“Sounds like just another ordinary mission for the Arctic Rangers,” offered Jack Redmond, who was forced to reach out for one of the snowmobiles to steady himself as the airplane violently shuddered in a sudden gust of turbulence.
“It’s certainly nothing that we can’t handle,” reflected the Inuit.
“Though for the peninsula portion of our journey, it would sure be nice to have a first-rate dog team leading us onward. For some uncanny reason, a good sled dog can sense a lurking crevasse, long before an unwary man in a snow cat can.”
“Do you think such a team would be available?” questioned Jack Redmond.
“For our sake, I sure hope so, Lieutenant. Otherwise, this is going to be the longest eighty kilometers of our lives — and the most dangerous.”
Captain Matt Colter was up bright and early, and after a quick breakfast of half a grapefruit, oatmeal, and coffee, he initiated his customary morning walk through of the ship. He began this tour in the engineering spaces that filled the sub’s aft portion.
Almost directly amidships, he entered a narrow, forty-foot-long passageway, completely lined with steel tubing. He smelled the familiar wax like scent of warm polyethylene, and could hear the barest of throbbing noises coming from the padded deck beneath him. Halting in the center of this passageway, he kneeled down and lifted up a circular metallic cover that exposed a thick, heavy, leaden glass viewing port set flush with the decking.
Almost twenty feet below him he could now view the heart of the Defiance’s propulsion unit, its nuclear reactor. Lit by a pulsating, golden glow, the sealed reactor vessel contained a vast grid of uranium plates, and was filled with water so highly pressurized it could not boil. Control rods kept nuclear fission from occurring until the reactor went on line. At that time the rods were slowly removed, and as the uranium-235 fuel elements began interacting, the unit went critical.
To achieve propulsion, the hot pressurized, contaminated water was pumped through a series of heat exchangers. Here a second loop of uncontaminated water absorbed this heat, which turned to steam, that subsequently spun the turbines producing both power to drive the ship and the electricity needed to operate the rest of its systems.
Continually amazed by the efficiency of such a relatively simple propulsion system. Colter closed the viewing port, stood, and continued to make his way aft into the maneuvering room. The sign above the hatch he was soon stepping through read Defiance Power and Light. Inside this all-important portion of the ship, three seamen sat before a massive console filled with dozens of complicated gauges, digital readout counters, switches, and dials. The senior of these individuals was responsible for monitoring the power level of the reactor itself. He did so by keeping a close watch on the gauges showing the temperature of the water flowing out of the containment vessel, its pressure, and its velocity. To influence these factors, he merely had to trigger a compact pistol switch that was directly connected to the control rods. Beside him, his two shipmates kept a close watch on gauges showing the state of the sub’s electrical and propulsion systems.
Standing in the compartment’s shadows, sipping on a mug of coffee and intently watching his men at work, was Lieutenant Peter Frystak, the ship’s engineering officer. The six-foot, solidly built officer had originally studied architecture while at UCLA, but became fascinated with nuclear physics while enrolled in the universities NROTC program. To pursue this interest further, he’d chose to fulfill his active service obligation on submarines.
“Good morning. Captain,” Frystak’s eyes never seemed to leave the bank of instruments displayed before him.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Matt Colter walked over to the engineering officer’s side and responded.
“No thanks, Pete. I already had today’s caffeine fix. And besides, I’m trying to cut back.”
“Good luck,” returned the UCLA grad.
“Because it seems this ship runs on nothing but uranium-235 fuel and piping-hot Java.”
Colter grinned.
“Isn’t that the truth. How’s she running this morning. Lieutenant?”
Frystak made a brief entry in his log before answering, “Smooth as can be, Captain. Old man Rickover would be proud.”
“I’m sure he would,” reflected Colter, in deference to Admiral Hyman Rickover, the visionary father of the nuclear navy.
“From the very beginning. Rickover’s standards were the very highest, and we were extremely fortunate to inherit them. By the way, what’s the scenario for this afternoon’s drill?”
Frystak lowered his voice to a whisper.
“I’m going to simulate a steam leak in the main condenser. Then throw in a fire in the auxilliary turbine unit, to keep the boys honest.”
“Interesting combination,” observed Colter.
“I’m anxious to see how they’ll handle themselves.”
“You never do know, do you, Captain?”
“That’s what these surprise drills are all about, Lieutenant. Let’s just continue to pray that real emergencies are few and far between.”
Finally diverting his eyes from the maneuvering panel, Frystak caught his commanding officer’s direct glance.
“Especially when we’re under the ice, Captain. Since the first step in countering the majority of emergency situations is an immediate order to stand by to surface, a solid covering of ice above you kind of cuts down on your alternatives.”
“That it does. Lieutenant,” replied Colter with a sigh.
“But that’s the unique challenge of Arctic operations.”
“During yesterday’s briefing, you mentioned that the orders you just received from COMSUBLANT were going to put the Defiance on the surface of the ice for a good portion of this patrol. Can that newfangled surface-scanning Fathometer really be relied upon to get us topside safely. Captain?”
Since Frystak had been along on the Defiance’s last cruise, and still had bruises on his back to show for the trio of bone-jarring collisions with the ice. Colter knew where his skepticism was coming from. Thus the captain answered him as directly as possible.
“Our civilian guest has been working sixteen-hour shifts since we left New London to make certain that the system is one hundred percent operational. But I still have nightmares about those collisions, and I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when I know the chiefs finally got the old unit on line as a backup if needed.”
The engineering officer grunted.
“Not taking anything away from Dr. Lansing, but I’ve got a gut feeling that says it will be. Let’s just hope I’m dead wrong with this one. But regardless, any luck with those volunteers for the surface party when we finally do get up to Baffin?”
“You’d be surprised at the excellent response,” answered Colter.
“Though I don’t seem to recall seeing your name. Lieutenant Frystak.”
The UCLA grad grimaced.
“Sorry Captain, but I’m a Southern Californian. This old blood is too thin to stand up to the kind of numbing temperatures we’ll be encountering topside.”
Colter smiled.
“I understand. Lieutenant. Though even if you wanted to go along, I wouldn’t have let you. I need you right here, at the helm of Defiance Power and Light.”
Checking his watch, the captain added.
“Now I’d better get moving along. Good luck with that drill.”
As Matt Colter left maneuvering, he continued aft into that cavernous section of the ship reserved for its massive turbines. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the heavy gray machinery needed to convert the steam pressure into actual knots of propulsion. A single spinning shaft bisected the room, leading to a complex series of seals that directly connected it to the twin, contra-rotating propellers. Surprisingly quiet, the engine room was spotlessly clean, yet two seamen were busy with rags and mops to insure it stayed that way.
Satisfied that all appeared well, the captain retraced his steps, cutting back through maneuvering, over the react
or vessel, and into a passageway dominated by a single ladder. By climbing up this ladder he would gain entry to the officer’s wardroom, his own cabin, and the adjoining control room. Yet before returning to these familiar environs, he continued forward on the lower level. This brought him directly into the crew’s mess hall.
A dozen men currently sat in this large compartment that served as a combination dining room, rec hall, and library. Several were playing cards, while others were gathered at various tables working away on breakfast. The scents of freshly perked coffee and frying bacon met Colter’s nostrils as he halted beside a booth holding Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth.
“Good morning, Mr. Roth. How are you feeling?”
The ship’s senior sonar technician was far from his usual self, and he rather unenthusiastically answered, “I’m doing pretty good. Captain. At least I can get my oatmeal down this morning.”
“So that tooth is still bothering you. I thought you were going to see the base dentist and get it taken care of.”
“I did,” snapped the petty officer, “And to tell you the truth, that visit really didn’t amount to a hell of a lot. If you ask me, the doc would have rather been out on the golf course. He scraped and poked around a bit, and then dismissed me with a warning to brush and floss after every meal or I’d lose my tooth for sure. And here I’ve been conscientiously brushing and flossing ever since, and the damn thing is still throbbing.”
“Sounds like he should have pulled it right there. Is the pain interfering with your work in sonar?”
“Not really, sir. I guess I’m finally getting used to it.”
Colter could tell that the technician wasn’t being honest with him.
“No one should have to live with constant pain. I want you to see Pharmacist Mate Krommer right after chow. There has to be something he can do for you.”
Stanley Roth looked glum as he laid down his spoon.
“I know what Pills is going to do. Captain.
He’ll look inside my mouth, take my temperature, then my pulse, and hand me a bottle of those damn painkillers. Though they help a bit, I can’t go around doped up all day.”
“Ask him to prescribe a less potent drug,” advised Colter.
“He’s certainly got plenty to choose from in the ship’s pharmacy, and one of them has got to do the trick until you get that tooth taken out.”
“I never thought I’d look forward to the day when
I’d get a tooth pulled, but now I know better. Thanks for your concern. Captain. And don’t worry. I’ll survive.”
“I’m sure you will,” returned Colter. He patted the petty officer on the shoulder and then continued on through the mess hall.
He was about to pass by the galley when a familiar voice broke on his right.
“Hello, Captain. Can I fix you up a plate? Just pulled some fresh buttermilk hotcakes off the griddle, and the bacon’s nice and crisp just as you like it.”
Stepping forward to greet him was Petty Officer Howard Mallott, the sub’s head cook, his perpetual smile cutting his bespectacled face. The hefty brown-haired, ten-year veteran was second-generation Navy.
His father had been the head steward on the battleship New Jersey, and it was because of his exciting war tales that Howard had enlisted right after his high-school graduation.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to pass up that enticing offer, Mr. Mallott,” Colter responded as he touched his waistline.
“Your culinary magic has already been responsible for too many of these spare pounds.”
“Well, make certain to bring your appetite along at lunchtime. Captain. I’m serving your favorite — roast turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and broccoli casserole, with apple pie a la mode for dessert.”
“Thanks for the warning, Mr. Mallott. Now 111 be certain to walk through the ship another time around just to burn up some of these excess calories.”
The jovial cook waved him away.
“Nonsense, Captain.
You look just as fit today as you did in your Annapolis photo. Now this gut is another story.”
As the senior cook playfully patted his own bulging stomach. Colter excused himself to get on with his tour. Briefly glancing into the galley itself, the captain found its relatively small space clean and neat. This said a lot for Petty Officer Mallott, whose responsibility was a heavy one.
One hundred and seven men put away a lot of chow in the course of a typical two-month patrol. Yet all meals came out of this single cramped galley. With the help of three assistants, Mallott served three complete meals a day along with a variety of light snacks in between.
US submarines have always been known for the excellence of their chow, and Howard Mallott kept this proud tradition alive. With the flair of a gourmet chef, he carefully supervised the preparation of each and every menu. Because the very nature of underwater duty was in itself boring, meal times on the Defiance were looked to as a welcomed break from the humdrum routine. After a tasty fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings, or even hamburgers and french fries, the crew felt refreshed and ready to return to their duty slots.
Matt Colter passed by the larders where the majority of food was stored. In these jam packed lockers, the ingredients for over 18,000 meals were stowed away. That in itself took the patience of a saint, and Petty Officer Mallott supervised this complicated procedure after personally purchasing the ingredients from the base supply officer.
Realizing that they were very fortunate to have such a dedicated individual aboard. Colter left the galley, transit ted a narrow passageway, and passed by the main bunk room Forty-eight enlisted men called this portion of the Defiance home. To make the best use of the vessel’s limited space, the bunks were stacked in tiers four high. Each of these separate spaces had a curtain that could be drawn to provide privacy, along with individual ventilation fans and reading lights.
Like the officer’s quarters, clothing lockers were situated beneath each foam-rubber mattress. The room was only partially filled by the sleeping sailors that had stood the midnight to 4 a.m. watch, or as it was more commonly known, the mid watch Not wishing to disturb them, the captain continued on through a double-wide hatch and ducked into the forward torpedo room.
This compartment also contained living space for thirty individuals. Yet its predominate feature were four, twenty-one-inch-wide, bronze breech doors, from which the sub’s various weapons and decoys would be launched. Currently gathered around the torpedo loading rack was a group of three sailors.
Leading them in the dissection of a Mk48 Mod 1 torpedo was Lieutenant David Sauger, the weapon’s officer.
“Is this one of the new fish. Lieutenant?” the captain asked.
The balding weapons’ officer backed away from the torpedo, wiped his receding forehead dry of sweat, and succinctly answered.
“That it is, sir.”
“How do they look so far?” continued Colter.
Sanger shook his head.
“This is only the third one we’ve had a chance to examine, Captain. Though the other two checked out, we’ve got three more to go after this one.”
Colter knew that when it came to new reloads, any weapons’ officer worth his salt scrupulously inspected each torpedo to double-check it for defects. David Sanger had only been with him on two previous patrols, yet in each instance he’d proved to be a hardworking perfectionist, who took his all-important job most seriously.
“Well, I can rest a bit more easily knowing that if we need ‘em, these fish will be ready to bite when the time comes. Keep up the good work. Lieutenant.”
Briefly looking up to examine the mattresses that were situated on the upper casing of the torpedo rack, Matt Colter ducked through the double-thick hatchway.
Outside the torpedo room, a ladder conveyed him upward into a passageway that directly adjoined the control room. It was here that he laid his eyes on a closed door that had a sign reading. Sound Shack tacked on its length. Below this wooden pla
card was a fist-sized decal showing the hammer and sickle insignia of the Soviet Union with a thick red diagonal line drawn over it. Though he was overdue in the control room. Colter approached this doorway, turned its latch, and entered.
Inside the sonar room were a series of three individual consoles, each separated by an acoustic barrier. At the position closest to the door. Seaman Lester Warren sat hunched over his monitor screen. A pair of bulky headphones covered the Texan’s ears, while his eyes were riveted on the repeater screen. The console beside him was vacant, though the station on the far side was not. Seated here in dark blue. Navy-issue coveralls was Dr. Laurie Lansing.
Matt Colter walked soundlessly past the sonar technician and positioned himself immediately beside the black-haired civilian.
“Hello,” he said softly.
“You’re certainly up with the chickens this morning.”
The scientist finished typing a complex series of digits into the data bank before pushing away from the keyboard and answering.
“Actually, I haven’t gone to bed yet.”
Colter seemed astounded by this revelation, “Does everyone at the Arctic lab take their work so seriously?”
“Only those of us who have a point to prove,” retorted Laurie. Then she yawned and stretched her cramped limbs.
Matt Colter found himself admiring her soft features and the dark eyes that didn’t seem to show a hint of fatigue.
“Seriously, Doctor, I know you want to get your Fathometer on line, but aren’t you pushing yourself a little too hard? At least break for a couple of hours of shut-eye. This console will be waiting for your return. And being properly rested, you’ve a lot better chance of not making a foolish mistake.”
“Don’t worry. Captain. I know what I’m doing.
And besides, another couple of hours’ work and my job will be completed.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Colter.
Under the Ice Page 16