Cold is the Sea

12

Vice Admiral Murphy, ComSubLant, talking long distance from his headquarters in Norfolk, sounded at the moment like anything but the stodgy individual he was so well known to be. “Yes, they just brought me the message, Rich. I was about to pick up the phone to call you.” The note of uneasiness in his voice was unusual. “This will have to go to CNO right away, and he’ll probably take it to the Joint Chiefs this morning. The National Security Council and the President will have it this afternoon!”

Keith’s message was obviously of major importance and Murphy’s disquietude therefore understandable, but the idea that the very highest authority would directly and immediately become involved produced shock waves in Richardson’s mind. Seconds later he was grateful for the indoctrination which had kept him silent. “How long has Leone been gone?” The admiral answered his own question immediately. “A little more than three weeks. He’s been up there a week.”

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:

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.”

Buck Williams whispered something to Richardson. Rich nodded his understanding. “Based on the protest,” he said after Treadwell had finished, “it figures they knew a lot more about Leone’s mission than this press release indicates. So it’s a front job. Some kind of a coverup for something.”

“Maybe they’re doing the old Japanese bellytalk — maybe they are accusing us of doing what they’ve done,” said Treadwell.

“You mean maybe they’ve sunk the Cushing? That’s why they claim they lost a plane?” Donaldson laughed a brief laugh of derision. “That doesn’t hang together. Murphy, what do you think?”

“Umm … none of it makes any sense to me, except that the Cushing could not have done what they say.”

“Brighting?”

“I’m only an engineer. This is an operational matter. Analytically, it seems to me the Soviets are saying they’ve lost an aircraft in the Arctic.”

“You’re right. That’s the only positive statement in the whole press release,” said Donaldson, “but we’ve still got no idea what Cushing could have had to do with it, if anything.”

“It’s all lies,” said Admiral Murphy. “Umm … Brighting’s right. They are saying they lost an aircraft, so that must be true. But also they’re saying it’s because of the Cushing. That’s what’s so um — um … weird.”

“Murph, put it all in your next message to the Cushing. Maybe Leone’ll have a simple explanation, if he can ever get clear to use his radio. We’ll know in a couple of weeks anyhow, when the Manta gets up there. I have to go to the tank with this in the morning, so we have to compose a message to the Cushing before we can close off this meeting, and I’ll tell the other Joint Chiefs that we’ll just have to hold the fort awhile.” Admiral Donaldson paused a moment, put his hands on the arms of Rich’s office chair, in which he had been sitting. “Well, I guess that concludes the business we came up here for. I wonder how many people we fooled with these civilian clothes. Rich, will you have someone alert our pilot and organize transportation for us back to the airport as soon as we get the message done? Oh, wait a minute”—as Rich reached for the communication handset on the bulkhead behind his desk—“have you thought about going on this expedition yourself?”

“We had thought about it, yes sir, but …” Indeed he had thought about that. And he had come to know that there was nothing he wanted so much. But even as he was talking, in the middle of a very short sentence, there was an instantaneous flash of self-understanding. The days aboard the Walrus and Eel had been the highpoint of his life. The single-minded concentration they demanded of him had so focused his energies that even now, a decade and a half after it all had ended, those four years loomed in his mind as the most imperative of the psychological imperatives that drove him. Being off in the Manta, with Buck, was the closest he could ever come again.

But it would not do to be too affirmative. This might transmit lack of confidence in Buck Williams. And he well remembered his own ambivalent reaction at taking his own old skipper, Joe Blunt, on that second, fatal, war patrol of the Eel. “I’m sure Buck Williams is fully able to handle this mission on his own,” he went on swiftly. “He’s the skipper, and he’s trained both his people and himself. Having a squadron commander along would just weight him down. I’d be excess baggage…” This was the speech Joe Blunt should have made, would have made if he had only known himself better. But times were different then, although perhaps there were similarities too. The prewar submarine skipper, sidelined while his juniors took to war and glory the new fleet submarines he had helped design and build, was not so far removed from himself, thirsting for one more fling at the old days with a newer and greater ship under him.

Yet it could not be the same as before. Could never be, could not even approach it. There was too great a difference in the situations, and the people, not to mention between Manta and Eel. He would not be sailing again with Keith and Buck in a well-found ship, but on an emergency mission with one of his most trusted friends to the rescue of another. That in itself was an incentive, of course, and of the strongest kind…

“Your modesty does you credit, Richardson.” That was Admiral Donaldson piercing through in his best Chief of Naval Operations voice, “but I’m going to have my way on this. The place for you is aboard the Manta, overseeing your own brainchild. I’m sure Commander Williams won’t agree that you’ll be a weight”—Buck was shaking his head visibly in agreement—“and besides, I want someone up there who can take special initiative on his own, if the occasion demands.”

The eyes that returned Richardson’s puzzled look were as free of hidden meaning as a child’s. Rich wanted to pursue the matter, ask him to explain the apparently offhand comment, but could not.

Manta’s bridge was as different from Eel’s as it could possibly be, narrow and streamlined for minimum underwater resistance, totally enclosed except for a tiny cockpit just forward of the periscopes and retractable masts, devoid of armament of any kind. The main deck, from its flatness superficially resembling Eel’s, was narrow, smooth, free of all protuberances, slick except for a sandpaperlike nonskid surface. Its most noticeable feature, other than absolutely clean lines, was a recessed T-shaped rail in the center, to which, at strategic points, a movable safety belt could be attached, running its length and curving around the sail. The mooring cleats ranged along both sides had already been locked in their folded underway positions, showing only a smooth underside flush with the main-deck surface. Lifelines and their stanchions had been stowed in deck lockers. The capstans used to handle lines while alongside Proteus were in the process of being demounted and likewise stowed for sea as the submarine proceeded slowly down the Thames River.

Richardson, a useless extra number on the bridge beside Buck Williams, savored the cold morning river-mist despite two nearly sleepless nights in a row. He had become well acquainted with it during the past weeks. The only difference was that he had been less fatigued, and this time, instead of a short jaunt a few miles to sea for testing, Manta was setting out on a long voyage thousands of miles to the north. At its end, trapped under the Arctic ice cap, lay a crippled submarine unable to communicate, whose only chance for survival rested in the efficacy of a pair of new and untried (though well-tested) devices loaded in Manta’s two stern torpedo tubes. That, and the ability of the people on board to cope with the extraordinary and unexpected conditions they were sure to encounter.

A couple of hours’ sleep had partly alleviated the need which Rich recognized nevertheless as just over the horizon, waiting to claim him as soon as the heightened excitement from getting underway had worn off. Buck, he knew, was not much better off, except that he had had no last-minute personal preparations to make before departure. A system which demanded so much of its principals just before sending them on special missions ought, somehow, to be improved — a mental observation Rich was oblivious of having made at least a dozen times.

The Thames River air was bracing: cold, but not chilling; mist rising off the water, diffusing the angular outlines of the ancient buildings lining its banks on both sides. A broad waterway to adventure, between the great industrial complex of the General Dynamics Electric Boat shipyard to port, on the Groton side, and old Fort Trumbull to starboard, on the New London side, which now housed the Navy’s underwater sound laboratories. Farther downstream the vista softened, became less industrialized, with pleasant riverfront homes on both banks, broken only by the refinerylike complex of the Pfizer pharmaceutical laboratories. Manta was the only ship underway in the channel, slipping quietly and effortlessly at slow speed through the placid river water.

No roaring diesels spewed a mixture of water and smoky exhaust through mufflers beneath the main deck aft, no open induction valve in the after part of the sail sucked in a torrent of air to supply demanding engine air-intake blowers. Astern a purposeful current surged backward, frothed with white edges against the undisturbed water on either side, burbled under the thrust of two deep-lying propellers — and inside Manta’s smooth-lined hull a torrent of steam was spinning four deceptively small, heavily insulated turbines, two connected to each set of micrometer-matched speed reduction gears. All this had been brought about by raising control rods built into the top of her reactor: a great, inverted, stainless-steel jug in the bottom portion of which, in carefully configured geometry, lay the active nuclear material that provided the heat, and thus the power. This was the product of that strange, difficult, gnomelike man, Admiral Brighting, who, because of his intransigencies, his temper tantrums and his disregard of the human qualities, had made himself hated in the U.S. Navy even as that same Navy, at the same time, acknowledged the incomparable debt.

There had been an extraordinary change in submarining since the war. Had the Navy possessed but a few vessels equivalent to the one Rich now rode, and dependable torpedoes to match their performance, the entire course of the Pacific war, and possibly of the Atlantic as well, would have been different. For one thing, no submarine skipper would have feared any enemy task force, nor been forced to give over pursuit and impotently watch it pass by out of range. The strenuous and dangerous (when there was possibility of enemy air cover) surface “end-around” to reach an attack position ahead would have been unnecessary, replaced by a straight-out submerged chase from which no merchant ship and only the fastest warships could escape. ComSubPac’s problems would have become much more heavily weighted in logistics than they had been anyway, to keep those few extraordinary submarines supplied with the torpedoes they would have needed. If the torpedoes had worked properly, as they finally did, the Japanese would have been driven from the sea in a year. And, on the other side of the coin, there would have been no water mole, nearing exhaustion of its already depleted battery, writhing in the agony of repeated depth charges, groping blindly — and so slowly — to avoid the threatened dissolution, the terror of the crushing death or, in shallow water, the more generous, if slower, suffocation as the air gave out in an immobilized steel tomb.

Being at sea in a nuclear submarine always caused Richardson to think this way, but as squadron commander there had been little opportunity to leave his desk except for the occasional underway inspection of one of the boats in his squadron — until the near daily series of test runs in Manta, for which he had somehow been able to free himself. Now, what he had wanted most of all, a long cruise to savor the nuclear changes fully, was beginning. There was guilt mixed with the pleasure, however, for the mission on which he was embarked was a desperate one. Yet the pleasure was undeniable. He willed himself to concentrate on Keith, and the ship and crew whose lives hung in the balance — and found himself instead thinking of Admiral Donaldson with gratitude and uneasiness combined.

“When Southwest Ledge Light is abeam, go ahead standard and set a course for the Race, Deedee,” said Buck to his OOD, a lieutenant named D. D. Brown, whose title on board was the anachronistic “gunnery officer.” The lighthouse, a solid, square structure, built of brick on a rocky outcropping almost in midchannel, could have passed without much notice in any town or city, except for the unusually thick walls which made its windows resemble the gun embrazures of an old fort. There had been a time when keepers would wave to the submarines as they entered or left the Thames River, but no more. The light on its roof had been on automatic for years. “Topside is secured for sea, Commodore,” said Buck, “and the ship is rigged for dive. We’ll be securing the maneuvering watch after we round the Ledge.”

“Very well,” said Rich. He put down the binoculars with which, from habit, he had been inspecting the lighthouse, settled his parka hood more firmly around his head. He and Buck had been standing on opposite sides of the bridge cockpit, on folding metal steps which lifted them a foot higher above the bulwarks. Buck stepped down at the same time Rich did. At higher speed a little more protection from the cold wind would be welcome. The move brought the two men shoulder to shoulder against the after edge of the cockpit.

“How did you leave Laura, Skipper?” asked Williams. “Short notice for her, wasn’t it?” The question was part of an unofficial conversation, not meant, as the previous exchange had been, to be heard by others.

“Oh, she was caught by surprise, of course, but she took it in stride. She knew something was going on, especially with that late-night session aboard the Proteus. Also, she’s guessed it has something to do with Keith, and that’s got to be nothing but a woman’s intuition.”

“She couldn’t be your wife all these years and not know when something big is going on, Skipper. You’ve not had much sleep the last two nights, there was that thing in the paper about the Cushing, not that it had anything correct, and now you’re suddenly taking the Manta off on a long cruise. I was bushed, myself, when I finally rolled into my bunk down below, but I was way better off than you because I’d already moved aboard. She’s got to have guessed something’s up.” Buck made no effort to stifle his huge yawn.

“I suppose I could have done some better planning,” said Rich. “Anyway, I’ll have plenty of time to get rested before we hit the ice. Except for thinking about what Keith and his crew are going through, I could be a passenger. You’re the one who’s going to have to do all the work.” He put his binoculars to his eyes, and Buck knew he did not wish to pursue a discussion of last night’s events.

“There’s an emergency on,” Laura had said, “and it’s got something to do with Keith. It’s all over the base, and all over New London too.” She had been asleep, but had slipped on a robe to help Rich throw together some changes of clothing to take with him. When Rich did not answer, she went on, “Peggy called a couple of hours ago. She’s hysterical.”

“What about?”

“Oh, everything. Sometimes I worry a little about her. If there’s any gossip or rumor floating around about anything or anybody, she’s heard it. She’s a regular dirt hound, and it’s practically an obsession with her. Right now there’s a lot of loose talk going around about the Cushing, and I’ll bet Peggy’s heard it all. She’s found out about that big secret conference you’ve just come from. Says it has got to be about the Cushing, and that the big Navy brass came up here in civilian clothes and went straight aboard the Proteus to talk to you about it.”

“Is that why she’s hysterical?”

“Partly, I think. The rumors are about Keith, this time, even though they’re not personal, and she’s finding that hard to take. What set her off, though, was a telephone call from a newspaper in Washington.”

“What did the newspaper want?” Richardson paused in the act of selecting the right khaki shirts, turned to face her. “When did they call?”

“She called me right afterward, so it was just over two hours ago. Mainly, the man only asked if Keith was skipper of the Cushing, and when they had left New London. Where they were bound for. That sort of thing. In her frame of mind that would be enough to get her upset right there, but then he came on with something about Keith being mixed up in some kind of a fracas with the Russians, and that really scared her. I promised I’d call her back as soon as I’d had a chance to talk to you about it.”

“There’s nothing I could tell her,” said Rich. “Was it the reporter who told her about the conference? They ought not to be allowed to do that kind of thing. Calling up a skipper’s wife with this kind of rumor …” He left the sentence unfinished, threw the shirts roughly into his suitcase.

“Maybe, I don’t know. I heard about it earlier, though. A big Navy airplane landed over at Trumbull Field, and three Navy sedans were waiting for it and took everybody to the Proteus.”

“Well, you can’t call her back,” said Richardson.

“Come on, Rich. Of all the things she’s asked me for lately, this is the most legitimate. She’s sitting by her phone right this minute. It’s her husband. She’s worried silly, and she needs help. I promised I’d call as soon as I’d talked to you. What can I tell her?”

“Well — okay. But you have to say that you don’t know anything about any conference, one way or the other. So far as you know, Keith’s all right. So’s the Cushing. She’s not to pay attention to any rumors about her. The Manta’s going on routine training exercises.”

“Then why are you going along, Rich? She’s going to ask that just as soon as she finds out you’ve gone, and that’s going to be later on today sometime.”

“Tell her … tell her …” Richardson struggled with the words but more, Laura could see, with himself. “Well, all right, but you’ve got to make her swear to secrecy. I’m giving the Manta an Operations Readiness Inspection, an ORI. Got that? An ORI. It’ll take a month, and Keith’s going to be all right. That’s the second point. Keith’s going to be all right, but she’s not to talk about it to anyone.”

“That sounds pretty mixed up to me,” said Laura, “but I’ll try to put it across. You’re giving the Manta an ORI, and somehow Keith’s going to be okay. She’ll know either the ORI’s a fake, or else you’re not doing anything for Keith. Besides, who ever heard of a month-long ORI? She won’t buy that story.”

“Look Laura, whose side are you on? Just tell her what I said. You don’t know what I’m doing either, do you? You don’t know if this sudden trip has anything to do with Keith or not. We’re doing everything we can. You just keep saying that I said Keith’s going to be okay, and not to talk to any reporters. They don’t know anything, and they’ll just get her upset.”

There was unaccustomed asperity in Richardson’s voice, which he instantly regretted. Laura compressed her lips, said nothing. “Look, Laurie,” he said after a moment, coming around the bed and sliding his arm around her waist, “we’re getting underway tomorrow, and I’ll be gone for quite a while. And I can’t tell you anything, even though I know I can trust you all the way. But we don’t trust Peggy, do we? Whatever you or I tell her is as good as broadcast all over town. Besides, I don’t want to think of her right now.”

Laura’s face was close to his, her eyes wide open. She nodded her head against his. Her mouth parted slightly, and he could feel her body coming closer. Her arms moved against the small of his back, and then he was kissing her, pushing her down crosswise on the bed alongside the suitcase, fumbling with the buttons of her robe.

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?”