Rich paused a moment. Keith would have reported any deviation from the detailed operation order. “He’s been in the operating area just nine days, sir.”
“Right. Umm—that’s right. Maybe we should have turned him around before he got there.”
“How’s that?” Rich realized his own voice had risen too. It had never occurred to him to question the decision to send Keith to the Arctic.
“Probably we should have told you. This whole business has gotten a lot hotter than we thought it would. Somehow the Russians got word of Leone’s mission, and they protested even before he entered the area—are you there, Rich? So, when the Joint Chiefs heard about the collision, the flap got a lot worse. That was yesterday. This second message will put them in orbit.” Murphy put a characteristically drooping note to his final sentence.
“I see, sir,” Richardson replied after a moment. He paused, thinking how to phrase what he wanted to say, then went on. “We had Leone on single side-band for about a minute, three hours ago.” He told of the attempt at voice communication and its sudden termination. “He was right there, on the line himself, and then something happened. He had to break off, and we’ve heard nothing since.”
“How long ago was this?” There was now a tone of acerbity and a rising inflection. “Why didn’t you report it?”
“We hadn’t broken the second message yet, and since we intercepted it direct, we knew your coding board couldn’t have either. I figured you’d be getting it about now. The rest of the time we’ve been checking up on the Manta.” Richardson spoke carefully, sensing that in Murphy’s obviously agitated frame of mind it would be characteristic of him to find fault with something relatively minor.
“Um—we didn’t mind your fooling around with the towing contraption, even though we thought you were wasting your time, but you should have asked me before trying that voice caper.”
“There wasn’t time, Admiral! The only way to be sure to get to him with the old wolfpack code was to break right in on the CW circuit! He’d have been gone in a minute, back under the ice or anyway shut down. Besides, it’s standard operating procedure to use voice when you can. The only thing out of the ordinary was the distance.” Rich saw Buck’s eyes narrow. He was speaking swiftly now, still trying to think ahead carefully. “It’s that towing rig I want to report on. It will work. We’ve tested it. I’m recommending we send the Manta to snake the Cushing out. She’ll be ready to get underway tomorrow!”
Admiral Murphy was anything but mercurial in temperament, but the third change in his attitude was instantly obvious over the telephone. “Do you really think it will do the job? How do you know? How are you going to rig the towline?”
“We’ve been testing it for a couple of weeks. It works, all right. We get him to lower his anchor. He can do this from inside the torpedo room, you know. The Manta passes beneath, snags the anchor chain, and off they go.”
“What if your rig doesn’t make contact?”
“She circles around and makes another pass.”
“What if it parts under the strain of towing?”
“The catenary drag of the chain will help take up the initial shock, and she’ll be keeping a close watch on the strain gauge, so it ought not to break. That’s part of what the training exercises were for. Anyway, we have two rigs, one for each stern tube. So there’ll be a second chance if she does break one.”
“You say you’ve tested this thing, Rich?”
“Yes, sir. It takes some practice doing it right, but we’re pretty sure we’ve got the bugs out of it and know how to handle it. We’ve worked it on the Tringa and the Besugo both. The Besugo was submerged, and that made her a lot easier to tow than the Tringa, once the hookup was made. Of course, the Cushing is a much heavier ship. . . .”
“Um . . . Umm . . . When did you say the Manta will be ready?”
“Tomorrow, forenoon. She’s topping off provisions right now. There’s a couple of adjustments still to make to the chain grab, and we decided to replace all the nylon cable with new line in case any part’s been weakened.”
“Okay, Rich. I’ll report this to Washington right away . . . umm . . .” Admiral Murphy’s voice took on its more customary phlegmatic quality. “Can you take a quick flight to Washington and be there this afternoon? The CNO may want you to brief him directly.”
Going to Washington was something that had not occurred to Richardson. His instinct was against it. Thinking quickly, he said, “Admiral, I think I ought to stay here in New London and make sure everything Buck Williams needs is taken care of. He and I are the only ones . . .”
“I understand, Rich, I’ll report that up the line. Maybe they’ll want to call you on the telephone.”
It was midnight of the same day in Richardson’s combined office and sitting room on board the Proteus which, with the addition of extra chairs, had been converted to a small conference room. Rich had just finished describing his towing device to the small but powerful group of naval officers present. All, except Rich and Buck, were in civilian clothes. He stifled a huge yawn as he stood, pointer in hand, before the easel upon which were several poster cards with large hand-drawn diagrams of the hookup gear. He and Williams were the only two present below the rank of rear admiral. Admiral Donaldson, Chief of Naval operations, a near legendary destroyer commander during World War II, now nearing the end of his term as CNO, had taken charge of the briefing and was asking a final question.
“Richardson, what gave you the idea to make this thing?”
“I don’t know, Admiral,” Rich confessed honestly. “I just began to wonder how we’d be able to help the Cushing if she broke down, and the idea sort of grew in my mind.”
“But you couldn’t have foreseen the collision. A simultaneous breakdown of both main propulsion and the secondary motor is a one-in-a-million chance.”
“True,” said Rich, “but a reactor breakdown under ice cover, where Keith couldn’t use his snorkle, would stop both of them.” Rich was conscious of darting eyes framed in the famous pinched face of Vice Admiral Brighting in the second row.
“No reactor has ever broken down,” said the monotonous, expressionless voice.
Irresolute, Richardson did not answer. The reactor in Idaho had certainly broken down. Had there not been a large group of trained men, each able to spend three precious minutes in the heat and radioactivity of the lower reactor compartment, it could not have been fixed. A slightly bigger casualty of the same nature would have required a lengthy shutdown. No mere ship, out of the resources of her own crew, could have handled the situation. It had been precisely the idea that there might be a repetition, at sea, which had been the compelling force urging him on. But the fact could not be stated in front of Admiral Brighting.
It was Donaldson, sensing the reason for Richardson’s hesitation, who answered for him. “Your reactors are first-class, Martin. They’ve hung up the most remarkable record for reliability of any piece of machinery ever built. Not one has broken down in service yet, for any reason. They’ve been absolutely extraordinary. Their record for sustained performance is unprecedented in history, and the credit is clearly due to you.” There was an odd twist to Brighting’s mouth as he looked quickly from side to side to see how the others were taking this praise. Richardson stared at him, then deliberately dropped his eyes to the floor to mask his sudden perception that Brighting saw nothing extravagant in the words. A glance at Donaldson: his face was impassive, guileless. Rich wondered if he were entirely imagining an undercurrent of deliberate flattery. Certainly Donaldson knew that Nautilus had once experienced an involuntary shutdown which took twenty-four hours to overcome, during which she had only steerageway on the surface on her diesel auxiliary engine, and that at one time or another every nuclear reactor built had scrammed unexpectedly, though usually not for serious cause. Triton, with two reactors, twice had had reactor difficulty during her epochal round-the-world cruise, a fact which had been kept out of the papers but had been duly reported
to higher authority.
Granted, because of the intensive training both crews had received, Nautilus and Triton had been able to effect repairs themselves and had suffered no permanent disability. But the next reactor scram might be less benign. If the reactor could not be restarted, if it happened under solid ice cover, as might be the case with a single-reactor ship under winter Arctic conditions, Cushing’s exact situation, things could become difficult.
But Donaldson was continuing. “Whatever may have motivated Commodore Richardson, the important thing is that he’s come up with an idea to save the situation. It was a good enough idea to bring us up from Washington for this midnight conference aboard his own flagship. He’s the man on the spot. He’s studied this more than any of us here. He’s made a recommendation, and he invented the means to carry it out. The thing for us here is to decide. Sending Manta, as Richardson proposes, is one alternative. There may be others. What are they?”
No one spoke for a moment. Richardson waited. “We could order Leone to scuttle and send a ski-equipped transport to bring the crew back,” said a voice. It sounded like Admiral Treadwell, but Richardson, who had been watching Admiral Donaldson, did not turn in time to see who it was.
“There’s still a chance the Cushing’s propeller isn’t entirely gone,” said Admiral Murphy. “We should be getting another message with more information any time. Maybe he’ll be able to get out on his own.”
“When did your message clear, Murph?” Donaldson asked.
“About noon. I checked on it before leaving Norfolk. It’s been rebroadcast three times. Leone ought to have answered before this.”
“Maybe he can’t. What do you think, Rich?” Donaldson turned a level gaze on Richardson. The chief of naval operations had used his nickname, he noted.
“Something happened suddenly, sir,” Rich answered. “Leone’s tone of voice changed right while we were talking. We’d hardly started, when he had to cut us off. Our radio room has been keeping a special watch ever since. He’s not come back up on either CW or voice. That means he must have had to dive back under the ice.”
“Go on,” said Donaldson.
“If he’s at shallow depth, up against the underside of the ice floe,” said Richardson, “he can receive messages through his underwater antenna. But he can’t transmit unless he can get an antenna up through the ice cover. My guess is that he can’t move. If he could, he’d find another polynya and come back up.”
“How long can he last up there?”
“His reactor must be all right, or he’d have said something. So he’s got plenty of power. He can control his own atmosphere. Provisions are his limiting factor. Assuming nothing happens to his reactor, he can last three months. More, if he cuts down on rations.”
“June or July, eh?”
“Yes.”
“When is the ice at its thinnest?”
“It’s supposed to be thinnest in October, but there’s lots of variation. Right now we figure it’s as thick as it ever gets. That’s why the operation was scheduled for this month.”
Donaldson nodded. “Yes. I remember. In retrospect, it wasn’t too good an idea.” The set of his mouth was suddenly grim. “If Leone won’t transmit, we have to assume it’s because he can’t. Even if he doesn’t get any messages, he knows we need to hear from him.” His hearers nodded their assent. “So, if we don’t get something pretty damn soon, we’ll have to take action based on not expecting to hear from him at all.”
“Yessir,” said Murphy.
“The Joint Chiefs have already considered ordering him to scuttle and sending a couple of Arctic-equipped planes to pick up the crew, but we don’t know yet whether they can get out of their submarine and on top of the ice. Even so, we’ve directed the Air Force to get two transports ready, but just preparing the aircraft to land on the ice will take at least two weeks. Maybe longer.”
“We ought not to abandon the ship,” said Brighting. “That’s our newest and best reactor. Scuttling should be our last option.”
“We all agree on that, Martin,” said the Chief of Naval Operations, “except that saving the crew is the very bottom line. Tready, you’ve not said a word lately. Have your New London boys come up with any more ideas? How about Electric Boat’s engineers? Is there any way they can think of to fix the propeller, or replace the emergency propulsion motor?”
Rear Admiral Treadwell, in charge of the New London submarine flotilla, shook his head. “We’ve been brainstorming ideas all day, but we’re all working in the dark. Without knowing anything about what we’re up against, except that it’s underwater and damned cold, there’s nothing anybody can do by remote control. The Manta could carry up a spare propeller for the Cushing, all right, secured on deck somehow, but nobody can figure out a way of putting it on her propeller shaft, even assuming divers could get the damaged one off, using explosive charges or something like that. The same with the outboard motor. Who knows what damage was done to the recess it fits in. Either one of these fixes is a drydock job. Waterborne, up there under the ice, there’s no way at all.” He cleared his throat morosely. Murphy was nodding his agreement as he spoke.
Richardson, who had been carrying on a low-voiced discussion with Buck Williams while Treadwell was speaking, looked up and caught Donaldson’s eye. “May I make a suggestion?” he asked. With Donaldson’s nod of assent, he said, “There’s really three things Manta can do when she gets up there. One is to try the submerged hookup and tow operation. Another is to serve as communications relay station. Assuming the Cushing is immobilized under the ice and can’t transmit, if the Manta can talk to her through her Gertrude set she’ll at least be able to relay messages for her. The third thing is that if worst comes to worst she can come up close alongside under the ice and take the Cushing’s crew aboard a few at a time through the escape hatches. Buck Williams has three qualified scuba divers aboard and an extra supply of scuba equipment. It will be a slow operation, hauling all that gear between ships and changing it from one man to another, but it’s possible.
“The thing is, though, that it will take her two weeks to get up there. About as long as to get the planes ready. A lot could happen before then, and it might be necessary to modify her instructions, but at least it’s one string to our bow we ought not to pass up. We ought to send her now, and in the meantime get the planes ready, too.”
There was a glint in Donaldson’s eyes as he answered. “That’s a convincing argument to me, Rich. Does anyone have anything more to add? . . . Then that’s the decision. Now that that’s settled, can anyone enlighten me on this next item? It was handed to me just as I got aboard the plane that brought us here.” He extracted a torn and folded paper from the inside pocket of his civilian jacket, put on a pair of Navy-issue glasses, and began to read:
U.S. sub shoots down Soviet research plane, claims Kremlin. (Tass) In an unprecedented action, the Soviet Foreign Office today released the text of a secret report from the commander of the current Russian polar exploration expedition, claiming that an unnamed American submarine in Arctic waters had without warning and totally without cause opened fire on and shot down a Soviet research aircraft attached to his group. Noting the presence of a foreign submarine in the area under research, the aircraft had approached to ascertain its nationality, ask if it needed assistance and request it not to interfere with the exploration and research being conducted. Instead of responding to this legitimate and civilized request, the submarine, later identified as a nuclear missile launching type belonging to the United States, opened fire with a sophisticated war weapon, one shot of which injured the plane so badly that it crashed on the ice with the loss of one of its crew members and injury to the others.
Clearly this was not the act of a single misguided submarine commander, for the fact that one of its missile firing submarines has invaded the hitherto peaceful waters of the Arctic Ocean with the intent of converting them into the front arena of threat and blackmail against the Soviet Union shows the perf
idy and warmaking objectives of the United States, which cries peace on the one hand while it secretly makes war with the other.
Barbaric actions of this nature by the warmongering United States are continuing proof that she has no consideration whatever for the rights of man, human dignity or even life itself if they conflict with her imperialistic designs on freedom and peace throughout the world.
It is expected the Foreign Office will protest this outrage most strenuously to the government of the United States, demand indemnity for the injuries to persons and material, and insist vigorously that the perpetrators of this extraordinary affront be suitably and severely punished.
Admiral Donaldson clamped his mouth shut with almost an audible snap as he finished reading. No one spoke. “What do you reckon happened?” he finally said, spitting the words out to the room in general. Then, singling out Admiral Murphy, who was already looking slightly uncomfortable, “Murph, this has got to be the Cushing they’re talking about. What do you make of it? You’re not putting any new weapons on your boats that I haven’t heard about, are you?” Although there was a light tone to his question, and in his voice, the look on his face had no levity in it.
“Nosir—umm,” said Murphy. “It couldn’t have been the Cushing. She has no such weapons. A couple of rapid-fire rifles, maybe. Nothing that fits this description. What do you think, Tready?”
“It probably was the Cushing all right,” said Treadwell, “but I agree with Murphy. She could not have shot down an aircraft. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“You knew the Soviets protested our sending a missile sub into the Arctic, didn’t you, Tready?”
“I heard about it, yes sir. But we didn’t pay any attention, absent any instructions from Norfolk or Washington.”
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