Later, lying clasped together in the delicious rumpled aftermath, he said, “Go ahead and call Peggy. Right now, if you want to. Tell her to keep her shirt on, and if she gets any more calls like that to refer them to Admiral Treadway. But don’t get into any long talk with her at this time of the night. Just say she should keep her faith in the U.S. Navy. Then hang up and come back here.”
Laura rubbed her nose languidly against his cheek. “Aye, aye, sir, Commodore,” she said, “if you think you’re up to it. But what do I say if she asks me if I’ve got my shirt on?”
13
The trip northward in the Manta was totally different from any submarine voyage Richardson had ever experienced. It was the first time he had embarked for such a long time and for such a distance in a nuclear submarine. At the beginning he had, of course, known what to expect. Diving was effortless; the diving alarm was apparently sounded more for the sake of tradition than to alert the crew. There was none of the old hurly-burly, no necessity for split-second timing to get engines off the line, exhaust valves shut, huge air-intake pipe sealed. The people on the bridge were allowed to get below with some dignity and without emergency; if one of them was held up for some reason, clothing snagged somewhere or some last-minute function that needed doing—such as securing a collapsible step against rattles during a prolonged submergence—time could be made for it. When the bridge hatch was closed and the lookouts had taken their seats at the diving controls, the diving officer ordered the vents opened, told the planesmen the depth he wanted, and Manta gently angled downward without missing a beat in the even rhythm of her turbines. The initial course led directly off soundings, and as the bottom fell away the planesmen gradually increased depth until they were holding her steady—and stationary, from all sensation that anyone could observe—at the ordered cruising depth of 500 feet.
There was no feeling of motion, no feel whatever for the sea. The interior of the ship was a quiet, cylindrical cavern, full of controlled efficient activity, but they might as well have been buried in the earth, locked up in a cave somewhere. Of forward motion there was no indication whatever, except for the changes in the regular fathometer readings which were constantly plotted on a chart of the ocean-bottom contours, the single clocklike hand of the electronic log indicating Manta’s speed as a fraction over nineteen knots, and the fact that the slightest motion of bow or stern planes was instantly reflected in the depth gauges.
The silence was of course not as real as the senses indicated, for everyone had from the beginning been attuned to the sibilant hum of the ventilation system and relegated it to the nonaware background of consciousness. Occasionally there was a gurgle of the hydraulic machinery, the swishing of confined oil under pressure, a repressed whistle of compressed air, each individual noise telling of some small operation helping to keep the Manta on course, speed and depth. Yet, despite these communications of the submarine’s own inherent being and function, and despite, also, the concentration of the men at the diving stand—two planesmen and the diving officer of the watch—there was no feeling, no forced awareness, that this minute fragment of the world was moving at all.
Immediately aft of the control room, in a sealed compartment beneath the deck, Manta’s heart was pumping out an unceasing supply of steam which passed into the engineroom in two great insulated, convoluted pipes leading to four turbines, two turbo-generator sets and the auxiliary steam line, and finally entered the condensers as fully expanded steam from which all the work had been extracted. The steam provided all the energy for the myriad pieces of machinery which made up the enormously complex synergistic whole and then, in the form of water, was pumped back into the steam generators to repeat the cycle. There, instead of from combustion of oil, gas or coal, heat was returned to it from the pressurized water of the reactor primary loop—water under such great pressure that it could not flash into steam even under the tremendous, controlled temperature of nuclear fission. Here was the secret, for the nuclear power plant needs no combustion anywhere in the power cycle, and the fuel, built into the reactor, lasts for several years.
But as every man aboard the Manta well knew, the power of the atom is not released easily. Tremendously large, extraordinarily designed main coolant pumps circulate the pressurized water constantly from reactor to steam generators and back again. Equally unusual drive motors raise and lower the control rods which increase or decrease reactivity within the reactor. Extraordinary and unusual, because no leakage can be permitted; there can be no joint, no bearing or seal ring through which a drive shaft projects, no contaminating lubrication, no physical contact between driving agent and the driven. No leakage of any kind, not even an infinitesimal amount, can be allowed in the primary loop; for not only would radioactive contamination result, the pressure could not be maintained and the system would not function.
Over it all, monitoring every pressure, every temperature, every device, every important circuit and function, was one of the world’s most detailed and complex instrumentation systems. And over the instruments the most highly selected and trained crew the Navy could put together maintained constant surveillance.
Pumps throbbed, generator sets hummed, turbines roared and reduction gears whined; in the engineroom there was purposeful movement and noise aplenty. But everything was nevertheless static. Every piece of machinery stood in its appointed place, delivered its product through shafts, cables, pipes or air lines, and reported its performance in gauges mounted nearby. Only the blurred revolution of two propeller shafts in the lower level of the engineroom evidenced movement—and even this was hardly visible, for the perfectly balanced shafts, turning at hundreds of revolutions per minute, seemed to be standing as solidly still as everything else around them. Just as the men were
Throughout the engineering spaces, men stood, or sat, before their machines, watching them attentively, occasionally making a tiny adjustment, carefully ministering to their needs, rooted to their duties for four hours at a time, eight hours out of every day.
But no one, encased in the elongated steel cylinder of which he was a part, hurtling northward through the Atlantic Ocean, was unaware of the sea, even though he might pretend to ignore it. Not with the sea pressure of 500 feet of submergence squeezing the steel bubble enveloping him. The sea was unfelt physically, could be joked about, was taken as a matter of course. But not ignored. No matter where one was it was never far away. In some cases only inches. And, like all implacable fluids, it needed only a single entry point to begin its deadly work.
Manta’s annunciators had been placed on Ahead Flank even before clearing Montauk Point, and remained there twenty-three hours of every twenty-four. Her course, decided in advance, had been set on a broad, looping curve that would sweep her around Nantucket, the Grand Banks and Iceland before finally settling on due north. Day after day she burrowed through the North Atlantic, her sonar searching actively ahead and to both sides, her fathometer continuously recording the depth of water beneath her. Her whole being was concentrated on but a single objective: to reach, as soon as possible, the vicinity of position Golf November two-nine on the polar grid.
Once a day, however, she slowed to come to periscope and snorkel depth. Since Manta, an earlier submarine than the Cushing, had no apparatus for making oxygen from seawater, nor its complement, the carbon dioxide removal equipment, she routinely conserved her supply of compressed oxygen by periodically exchanging her internal air with the atmosphere. Usually this would be done in anticipation of a prolonged submergence, and thereafter every twenty-four hours whenever possible. After a full day, oxygen depletion was noticeable, and the instant restoration of vitality when the snorkel could finally be opened and fresh air drawn in became one of the pleasure points of the ship’s routine. Other than the steady changes made in her great circle course, to bend it more and more toward the north, this was the only variety in her day-to-day existence.
After a few days, Richardson noticed that the same group of off-watch crew membe
rs seemed to be lounging around the control room during the periods of periscope depth, occasionally asking for a look at the sea and sky, volunteering to take a turn at periscope watch, generally contriving to make themselves useful. Both periscopes were kept up continuously during the hour or so it took for the routines associated with free air and low sea pressure: charging air banks, expelling garbage, blowing sanitaries.
“We call it ‘periscope liberty,’ ” said Buck. “It didn’t happen during our day trips out of New London because we never stayed out long. But it goes on all the time when we’re at sea like this, and it’s the same gang. Not all of them always ask for a look every day, either. They listen to what’s said by those who are on the ’scopes. They get some kind of a lift just being where someone can see out. We let as many as possible have a turn on the ’scopes, so long as there’s nothing special going on.”
“Still tied to the surface, eh? Maybe you-all aren’t a ‘new breed’ of sailor after all.” Richardson and Williams were having a leisurely second cup of coffee in Buck’s relatively spacious stateroom while the steward’s mates were clearing away the wardroom after the evening meal. Rich had refused Buck’s offer of his own cabin, had taken instead the top bunk in the executive officer’s room. Even so, Rich had the uneasy feeling that some more strenuously employed younger officer had been evicted to make room for him. Besides, Jerry Abbott, the exec, had another roommate in addition to Richardson, and his cabin was about half the size of Buck’s. Almost automatically, Rich had taken to spending some of his leisure in Buck’s room while, at the same time, guiltily trying to avoid interference with Buck’s own needs for it. Now, with the air in the ship recently renewed and the day’s work and drills done, Buck was tilted back in his straight-back aluminum desk chair, while Rich sat on the bunk, propped up on the triangular plastic-covered pillow with which it was provided.
“That ‘new breed’ stuff is all newspaper hokum, Skipper,” answered Buck, “and I know you think so too. It’s not even relevant. There’s no difference between submariners of today and sixteen years ago when we brought the Eel back from the war. We used to have the same kind of fellows wanting to come up to the bridge for a breath of fresh air every time the Eel surfaced, remember? It wasn’t really the fresh air. With our ventilation system there was always plenty of fresh air when we were surfaced. In the enginerooms there was a darned cyclone. Fresh air was an excuse, and it’s the same with our ’scope liberty.”
“I guess it’s pretty normal,” said Rich. “They obviously can’t go topside, so the control room is the next best. This certainly is a relaxed way to travel.” He was enjoying the desultory conversation. There was no pressure on him. Buck and his crew were, of course, busy; but there was nothing Rich could do until Manta arrived in the area where Cushing lay disabled. One might as well enjoy the enforced ease, making sure only that all would be as ready as it could be when the big effort began.
Buck was taking a deep swallow from his cup, savoring it on the back of his tongue. “I’ve no doubt,” he said, “and that’s one thing where we’re far better off and at the same time less well off than in the old diesel boats. Look at the way we’re making this transit. There’s no pitching, no rolling, no concern for the weather, no worries about another ship running along without a proper lookout. Our own lookout is electronic, or sonic, which is the same thing. The old Manta’s plugging along at full flat out, and you’d think we were sitting alongside the dock in harbor somewhere. Everything is so well organized there’s no challenge. The wheels are spinning back aft and everyone goes on a watch in three, gets his three squares, sees a movie, turns in and gets up to go through it all again. I’m not saying we’re idle, because there’s always ship’s work to do. In fact, nearly everybody works at least four hours in addition to his eight hours of watch. But it’s always the same. Our variety is when we have a field day, or some drills for a couple of hours, or when we come to periscope depth to see if the world is still there. It affects different people differently. Being in the control room at the right time can become important to some of them.”
Richardson nodded, smiled as he finished his coffee, then sobered slightly. “We’ll have variety once we get near the Cushing. There’ll not be much complaining about boredom then. Speaking of drills, it seems to be you’ve sprung just about every kind of emergency there is on your boys. Are you planning any ship and fire control exercises?”
“Yes, sure. I thought we ought to get the emergencies smoothed out first.” Buck was suddenly on the defensive. “Why? We can have some tomorrow, if you want.”
“Anytime is fine with me. We can’t practice the towing operation, but there’s no telling what else we might run into up there.”
“You’re not expecting any more collisions, hey?” Buck grinned. “If so, though, we’ll give a good account of ourselves. During our overhaul last year a complete icebreaker superstructure was built on this old bucket. It added tons of weight, and every bit of our reserve lead ballast had to be taken off. Our bow is like the ram bow of an old battleship, and so’s our sail. EB swears we could cut our way up through ten feet of solid ice.”
“Sure, I know all about what EB did to your old tub. But how would you cut through ice that thick? Not by blowing tanks?”
“No. We might be able to break through four or five feet by blowing ballast and coming up flat,” said Buck as he tipped his cup back for the last delicious drops of hot black liquid. “For thicker ice we’d have to hit it from underneath with speed and a pretty steep angle so as to slice through with our bow. That’s what the Electric Boat design shop says, anyhow.”
“Has the Manta done much steep-angle work?”
“Whenever there was a chance, or a good excuse. We all do, these days, ever since the first guppies showed what you could do with big angles. Besides, it’s a great way to keep your crew on their toes, and it makes everybody keep loose gear stowed right. Come to think of it—I’d forgotten—you’re the one who started the steep-angle dive business, back during the war. I remember how you used to make us dive the Eel at fifteen degrees, out there in the area. I can see why you’re interested.”
“Fifteen degrees used to get us down a lot faster, all right, and once in a while we were mighty glad, but after the war some shippers went a lot steeper. The Amberjack used thirty degrees regularly, both up and down, and turned in reports about the tactical benefits. It got so people called them ‘Anglejack reports.” ’ Richardson put his empty cup on the desk. “The Pickerel is supposed to have surfaced from deep submergence with a seventy-two-degree angle, once. She came half her length out of water.” His relaxed position on the bunk had not changed, but he was thinking of something. There was an air of greater attention about him, Buck noticed.
“I remember those reports,” said Buck. “I think I read every one. The Amberjack was one of our first guppies, and they claimed that with all the new speed and maneuverability the way to change depth in either direction was to use angles and get moving, the same way aircraft do. It’s old hat, now. Did you hear they once put forty-two degrees on the Triton? It was last year. Some kind of a test Brighting wanted.”
“I heard about it in the Pentagon. Some of us thought it was a bit much, especially with a ship that big, but it was a one-time thing, done very carefully. One thing it showed, though. If that monster can go to an angle that big, even for a special occasion, all the smaller boats should be able to. It’s just a matter of training, and being accustomed to handling your boat that way.”
“Ship, boss. We’re trying to inflate our importance a trifle.”
“Ship. Right. It’s about time, especially for the nukes. I was just thinking about what we might be running into, and it struck me we ought to have steep angles in our bag of tricks,” Richardson said. There was seriousness in his words, and again Williams felt himself somehow on the defensive.
“Well, we’ve done a lot of it,” Williams said. “We’re rigged for angles this very minute. It’s part
of our rig for sea. It’s not something anyone makes special reports about anymore. But we sure haven’t practiced breaking through any ten feet of ice cover with any seventy-two-degree angles, if that’s what you’re thinking of!”
Richardson was instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean to sound critical, old man. I’m sorry. I was just being curious.” He waved his hand across his face in a gesture of friendly understanding. “Submarining has gone so far these days it’s like a whole new science, with all new boats and equipment.”
“Ships. But I’ll bet it didn’t seem so on the new Trigger when she made that famous—or maybe I should say infamous—shakedown trip to Rio,” chuckled Buck, trying in his turn to ease the moment. “She was the first of the postwar boats to be completed, and her diesels were a fiasco. That wasn’t all, either. Her evaporators were no good, and neither were her periscopes. Her skipper caught hell for saying so, too.”
“Later on, a couple of that class had to be towed back to port, one all the way from England, so he was sure right,” said Richardson. “The Navy made it up to him with the Triton.” He was gladly following Buck’s lead, glad of a safe refuge—relaxed professional conversation—from the danger he had nearly fallen into. “You know,” he went on, “giving him the Triton was completely old Brighting’s doing. Sometimes some of us have wondered if he wanted to prove a point and figured this might be a good way to do it. When the Triton’s shakedown cruise took her completely around the world, submerged and nonstop, without any serious mechanical trouble whatsoever, you had to admit he certainly did prove something. As far as I’m concerned, he proved that his ships were the best there could be, anywhere. You’ve got to say there could not possibly be a more demanding test of a brand-new ship!”
Cold is the Sea Page 24