Cold is the Sea

7

“No one’s ever figured out Admiral Brighting, Peggy. You’re wasting your time.” Laura had not intended to speak sharply, instantly realized her impatience with Peggy Leone’s growing obsession had shown in her voice. She tried to smooth over the momentary awkwardness. “Now that our husbands are nukes, I guess Brighting is just someone we’ll have to learn to live with. Rich says he’s a totally dedicated individual, one of those people who put their whole personality into what they’re doing.”

“Keith says the same thing.” Peggy raised her cup to her lips, thoughtfully sipped the hot light brown liquid, looked appraisingly at Laura. “He told me some of the things that went on out in Idaho, though, and I’m surprised you can defend him after the way he treated your husband.”

“Maybe Keith took more offense than Rich did. He’s one of Rich’s best friends, ever since the war. Anyway, the big thing was to be nuked, as they say. They all got that, and they think the training was great. I’m like you, though, I’m glad it’s over and finished.” Laura consciously kept her voice light. Peggy’s single-minded concentration on finding fault with the Navy was becoming vaguely unsettling. She changed the subject. “When does Keith get in with the Cushing? Have you gotten any letters from Cape Canaveral?”

“He’s been so busy with those ship qualification tests he’s only written a couple of times. They’ll be back next week. I thought you would know that.”

Again there was something accusatory in Peggy’s comment, some fine edge of feeling not yet out in the open. The warm midmorning sun streamed through the kitchen windows, dappled the floor with the pattern of lace curtains. Peggy was a small, intense, very pretty woman, apparently immune to the large quantities of sweets she habitually consumed. Her increasingly frequent arrivals at Laura’s door were always preceded by a polite phone call citing an errand bringing her across the Thames River to New London, and initially Laura welcomed the resulting morning coffee break. Lately, however, she had begun to realize that the growing regularity of Peggy’s visits must be more than mere happenstance. “I guess I did know it,” she carefully replied. “Rich says Keith’s got his crew very well checked out. The Cushing’s flying through her tests and he doesn’t think there’ll be any holdups. But it is a pretty strenuous time for them. It ought to be easier — more regular, anyway — when they finally start going on patrol.”

“I don’t think I’ll like it any better, to tell the truth. The missile boats stay away so long…”

“Sure, Peggy, but they have two crews, don’t forget. Two skippers and all. Except for the turnover period, either you or Nancy Dulany will have your husband at home. He won’t even have the ship around to worry about. You’re luckier than Cindy Williams. The Manta doesn’t have two crews. Buck’s the only skipper she’s got. Even in port, there’s no relief for him.”

“Somebody was figuring out that because of the slow training program for replacements, a missile boat sailor would have to stay continuously on sea duty for thirteen years. That’s Admiral Brighting’s fault.”

“There’s always somebody talking that way at the beginning of anything that’s new and big,” said Laura. “It’s only last year the George Washington went to sea for the first time. You can’t …” The conversation was right back in its old track. Peggy was not looking at her, was staring out the window instead. Laura felt rising resentment at the U.S. Navy for putting her in the position of having to defend it, then realized it was exasperation with her visitor. She fought down the ire, made her voice gentle. “Come on, Peggy,” she finally said, “with two crews, the blue crew and the gold crew, Keith’s going to be home half the time, maybe more, counting overhauls and such. Besides, he’s barely begun with the Cushing. It hasn’t been too bad yet, has it? How was it with his previous boat?”

“Just the same,” said Peggy. “He was married to it, too.”

“Well, you’re not blaming Brighting for that, are you? Anyway, how long was he skipper of it?”

“About two years. That’s when the baby was born. Even then, I hardly saw him.”

“Has he had any shore duty since you’ve been married?”

“Yes, sure. He was in the Pentagon just before he got the Dogfish. It was nearly as bad. Sometimes he stayed nearly all night there. It’s just not fair!”

“What’s not fair, Peggy?” Despite Laura’s resolve, she sensed asperity creeping back into her voice, had to make an effort to will it out.

“The Navy. The way it treats people. Especially the ones like Keith who didn’t go to Annapolis!”

“That’s not true, Peggy. The Navy isn’t that way at all. Keith’s been treated exactly the same as everyone else.”

“Then why does he always get these tough jobs?”

“He doesn’t. At least, they’re not only tough jobs. They’re also very good jobs. Keith’s reputation is tops in the Navy. Look at the Cushing. She’s the newest and the best of the big new missile subs. Don’t you think every submarine skipper around would like to take Keith’s place? Or Bud Dulany’s in the other crew? Why do you think Keith was picked?”

No answer from Peggy. Again she was staring into the distance. Laura had the feeling that nothing she was saying, or could say, would change Peggy’s determination to find fault with her situation.

Proteus, a floating machine shop built during the war to tend diesel submarines, had been modified by the addition of facilities for the servicing of nuclear submarines and Polaris missiles. She was, by consequence, some forty-five feet longer than her sisters, but the extra length was indistinguishable except for the huge pair of gantry cranes that surmounted it. What was noticeable about the ship was that she looked more like an ocean liner than a warship. She had two promenade decks from bow to stern, two large smokestacks for appearance only (since she, too, was diesel-propelled) and she had many portholes along her sides. Only the anti-aircraft guns, still mounted, though seldom exercised, her coat of navy “war color” gray paint, and the cranes — far heavier than any liner would need — testified to her military purpose. That, and the fact that she seldom moved from her berth alongside a pier on the New London side of the Thames River. No ocean liner in service to an active shipping company would have been allowed to remain so immobile.

But Proteus was actively carrying out her primary function, although her propellers hardly ever turned, for there was always at least one and sometimes as many as four submarines alongside. The whaleback hulls, dull black in color, lay very low in the water. Only a tenth of their structure showed above the surface, and were it not for a prominent protuberance amidships vaguely resembling a sail, their presence would be easy to overlook.

Not that the residents of New London and Groton were likely to overlook anything. The easiest way to keep aware of what submarines were alongside the Proteus was to look southward over the rail of the high arched bridge across the Thames River as one drove eastward from New London to Groton. To the initiated, the white block numbers painted on the respective sails translated automatically to an intimate communication of the myriad of details beneath.

To be sure, the submarine nearest the bridge obscured the numbers of those between her and the tender. But such details presented little difficulty to residents of the area, who had long since become nearly as adept as any members of the U.S. Navy at checking out the submarines alongside the Proteus.

Rich’s office, as Commander Submarine Squadron Ten, or ComSubRon Ten, was at the forward end of the topmost “promenade deck” of Proteus, with large circular ports opening out upon the forecastle which lay two decks below. There was a watertight door to the side, backed up by a light wooden screen door, giving access to a verandalike extension of the covered promenade. Aft of his main room Rich had a private bedroom with a standard civilian-type metal bed bolted to the floor, and a private bathroom. The suite had a twin, on the other side of the ship’s centerline and easily accessible through a door, assigned to her skipper. Over the years it had become customary for the captain and commodore to mess together in the captain’s sitting room, thus leaving the squadron commander’s sitting room available for discussions and conferences. It was an arrangement dictated by necessity, for these seemed always to be going on.

There was a desk flush against the slightly curved forward bulkhead of the space, upon which rested a standard dial telephone, supposedly plugged into a special dock connection when the ship moored. It had been so long since Proteus had moved from her accustomed berth, however, that, for all Rich knew, the wiring might have been run directly to the nearest telephone pole. Attached to the bulkhead were the standard ship’s telephone, a gyrocompass repeater, a voice tube with swing cap leading to the bridge and, prominently centered, a bows-on photograph of Proteus with ten tired diesel submarines alongside. The caption read, “Tokyo Bay, 1945.”

Richardson had swiveled around to face Keith Leone, who was slouched in an armchair.

“You must really have pushed your gang on the Cushing, Keith. All the tests down at Canaveral were perfect, and you got away three days early. Now what can we do for you up here?”

“The usual, I guess, Commodore. Get us ready for the next drill. My crew is tired, though, and I am too, after the pressure they put us to down there. We’ll be glad to turn the ship over to Bud Dulany and the gold crew next week.” In what was an unaccustomed gesture for him, Keith passed his hand wearily across his face.

“After that welcoming committee I saw on the dock yesterday I thought maybe you’d been gone on a regular deployment, instead of only a month.” Richardson grinned.

Keith grinned back. “It was the longest we’ve been away yet, so I guess the families were pretty glad to see us. How did you get the word to them all that we were coming in early? I don’t think there was a single individual on board who didn’t have at least someone waiting on the dock for him. Having the gold crew set up the security watch so we could all get ashore was a great idea, too. Who thought of that?”

“They did, so far as I know,” said Richardson. “Are you on holiday routine today?”

“Yes, we sure are. Till noon, that is. We couldn’t pass up a chance like that.”

“Well, I’ll not keep you long, Keith. You deserve some time off too. My apologies to Peggy and little Ruthie for asking you to come over this morning at all.”

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got to lay a special mission on you. If you want it, that is.”

“On me? You mean on the Cushing?”

“Right. Washington has delayed Cushing’s deployment. They want you to do something else first.”

“But it won’t be us, you know. The gold crew takes over Monday. Bud Dulany’s the one.” There was disappointment in Leone’s voice.

“That’s why I had to send for you, old man. The powers-that-be down there must have been impressed with what they were hearing from the missile-testing range. They want you and the blue crew for this one.”

“Gee, that’s great, Rich — I mean, Commodore! But won’t that mess up all the Polaris scheduling? I mean, I thought that was supposed to be inviolate!” Keith’s tiredness seemed to have disappeared. His posture was now animated.

“That’s not our worry, Keith.” Richardson felt himself reacting to his friend’s enthusiasm. “If the Joint Chiefs tell the Navy, and the Navy tells Special Projects, and Special Projects calls ComSubLant, and his operations officer calls me, we can assume that’s already been covered. The big question now is if you can do it.” Richardson rose, swiftly shut the door between his room and the dining area. He started back to his chair, reversed himself, closed the door to his bedroom also. “Keith,” he said, “it’s a top-secret mission. There may be danger — in fact, we know there will be. You don’t have to take it on. If for any reason you’d rather not, you can say so and that will be the end of it. They’ll send another submarine, one that’s already got a patrol or two under its belt, as soon as they can fit her with an ice suit. The reason they picked you first is that you’re not yet deployed. Your operational routine will suffer less. The record you turned in at Cape Canaveral with your firing tests and the other readiness inspections is what convinced them. But there’ll be no prejudice against you or the Cushing if you feel you should decline.”

“We’ll not decline anything,” said Keith. “What is it? Is it something only a missile submarine can do? Tell me more.”

“All I personally know is in this folder. It was sent by messenger from Washington a week ago, but I thought I’d hold it until you’d been in overnight. No need to spoil your first night in port.” As he was speaking, Richardson took a large, already opened manila envelope from the top drawer of his desk, held it in his hand. “You’ll want to study this privately, in your own stateroom in Cushing, Keith. Come back before you talk to anyone about it. You’ll have a lot of questions. I’ve already read it three times. Don’t let it out of your possession.”

“What is it?” Keith asked again. He restrained his eagerness to reach for the envelope. Richardson had not yet handed it to him, obviously wanted to say more.

“It’s an under-ice mission. Being the newest missile sub, Cushing is better off than the others in under-ice capability, and that’s another reason Washington picked you. Basically, they want you to make a test deployment in the Arctic Ocean. The mission is to see if it’s feasible to fire missiles through the ice. If we can do it, the whole capability of the missile system will be radically improved.” Rich could recognize the look on Keith’s face. He had seen that contemplative evaluation many times before.

“I guess we’ve all done some reading about the Arctic lately,” said Keith. “Probably it is possible in some areas up there at least part of the year, when the ice cover is less.” He spoke slowly, his brow creased in concentration.

Rich said, “You’ll see in this set of papers that what we’re looking for is a year-round capability. In other words, a certainty. That’s another reason for sending you right now. We’re about to come out of winter into spring here in Connecticut, but the ice is thicker now in the Arctic Ocean than at any other time of the year.”

“Do they expect us to shoot missiles up anywhere, no matter how thick the ice is? There’s no way! They’re pretty impressive coming out of the water, all right, but the launching system has nowhere near enough power to break through heavy ice cover. If there are enough polynyas maybe we can always stay near one. In winter most of those are also pretty heavily iced, though.”

“Well, read the operations proposal. They’ve thought of that, and they have a couple of things they want you to try.” Richardson thrust the envelope toward Keith.

To reach his ship, Keith had to climb down three decks and walk through Proteus’ big machine shop to the cargo door in her side, through which a portable walkway, a brow, had been laid over to the Cushing. To his surprise, there was another submarine outboard, much smaller, lacking the raised deck over the sixteen missile tubes which were Cushing’s total reason for existence. She must have come in during the night or early morning. The number on her sail was a familiar one: Buck Williams’ boat, the Manta. Keith felt warmed by the thought of the proximity of his friend. Before he left for home he must see him. His own gangway watch was saluting, but he was a stranger. One of the gold crew. There was a second brow directly opposite, leading to Manta’s much narrower deck, and a second gangway watch was visible standing nearby.

Manta and Cushing were totally dissimilar in design, save for the nuclear power plant, and already Manta was outmoded by the more powerful whale-bodied Skipjack class now coming into service. Buck would probably have the Manta for only a couple of years and then, in his own turn, shift over to one of the much faster Skipjacks or Threshers, or even directly to one of the new ballistic missile ships like the Cushing. Keith toyed with the idea of going on over the second brow and surprising Buck down below. No doubt he had long since finished breakfast, but he might catch him drinking a second cup of coffee while going over some of the never ending paperwork.

But that would have to wait. The large, slit-open envelope in his hand — from the feel of it there might be anywhere up to two dozen sheets in it, lying flat, plus some pamphlets — had a magnetism he had felt before. Keith returned the salute of the watch. “Is Captain Dulany aboard?” he asked, to ascertain in advance whether his stateroom was free down below.

“Nosir. There’s just us standby gold crew here, sir. Lieutenant Ridgely has the watch. He’s down below. I didn’t see you coming, so he don’t know you’re here, sir.” Good. He would make himself known to Ridgely of the gold crew, then lock himself in his room. By noon the changeover back to the blue crew would be complete and Cushing entirely his once more. Bud Dulany, knowing that the presence of another skipper must halt all productive activity on Keith’s part, would probably not appear at all.

The ladder leading below was inside a vertical tube, with a watertight hatch at each end. Its inner surface was lined with shiny sheet metal, stainless steel (officially, corrosion-resisting steel, or CRS, in building-yard jargon), and its diameter was such that a person could ascend or descend the ladder with his back sliding against the slick smooth surface, thus with his hands free. Negotiating the twelve-foot distance to the linoleum-covered deck below was second nature. Keith stepped swiftly through the maze of instruments in the control room, allayed Ridgely’s embarrassment at not having been topside to greet him, and retreated with a cup of coffee into the sanctuary of his own tiny stateroom. There was an aluminum door as well as the traditional green baize curtain at the entrance. He gently closed the door and locked it from the inside. Each of the thirty heavily typed sheets of bond paper in the manila envelope bore a stamped notation in large red letters: TOP SECRET. EYES ONLY. So did the two printed pamphlets.

Keith was surprised to find he had been reading for most of the morning. He had covered only part of the material when his own exec, Jim Hanson, knocked on the door to announce lunch. Carefully, he locked the refilled envelope in his desk and composed a plausible cover story for his morning’s activities. He would have to confide in his officers in due course, for there were many preparations which must be made, but this could wait. For the time being it was best they not even know something was brewing. Besides, he had promised Richardson…