean nothing to anyone, not even Cushing’s radio operator (unless Keith had prepared him for this eventuality) but they would to Keith, if he were there and heard them, or even if he only saw them appear on his radioman’s typewriter log sheet. Keith would be there. He might even be hoping for something like this to happen.
The problem was whether Keith could afford to stay on the surface long enough for more messages. He had to have surfaced through the ice to transmit this message coming in. Those were his own beeps and key clicks they were hearing, faint and weak because of the distance but clear and distinct, nevertheless, and they proved that at that moment, at least, he was on the surface. Unless Cushing was in immediate danger, he would stay surfaced long enough to hear the receipt signal from Annapolis, probably would stay longer if not under pressure to submerge again. On the other hand, he might have to go down immediately—if the damaged Cushing was able to dive—and if that happened the only way to get a message to him would be the one already used: the long-wave low-frequency radio transmitter system based at Cutler, Maine, designed for communication with submerged submarines.
Richardson had uncovered his free ear also. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “What do we send him?”
Buck showed him the message he had written. “Here it is. He’ll spot this for the wolfpack code as soon as he hears it.”
“KE RI BU C5” read Richardson aloud. “I remember the code was in two-letter groups. But why do you think he’ll be able to decode it on sight? He won’t have the code with him in the radio room.”
“He won’t need it. That’s the beauty of it. It’s designed to be used between people who know each other well. The first three groups are the first two letters of the names we use for each other. For Keith, just that much will do a lot.”
There was pleasure in Richardson’s voice as he acknowledged the truth of Buck’s statement. Then he asked, “But what’s this c5?”
“Once Keith catches on that we’re trying to communicate something via the old wolfpack code, he’ll know it means crystal system number five. Single side-band is frequency-controlled by crystal. So this whole message tells him we’re here in the Proteus radio room—somebody’s radio room, anyway—that we want to talk to him on single side-band radio, and which sets of crystals to use. He and I spent quite a bit of time working these out for that barrier exercise. He’ll understand exactly what we’re saying to him. We’ll be using one crystal, on its frequency, and he’ll be using a different one and come back at us with a different frequency.”
There was a drop in Richardson’s voice. “Remember, Buck, voice isn’t secure. Don’t get your hopes up too high about what we can tell him. Any ideas about what we can do to help him from down here will have to go in a classified encoded message. Matter of fact, we told him about your towing hookup rig in our answer to his first message. We’re monitoring the scheds right now to pick up the transmission.”
“I know, and I checked on that too, a little while ago.” Buck had moved closer to Richardson, dropped his voice until he was practically whispering. “Our answer hasn’t been sent out yet. That’s one of the troubles with our system. There’s so many messages to send that they haven’t got to it yet. It’s been hours since he sent his first message, and now here’s the second, and still he’s not received an answer to the first one. When it does go on the air, it will take him an hour or so to decode it, besides. It’s just too slow!”
Richardson said nothing, and after a pause Buck went on. “You’re boss, and you’ll do the talking, but we’ve got to tell him something! Just say we’re not sitting here on our ass while he’s got a problem! You don’t have to say anything classified!”
Williams’ entreaty was having its effect, bolstered by Richardson’s own natural desire. “The Russians might be able to find Keith’s transmissions if they’re continuously searching the entire spectrum. If they hear us down here they’ll have no idea who we’re talking to.” He was talking to himself. “But if they’ve got a frequency scanner anywhere near where he is, when he opens up they’ll zero in on him right away.”
“And a lot of good may it do them! Keith has all the right in the world to use his radio!” Buck waved the message pad. “They’re nearly finished transmitting. The group count’s solid. Can I give the chief the go-ahead? I’ve already briefed him. We’ve got to break right in on CW before the Cushing closes down.” With Richardson’s nod of assent, Buck handed him the earphone, seized the chief radioman by the arm, began talking earnestly to him.
“He’s already got his transmitter on the frequency,” Buck reported a moment later with a smile of pleasure, “and he knows exactly what to do. Says every time he’s listened on a circuit he’s thought of how he could get something across to one of the other operators, if only he’d be allowed to try. He’s getting set right now. As soon as NSS sends a receipt he’ll zero beat with them. That will put him exactly on with NSS, and therefore with the Cushing. They’ll hear him, too, and out of curiosity they’ll listen to see what’s coming off. Then they’ll hear the chief send our little message five times and shut down. Keith will both see it on paper and hear it in his earphones, and that ought to do it.”
“You’re sure he won’t answer and alert anyone listening that
it was meant for him?”
“He won’t answer,” said Buck with a confident grin. “That’s not in the code. I mean, it’s in the code not to do that, ever. He invented it, remember. He won’t send another thing on CW. ‘c5’ gives him both crystals. We wait a little while, then open up on voice, that’s all. If he heard our CW transmission he’ll simply set up his own radio, and wait. The next thing we hear from him will be his own voice, with no warning to anyone, when he answers us.”
There was a change in the smooth cadence of the incoming message. The last few letters were drawn out, lengthened by the tiniest of fractions. Then the distant transmitter fell silent. Rich, Buck and the chief swung simultaneously to the two operators. Both were counting the coded groups they had been receiving. The chief seated himself at a third operating station, fingered the transmitting key, looked inquiringly at Richardson.
“Go ahead,” said Rich. “Open up as soon as Annapolis sends the R. I’ll take responsibility for breaking the rule.”
“Whoever Keith had on the key was a damn good operator,” said Buck. “I’ll bet NSS doesn’t need many repeats. Maybe not any. Our men seem to have it solid. NSS should too.” He put both hands to his head, pressed the earpiece hard against one ear. Richardson, he saw, was doing the same.
W7ST 130642 DE NSS went down on two radio typewriters. The signal was much louder than the one they had been hearing. There was a slight pause, then a prolonged, positive, dot-dash-dot, the letter R, sent with all the finality that could be mustered in a single monosyllabic note. Instantly they heard a faint tap from the distant station. Cushing’s operator had barely touched his key, acknowledging, in the unwritten code of professional radiomen, that he had been fully serviced. His next move would be to turn off his transmitter. His message had been sent and receipted for, and there would be no further use for it.
Proteus’ chief had, however, swung into action himself. One hand on his tuning dial, the other on his transmitter key, he sent a single long dash, varying his frequency slightly. It took only a second or two, but it was already beginning to seem too long to Buck when the man released his key, apparently satisfied. Then, without preamble, he began to send the eight letters, four groups of two, over and over without pause. Five times Rich and Buck mentally recorded the four two-letter groups. Five times the radiomen at the receiving stations typed the short message. Then, as unceremoniously as it had begun, the transmission was finished. The chief was already looking for the next order. Buck made the sign of cutting his own throat, the chief reached into the recess of his operating station, and with a loud cachunk the transmitter power hum abruptly stopped.
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