“Maybe the air blowing was what actually did it, boss. We’ll never know. I vaguely recall somebody showing me how to do that when some bad guys were after us, a long time ago, on some old sub the name of which I now forget.”
“It was your spiral dive, Buck. That was what did it. I never saw a submarine handled that way before!”
“Actually, we’d practiced it. I was saving it to pull on you sometime,” said Buck, pleased. “But we never did it with that kind of speed before, nor with this good an excuse to show it off!”
“Well, it sure saved our bacon, old man!” Richardson put his hand on Buck’s shoulder. Then his smile faded. “How much farther to the Cushing’s plotted position?”
“Three miles by the dead-reckoning tracer. Good thing we marked the DRT and set it on automatic when all this started. You should see what it looks like!”
“I’ve looked at it. It’s wild, all right.”
“I wish we could go faster.”
“We mustn’t be detected.”
“I know. Do you really think the Russian may think we’re sunk?”
“I’d bet on it, Buck. The last he saw of us was when we took off with his fish in hot pursuit. He must have heard all that noise you put in the water, and right after the fish exploded you slowed down to nothing. It’s not like the two times he hit our decoys. So now he’s waiting there, taking stock. If Keith’s sunk too, we’ll hear him start up and go away; if not, he’ll be taking his time nosing around, because the Cushing would still be dangerous.”
“And we’re sneaking in, on the battery, running silent and at deep submergence, waiting for some kind of a false move.”
“We can’t leave Keith till we know for sure.”
“Agreed. I’m trying to think of what to do if we find our other playmate again.”
“The first thing is to find him before he knows we’re still alive. The second thing is to kill him.” Richardson’s words were said without expression, almost as if he were referring to a routine happening. But Buck knew better.
A slight reduction in the urgency of Manta’s situation was recognized by the two mugs of black coffee they held. Schultz, who must have lost ten pounds in unevaporated perspiration, had refused relief and was still at the sonar console. A large towel, with which he repeatedly wiped his face, lay around his heavy shoulders. Neither Buck nor Rich noted the fact that they were in a nearly identical condition. Buck had tucked the end of his towel under his belt. Rich’s was stuffed behind a wire cable in the corner of the sonar room.
The sonar room ventilation had been planned for only a single occupant, the man on watch. Apparently no one had considered that a skipper, accompanied by whatever superiors might be aboard, might choose to conduct vital ship control functions there also. Not that there was greater comfort anywhere else in the ship at this moment, for Manta had been running for several hours with all ventilation, and even the air-conditioning, shut down. The atmosphere inside the submarine was fetid, the heat unbearable, or nearly so. It was unbearable in the engineroom, where the temperature had at once risen to 150 degrees, and men had passed out. That compartment was now cooling, however, for its outer skin was not insulated. In the meantime an extra supply of salt tablets had been sent to the few men required to remain inside.
All metal portions of the submarine which in any way communicated to the sea outside were alive with condensation. It dripped off everything: pipes, stanchions, instrument foundations, light-fixture brackets, bulkheads. Everyone had sweat bursting out of his pores, even those few fortunates privileged to lie down somewhere for a legal snooze, and the puddles of condensed moisture on the decks made footing hazardous on the once polished linoleum.
But there were far more important things to think about, the primary one being how to remain alive.
Neither Rich nor Buck said anything for several minutes. Schultz brought both to his side with a simple factual statement: “I’m hearing something!”
“What’s it like?”
By way of response, Schultz flipped a switch, spoke into a microphone mounted on the face of his console. “JT, do you hear pounding on the port bow?”
“Affirmative! I was just going to report it!”
“Well, don’t you let me beat you to it again! You’re supposed to hear sonic noises before I do!” Turning to his skipper, Schultz said, “Pounding, forty port.”
Buck was already adjusting the spare set of earphones. Clamping them on his ears, he frowned with concentration and nodded his head at Rich. “Here!” He detached the left phone, handed it to Rich. Through it Rich could hear rapid intermittent blows of steel on steel, rhythmic for a short period, then spasmodic, then a flurry of hurried blows again. “Frantic” was the word that instantly came to Richardson’s mind. Several more blows, then silence.
“I’d say that’s someone hammering something with a hammer or mallet,” said Rich. “Fairly close aboard. He sounded in a hurry to get it done.”
“Repairing something, maybe?”
“My guess is it’s Keith.”
“Why not the other?”
“Keith was damaged. Neither sub would want to alert the other one. He might have had to do it.”
“What do we do now?”
“Nothing. We wait. If it was Keith, the Soviet will come over to investigate. Maybe we’ll be able to hear him.”
“Schultz,” said Buck, lifting one of the sonarman’s earphones, bending to speak directly into the exposed ear, “any estimate of the distance to the pounding?”
“Close,” said Schultz. He flipped his switch to activate the microphone connecting him to the JT sonic head. “JT, how far to the pounding?”
“Close. A mile, maybe. Sounded like it was being reflected from the ice.” The JT man’s answer came only into the earphones. Schultz had not activated the sonar room loudspeaker. Buck saw Richardson smiling at him.
“It could be Keith,” Rich said. “If we’ve ever been quiet and listening, now’s the time!”
Buck spoke softly into the telephone handset. “Silence, all hands. Absolute silence!” To Schultz he said, “Chief, we’ll make a slow circle to clear your baffles aft. Search all around for any other noise, and check the bearing of this one whenever you can.” Replacing the earphone, he felt, rather than saw, the short jerk of the sonarman’s head which was supposed to pass for a nod of understanding.
Again, the deep silence of waiting. Slowly, Manta described two complete circles. She was at maximum depth, far below the authorized test depth, as deep as Buck dared take her, sweating figuratively and literally both in her own hull and in the persons of her crew. The squeeze of millions of tons of Arctic seawater—over 300 tons on each square foot—pressed upon her body. All her machinery was stilled. Her battery, which kept her sonars functioning, her planes operative and her two propellers slowly turning, was totally silent. The occasional splash of a drop of condensate, too heavy to remain on the surface where it had congealed, was loud. The silence was that of death. An apt similitude, for death would probably come out of it. For someone.
The third circle was nearly finished. “We’ll steady on the bearing where we heard the pounding, run about a mile, and circle again,” said Buck.
“Right,” said Rich, indicating by his expression that he could think of no better action.
Manta slowly swam on the ordered course, began to circle, in the opposite direction. “For variety,” said Buck, with the familiar tight smile. For more than an hour, switching occasionally to relieve their arms and hands, Rich and Buck had held the spare set of earphones to their ears. They were beginning to think of themselves as Schultz, long since, must have subconsciously felt of himself. They were large, amorphous beings, spread-eagled in the ocean, with antennas stretching in all directions; antennas floating into the infinite reaches, gathering in all the droplets of information, of sounds modern and primeval, listening with every sense of their beings, waiting. Waiting with limitless patience. Waiting for some sign.
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br /> All three men heard the report from the JT receiver when it came. “More pounding. Quiet like. It’s above us, I think.” Schultz nodded vigorously, pointed to his own earphones. He, too, had heard something, although neither Rich nor Buck had noted it.
Buck flipped the switch Schultz had been using. “What’s it like, JT?”
“Sounds like a rubber hammer hitting something. Not iron. Maybe it’s hitting wood.”
“Keith!” said Rich. “He’s okay! They’re making repairs! It’s got to be him!”
And then Rich felt a blow on his hip. Schultz was pressing both earphones against his head. He was gazing at his sonar scope, but his eyes were far away, far out in the ocean, which, for him, was totally represented by this circular fluorescent tube.
“What do you hear, Chief?” But Schultz could not hear the question. They waited, agonizing, wanting him to speak, not willing to break into his concentration. Finally he put his finger on his scope, tapping it gently with the fingernail.
“I hear something,” he said. “About here!”
“Is it the Soviet sub?”
“I think so. It’s getting louder, but it’s still faint.”
Coached by Schultz, Rich and Buck were soon able to hear the noise themselves, and finally there came the verdict which made all the waiting, and worry, and discomfort, of the past few hours worthwhile. “It’s him. That’s the same signature we’ve been hearing.”
“Skipper,” said Richardson, “I’d give my right arm to be able to see up!”
“So would I, boss,” returned Buck, unaccountably pleased with the unexpected salutation. “We’ll raise the ’scopes as soon as the hoists can lift them against sea pressure.”
“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.
Cold is the Sea Page 34