Cold is the Sea

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 members 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!”

“Admiral Brighting sure is a strange one, boss. Do you remember that time in his quonset out in Idaho?”

“I was just thinking about it,” confessed Rich. “He may be a tyrant, but he certainly gets results. The tests and training he puts his people to, and the government contractors he deals with also, are so far beyond what everyone’s been used to that they’re like a new technology. The Trigger’s shakedown compared with Triton’s makes a good illustration. The Triton could have gone on another round-the-world cruise the next day, while they doggone near had to tow the Trigger back from Rio. It was a perfect example of the difference between lousy engineering by committee and the kind of good engineering Brighting does by himself.”

“He didn’t add much to the conference in the Proteus the night before we got underway.”

“He couldn’t. As he said, he’s an engineer, not an operations type. But he did come up with the salient point about the Russian press release. They’ve lost an aircraft in the Arctic under strange circumstances. Strange enough for them to blame it on Keith. And Keith’s second message said there were military aircraft searching in his vicinity. They must have been up there before he arrived. It all hangs together. Something big’s going on.” Richardson’s forehead had been creased in thought often since their departure, Buck had noticed. It was wrinkled now.

“There was one other thing Brighting did,” Buck said. “You know that piece of paper he handed me at the airport just before they took off? All covered with pencil notes and figures?” Williams was looking at Richardson in an odd way.

“Yes. Some new settings for your power plant, he said.”

“Yes. The reactor control officer’s been going over them, and tonight he said he’s ready to put them in. Know what they do?”

“No,” said Rich, his keen interest evident in the narrowed gaze he leveled on Buck. “But I was a bit curious when I heard Harry Langforth report to you.”

“Brighting’s authorized a reduction in our thermal margin and increased the allowed temperature difference between the hot and cold legs of the primary loop. The rest of the figures are the new alarm points for the instrumentation.”

“He handed all this to you on a piece of paper?”

“In pencil. Right off the top of his head. He must carry all those numbers in his mind. I rode to the airport in the same car with him, and he was writing in the back seat. So some of the figures are a little hard to read. He said to check them out and then put them in effect.”

“Has Harry Langforth given you an estimate of what the change does?” asked Richardson.

“It adds twenty percent to our reactor output. Harry figures we’ll make about three more knots at full power. Brighting said the new settings might be useful.” The odd look was still on Buck Williams’ face.

“Three more knots! That’ll give us nearly twenty-three at flank speed!” The furrow was still on Richardson’s brow, now more accentuated. “You say he told you the increased speed might be useful?”

“He didn’t say anything about speed.”

“But that’s what he was talking about, all the same! What a foxy old devil he is! I take back what I just said about him.”

“What’s that?”

“That he’s only an engineer, not an operations type. He’s handed us something that might make all the difference in this caper of ours. Who says he’s not operations oriented!” The frown cleared, was replaced by a grim smile. “We were talking about Triton’s shakedown cruise. This one we’re on is a lot more than any shakedown. It’s going to be the toughest test the old Manta’s ever had, and Brighting thinks there may be more to it even than anyone is anticipating. He’s famous for looking at the possible dark side ahead, you know.”

Buck tipped his chair upright, pushed the coffee cups aside, cleared a space on the writing surface of his desk and pulled a pad of lined paper toward him. “You’re another, Rich! I’ve seen you from way back, and I’ve got a feeling you’re thinking we may have some need for all that new horsepower. We’ll have the new settings in place by tomorrow morning. What sort of ship and fire control drills would you like to start with?”

Richardson’s mind had suddenly wandered to the private conversation he had had in the lead car with Admiral Donaldson. Strange that Donaldson and Brighting should think so much alike, and from such dissimilar backgrounds! Resolutely he shook his head to clear it, hunched forward on the bunk so that he also looked over the writing surface, and the two friends lost themselves planning the exercises.

Cindy Williams was tall and angular. There was a strength about her which entirely belied the sensitive vulnerability of her mouth and the sympathetic set of her eyes. She was fully as tall as Buck — taller when she wore heels — and her calm, thoughtful personality was the perfect complement for Buck’s more volatile, crisp makeup. At least, so Laura had always thought. Cindy was not beautiful the way Peggy Leone was beautiful, and occasionally, not today, her grooming was somewhat casual — a fault Peggy would never have been guilty of. She was a sincere person, devoid of self-consciousness. Laura had liked her from the first time she saw her.

Now Cindy and Peggy sat on opposite ends of Laura’s sofa, while Laura faced them across the low coffee table in her living room. On the table stood the remnants of afternoon tea, and alongside the tea tray was an opened bottle of dry cocktail sherry. A half-empty wineglass stood before Cindy on the low table.

Holding her own glass lightly by the stem, Laura sipped the amber liquid. She was glad she had thought of bringing it out, though it had not been in her original plan. It had provided her with an opportune interruption and might smooth the remainder of the afternoon.

A long obligatory telephone conversation with Peggy, late on the morning of the Manta’s departure, had fully discharged any further duty to her; that and the previous, much shorter call she had made, with Rich’s reluctant approval, very early the same day. There was nothing more she could do for her. She would try to avoid an open rupture, but she had not been successful with any of her previous plans for controlling the growing situation. Now she was more than ever determined somehow to escape further embroilment with this fretful, tiresome woman.

Perhaps Cindy had also had experience with Peggy’s obsession. Perhaps she sensed Laura’s reluctance to go into it with her yet again. Laura was sure of it when Cindy adroitly deflected Peggy the first time she tried to steer the conversation toward Keith. “I know both of your men have been away on long cruises from time to time,” Peggy had said, “but somehow Keith seems to draw the longest trips, and the most frequent ones, too. It’s been nearly a month, now, that he’s been gone.”

“Buck had a skipper once,” Cindy interjected, “who said at least once a day that ‘the place for a young man is at sea and away from all ba-a-a-d women!’ Buck used to imitate him for my benefit. He had all sorts of little sayings like this, and I think Buck had every one of them memorized, with gestures and facial expressions.” She had turned toward Laura as she spoke, and Laura had the distinct impression of having had the ball tossed to her.

“I know who that was,” said Laura, picking up the thread. “That was Dan Backus. He was a well-known character. He had a big family, and when he wasn’t pretending to knock them he was bragging about them. Will you have lemon or sugar, Peggy? This tea is straight from China, and is already rather sweet. You can smell the jasmine in it. I think it’s half flower petals.”

“Sugar, please,” said Peggy.

“Is one enough?”

“I like it sweet. Can I have two lumps?”

“Of course. And take a couple of these little biscuits. They’re supposed to be Chinese, too, but they’re made right here in Connecticut.”

“Thanks. I will. They look delicious. With my sweet tooth Keith says I’m lucky I don’t look like a balloon.”

“All the girls in the squadron are just green over you, Peggy,” said Cindy. “I wish I were petite like you and didn’t have to worry about gaining weight. A horse must have made faces at Mother about the time I was born.”

“If all your worries are only about gaining weight, you’re lucky.” Peggy had the characteristic petulance in her voice which told Laura she was about to revert to her favorite subject.

Quickly, Laura said, “Tell us about that school you’ve just put Ruthie in. What’s its name — the Thames Valley Junior School? From what I’ve heard, they have a very advanced curriculum for the youngsters.”

Peggy could not resist the bait, even though she suspected the subject might have been raised to keep the conversation in a different channel. For half an hour, interspersed with interruptions for more tea, she expanded upon the virtues of the newly formed school and its highly touted program for preschoolers. Finally, however, the teapot was nearly empty, its contents no longer hot. Sensing that Peggy could not be further denied, Laura had the inspiration to suggest sherry. This gave her an excuse to go to the kitchen for a few moments. When she returned she deliberately made small talk about the wine until all three had their wineglasses and had sipped from them.

The wine was of excellent quality, straight from Spain, a gift from one of Rich’s friends who had just returned from there. It might ease the strain for Peggy a little. After all, she had a right to be worried about her husband. But Laura was beyond hoping there could be any permanent adjustment in Peggy’s attitude toward the Navy. She would help her over the present situation as well as she could, but that would have to be the end.

Peggy, in the meantime, perhaps not appreciating that Laura was quietly arranging the best atmosphere possible for what was bound to be a difficult and perhaps painful discussion, chose the moment to discard all subterfuge. “I want to talk about Keith,” she said bluntly, putting down her wineglass and including Cindy and Laura in her tense two-handed gesture.

Laura caught Cindy’s quick look of sympathy. The thought projected across the space between them without need for words. Laura must know far more than Peggy. Cindy probably did, too. Peggy was worried, most understandably so after the unusual events of the past week. She had every right to Laura’s counsel. But what could Laura tell her?

Most of what Laura “knew” was actually only surmise. But she was in a far better position than Peggy to draw accurate deductions. She had indeed had more and better inputs than Peggy. How much could she tell of what she knew, or guessed? Would she thus be violating Rich’s confidence, even though he had carefully not confided in her — perhaps in anticipation of this very situation? She was his wife. She knew better than anyone else what was motivating him, what he was thinking. She was better able than anyone to divine what was going on. He knew it, had warned her that Peggy could not be trusted with a secret. But he hadn’t told her anything. Whatever she thought was strictly her own creation. Peggy had come for help. Her hysteria about Keith must be about to crest again. Laura had to try to do something.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Peggy said. “Every time Keith leaves it’s worse, and this time it’s worse than ever. I’m always afraid for him, and I’m afraid to be left alone with Ruthie, too. I swore I’d never go through that again, and now look.”

“It’s never for so very long, Peggy,” said Laura soothingly. She realized she was using the same voice she might to a child.

“Yes, it is, too! It’s always too long! Nothing is ever settled in our lives the way it should be! Now I’m sure he’s in danger!” Peggy’s voice broke. “What am I going to do?” she wailed.

Laura swiftly skirted the coffee table, perched on the arm of the sofa and leaned to put her arm around her. Cindy, she saw, had uncrossed her legs as if to get up also. “It’s especially rough for you right now, Peggy, but it’s only a guess about Keith even being in the Arctic. Maybe he’s nowhere near where the Russian plane got shot down.”

“If a plane did get shot down,” said Cindy. “Maybe none of it’s true.”

Peggy had her tea napkin to her eyes. “I just know it’s Keith they’re talking about,” she sobbed. “That must be the Cushing up there under the ice. I’m scared. Maybe the Russians will attack her for shooting at their airplane. Maybe I’ll never see Keith again!”

“Remember what Rich said to tell you before he and Buck got underway,” said Laura swiftly. “He said to keep your faith in the Navy. Remember?” She squeezed Peggy’s shoulder as she spoke.

“That’s easy for you to say, Laura,” said Peggy, her face working. She looked belligerently at her. “Keep your faith in the Navy, Rich says! What faith?”

“The faith all of us have.”

“I have faith, all right! That’s all I’ve got! I’ve got faith that the Navy will never back its people up in a tough spot! It will always look out for itself, all right, and the trade-school boys will look out for themselves. They always put people like Keith in the most danger, and then they go off and leave them to face it alone! Faith in the Navy? Faith in nothing! That’s a laugh!” Peggy’s voice had risen. Her overwrought emotions boiled over. She almost shouted the last few words.

“You’re upset, Peggy, and that’s not surprising. But what you’re saying isn’t fair, and it’s just not true.” Laura spoke quietly, though it took an effort. She wanted to shake her, shout some sense into her. But Peggy was not rational. The thing to do was to calm her. “Do you think the Navy will simply abandon a brand-new and very valuable ship, and its crew of a hundred and twenty-five men? That doesn’t make any sense! It’s never been done. Not in our whole history. It’s contrary to naval tradition, too.”

“Well, why don’t they do something, then? Why don’t they tell me something?”

“Peggy, they can’t. If the Navy makes any sort of announcement, even privately to only a few people, that’s practically the same as telling the Russians too. If things are as bad as you fear, do you think that sort of thing will help Keith?”

“They’ve not helped me much!” There were both a whine and a snarl in Peggy’s voice. “I told you I can’t stand it anymore! The Navy’s never done anything except make me miserable!”

Cindy said, “You’ve got to think of it from Keith’s point of view, too, Peggy. What he thinks must mean something to you.”

Laura said, “Keith has put his trust in the Navy, Peggy. If he could, he’d tell you so right now.”

“No, he wouldn’t! I wouldn’t let him! I hate the Navy! Even when he’s home I hate it, because he’s never there long. He’s always planning that next trip, and it wasn’t any better when he was on duty in Washington. He was in the Pentagon all day and all night too. I counted his hours; some weeks he was in the Pentagon for eighty hours and even ninety hours. It’s just not fair!” The cocktail napkin was twisted into a sodden ball, clenched in her hand. She waved it wildly as she spoke.

“It’s true the Navy asks more of its conscientious people, like Keith,” said Laura. “But that’s why he’s had such important assignments. Rich says he’s a couple of years ahead of his contemporaries right now. The Navy asks more of him because he’s one of the best officers it’s got.”

“That’s so! The Navy’s using him for a patsy. It always has. I know. I’ve seen it too many times!”

“Is that why he’s got the best and newest ship in the Navy, right now?”

“That’s why they’ve sent him out on this dangerous mission. It’s obvious! That’s why!”

“Peggy,” Laura said as calmly as she could, although she could feel herself tensing and knew she could not keep her rising reaction totally under control, “both Rich and I have been trying to convince you that’s not true. This assignment he’s on now, whatever it is, is due to his reputation as one of the best skippers in the Navy. It’s an honor for him.”

Laura’s arm was still draped over the back of the sofa, not quite touching Peggy. Nevertheless, Peggy peevishly brushed it away. “No kidding!” The sarcasm in her voice was heavy. “They always send Keith off on the big risks! Don’t tell me they don’t! And I know why they pick him. Send one of our boys on those tough jobs? Oh, no! Send Keith Leone. He’s not one of ours. He doesn’t count.”

Laura could see Cindy’s eyes narrow, then widen. Perhaps she had not heard this portion of the litany of complaints. “Don’t be silly,” Laura said, still in the quiet tone. She was about to go on, say something more, but Peggy continued talking.

“You, of all people, ought to know what I’m talking about, Laura! Your first husband didn’t go through the trade school either, did he?” Peggy accentuated the words “trade school.” “Have you ever thought about that?”

“Nobody cared where Jim Bledsoe’s diploma came from! He was one of the best sub skippers we had!” Laura spoke sharply, with anger. She herself was surprised at the way her words came out. The mention of Jim had caught her unawares. She had not spoken of him for years, rarely thought of him these days. The memories flooded in on her. It was the first of the war years, and they had been married only five days, during which Jim worked fourteen hours a day on board the new Walrus, getting her ready for the trip to the Pacific from which neither returned. It was not long enough to build a marriage, although she had tried her amateurish, insufficient best.

The hurt came slowly, the days in succession dawning with hope, passing with a slight deepening of the growing disappointment. She wrote two long letters a week, setting aside the time necessary to do so even when the long silences and sparse replies made continued cheerfulness a misery. Jim was at war. His ship was at sea, fighting. He rarely was in port long enough to answer letters. Then came the day when she met Cynthia Schultz, wife of the ship’s engineer, happily carrying a handbag full of thick envelopes — when she had only two thin ones. The worst was when Jim took the Walrus to Australia, where he was lionized as a brilliant combat submariner. His exploits, camouflaged and censored though they were, filled the news. Friends called to congratulate her, strangers spoke of the pride she must feel, and she had been forced to smile gratefully through her shame, for there were no letters at all in her purse. Once, a mortifying memory, she had pretended in a desperate moment that a letter from someone else was from Jim.

But that was all long ago. Now, every time she thought of Jim, a deeper understanding drifted into her consciousness. Perhaps their marriage might have survived, might even have been good had it not faced the insuperable handicap of the war, and what war did to people. She was even able to recall without squirming the intimate, demeaning little artifices she had employed in some of her letters — how pathetic, how much in the realm of fantasy, yet all she had to work with, for the memories were so few — and how hopeless she felt when his short replies showed none of the spark she was trying so anxiously to keep alive. She knew, now, that her own inadequacies as a young war bride, for which she had blamed herself in the beginning, were not at fault. Neither was Jim’s neglectful correspondence, nor his infidelities with Joan and with others. These she had managed to understand even at the time, even with the hurt she then felt. She had not blamed Joan. Joan, too, was a child of the war and, like any of the men, had her own private needs. But it was terribly painful, all the same, and there were days when she could hardly face the thought of yet another of the same empty nature. Finally, it was Rich, who came to seek her out after it was all over, who restored her self-respect, and (it seemed at the time) her sanity. She had been astonished how quickly the world turned right again and over the years had learned why that had been inevitable.

No. As to all this, she was now invulnerable. Her only vulnerability was for Jim himself. She was proud of him, proud of his record, and of his great sacrifice. Proud of her own offering too, if that was the right word, for the death of that marriage — separate and distinct from Jim’s own death (she recognized this now) — had been a sacrifice also demanded by the war. The pain and anguish were far in the past. Now there were only warm memories of Jim as he had been. She would defend him fiercely, almost as a mother might the child of her youth. For Jim would never grow old. Through the years he would become younger, until he would be almost as her own child. She was all he had. He had no family, had left no one behind but her. She would protect him, and his memory.

Laura’s flash of anger left her as quickly as it came. For a few seconds no one said anything. Even Peggy was still. There was an oasis of stillness.

When Laura broke the silence, her voice was low and soft again, but it contained the faint vibration of an emotion she could remember at times hearing in Rich’s when he spoke of the Walrus, or of some friend, like Stocker Kane, also lost in the war. The emotion was for far more than one man lost at sea, or a husband of a few days forever deprived of his right to the promises life had made to him. Jim had at least been able to taste of them. He at least had had that. She was glad she had helped, had been his wife, even if for only five days. Implicitly, she felt love, and sorrow, and limitless compassion for the countless young men who had marched to the altar of war through the ages, casting all their youth, and all their plans, and all their hopes, into that pitiless cauldron. Some had been maimed, like Rich, who carried an ineradicable scar on his soul, or devoured, like Jim. They had been so brave. All had been touched, somehow. None had escaped. “He’s still out there, you know,” she said, her quiet, almost reflective voice like a solitary cloud drifting through an open sky. “He’s forever there, with his ship and his crew, and forever young. Most of his crew were in their early twenties. Did you know that? He was the oldest man aboard, and he was only twenty-nine. Once a year there’s a ceremony in Pearl Harbor for the boats still on patrol. That’s what they call it. ‘Still on patrol.’ For some, like Rich, it’s a very sentimental occasion. The Walrus was his old boat too, you know.” Tremulously, she smiled a tiny smile. The memories were deep. Cindy, she saw, understood. Her eyes blinked away the tiny moisture that had gathered there.

But, again, it was a mistake to think of Peggy as a normal person, with normal perceptions. She saw her chance, leaped at it. “Jim was the same as Keith, only from Yale. So they took Rich off and gave the boat to Jim. They should have sent the Walrus home for a while, for an overhaul, which she needed, but instead they sent him off to the most dangerous area, and he got sunk! Walrus was due to come back to the States for a six-months overhaul, wasn’t she? You’d have had six months together at Mare Island or Hunter’s Point. But instead, the Navy sent him out again, and you never saw him again. That’s why he’s still on patrol! That’s not going to happen to Keith, I can tell you!” She looked triumphant.

Cindy and Laura were both on their feet. The blow had been below the belt, and it was a telling one. Cindy spoke sharply. “That’s not fair of you, Peggy! It’s not true, either! Rich was in the hospital with a broken leg. The whole sub force knows the story of Jim Bledsoe and the great patrols he made before he was sent on that last one! It also knows how Rich and the Eel wiped out the Japanese ASW force that caught him!”

“That didn’t help Jim much.”

“It showed what Rich thought of him!”

Laura tried to retain her carefully recaptured calm, but she knew the smooth articulation that came out of her held the edge of a barely contained fury. She hoped Peggy would not notice, for the thing to do was to get her into a more productive frame of mind. For this, she would have to exercise self-control, for Peggy was clearly in no condition to do so herself. “None of any of this concerns Keith,” she said. “If there’s anything Cindy or I can do that will help you, or Keith, we want to do it. The first thing is to know what we can do. There’s no use wasting time on things we can’t influence, or being upset because the Navy isn’t telling us everything it’s planning or thinking.”

Cindy was nodding her head in agreement, her eyes fixed on Peggy, almost as though she were mentally sending a signal to her. Peggy, however, sensing her momentary advantage, paid no attention. Perhaps she really did not know what she was saying, perhaps didn’t care. “I told you what I’m going to do! I’m not going to let anything like that happen to Keith if I can help it!”

“Peggy, you’ve got to stop thinking you can have any effect on what happens to Keith! You’re just driving yourself and your friends up the wall. That’s all you’re doing. The way you’re acting right now does no one any good whatsoever.” Cindy spoke warmly and directly, but her eyes were flashing.

“Yes, it will! I know what I’m doing! He’s been gone a month, and now maybe he’s in danger! There’s always some emergency. Nobody tells me anything, and I’m about to go crazy!” (I think you already have, thought Laura and Cindy simultaneously.) “The Russians are probably looking for him!” (Laura felt a tremor go through her body.) “I’m sick of being scared to death, and sick of nobody telling me anything, and sick of what the Navy puts you through in general! As soon as Keith gets back from this trip I’m asking him to put in his retirement papers!” Her hand trembling, Peggy downed the remaining half of her sherry, reached for the bottle uninvited, refilled her glass, took another deep gulp.

“You can do that, now that Keith has his twenty years. Of course.” Laura found the strength to keep her voice steady. “But please, don’t set your mind in concrete until you can talk to him. You owe him that much.”

“I don’t need to talk to him,” cried Peggy. “I tell you, I’ve had it. If Keith won’t see it my way, Ruthie and I are leaving!”

Laura could feel Cindy’s cool eyes focused on her. She glanced quickly at her, turned back to Peggy. “Peggy, dear,” she began, “we — that is, I—”

“Don’t you or anyone ‘Peggy dear’ me! I’m sick of being patted on the head and told not to worry, or that the Navy will do my worrying for me. What does the Navy think I am? I don’t have to take this, you know.”

“We understand, believe me,” Laura began again. “This whole thing has been awfully hard on you, but you’ve got to lay your feelings aside, at least until Keith is back home with you. Things will look a great deal different by then.” Part of Laura’s mind told her that Peggy had a right to be agitated, that it was her own duty to try to help at this difficult time, despite the exasperating nature of everything else about her. She was crying again, crying for help as much as from self-pity. What to do? How to help her? Laura had the sensation of diving headfirst into a pit of quicksand. She drew a deep, lung-expanding breath before she went under. “Listen, there’s one thing I can tell you that might make you feel a little better about everything …”

Another deep breath. She didn’t really know anything for sure, but it was a good guess based on what she did know. If it made Peggy better able to face what she must face with a little more equanimity, it might be worth it. She hoped Rich would forgive her for what she was about to say. “This is confidential, now, but anyway the Navy isn’t forgetting Keith up there in the Arctic. There’s been all sorts of conferences on what to do.” (Peggy certainly knew about the conferences; so did the rest of the submarine base, most probably. And, yes, almost certainly the Cushing was in the Arctic. Saying so could not be a security breach. The newspapers had published it.) “They’ve sent Rich and Buck to join him. That’s what Rich meant when he said you should keep faith in the Navy.” The quicksand closed over her. She felt herself suffocating.

A smile of relief on Peggy’s face, or was it one of gratification? More worrisome, Cindy gave her a startled look. But there was no turning back.

“Our three men served together during the war. That’s why Rich is out with Buck right now. This is all very secret information” (God forgive her!) “and I shouldn’t be telling anyone, but you two are married to the two skippers involved, and if anyone has a right to know, you do. Anyway, that’s why all the mystery. Please don’t say a word about this to anyone. Anyone at all. You’ve got to keep it to yourselves, because I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone either. Nobody knows what’s really going on” (this, at least, was completely true) “but you can bet on one sure thing. Before long, Buck and Rich and the Manta will be there too!”

Cindy’s expressive eyes were turned full on her. Laura could sense the disapproval issuing from them. No doubt Cindy, too, had her own ideas about her husband’s latest mission. Perhaps Buck had told her more than Rich had told Laura. If he had, he must have sworn her to secrecy. In any case, she had kept silent. Now she would believe Laura had confirmed her surmises, or revealed what Buck had cautioned her not ever to speak of — whichever — and in the process, because Peggy would not keep quiet, had thereby increased the danger to be faced by her own husband.

No help for it. It had had to be done. Perhaps Laura could later explain it all to her privately. Cindy was saying something. Were her lips a shade more compressed than usual? Laura could not be sure. “Peggy,” Cindy said, “all of us have to be realistic. Now of all times. We’ve got to remember that our three husbands have gone through a lot together. Whatever’s going on, if Rich and Buck are in it too, you can be sure Keith could have no better help anywhere. If he had his choice, this is exactly what he would want.”

“Realistic, you say! Realistic!” The word had triggered something, the wild irrationality Laura had already sensed. “I’m the one who’s realistic! I’m sick of everything about the Navy, I tell you!” Peggy rose to her feet, face flushed, hands clenched at her sides. “I’m not part of it, and Keith’s not part of it either! It does anything it wants to you. Anything!” Her eyes were glaring, her breath came in short quick pants through reddened nostrils. “I hate it, I tell you! And I hate both of you, too! You’re both part of the clique that’s running things. You’ve had your own way too long! I know all about that patrol on the Eel when old Commodore Blunt was killed, and I know all about the Lastrada dame, too. She had a much bigger piece of Jim than you ever did, Laura, my dear. She serviced half the men on Oahu at one time or another. She had a piece of Rich, too, before you got him. She was screwing him every night for a while! There’s a lot more to that story than you know, I guess!

“And Rich should never have brought old Blunt back to Pearl Harbor in a torpedo tube. He should have dumped the body at sea, the way they do everyone else. The Navy docs tried to cover by saying he died of a brain tumor, but they never explained that broken neck he also had…”

The livid, twisted look on Peggy’s face was positively leering. Her mouth held a distorted, exulting expression. Laura stood rigid, her hand an inch from Peggy’s shoulder. For an insane instant, there was the temptation to smash her across the face with open palm and every bit of strength she possessed. Instead, she steeled herself to speak coldly, contemptuously. She pronounced each word distinctly, knowing that doing so helped her retain that shred of control which alone kept her from succumbing to the tearing outrage within her. “Peggy, that is absolutely unforgivable. There is nothing more I can do for you. You are unwelcome in my house. Please go away. Now.”

Cindy hustled Peggy to the hall closet, draped Peggy’s coat around her shoulders and threw on her own, and then, nervously but determinedly, led her out the door.

Alone at last, Laura found her hands trembling as she carried her tea tray back into the kitchen. They were trembling only partly in suppressed rage, for even though she knew she was privy to no secrets (thank God Rich had protected her) she had come perilously close to saying too much to a woman she did not trust.