“Back to Pasadena,” Larsen said. “You think the same thing happened to her that got your boomers?”
“We haven’t got the vaguest idea what happened to Nevada and Alaska, plus you’re talking about two different classes of submarines. No one’s reported any unidentified contacts that might be her. And the op areas were too far apart.” He pointed out the last locations of the three submarines. “Look at that distance. No one’s going to break their orders and go chasing all over the Pacific.”
“Engineering casualties?” Larsen glanced over at Robbie Newman, aware that the question had already been dismissed with the boomers.
“Doubtful again. More likely human error, if she really is gone. Pasadena was in beautiful shape. I had my boys in Washington comb her files. Nothing.”
Larsen’s eyes fell on Mark Bennett. He held his right index finger in his left hand as if it might escape. “I’ve got it under control now. See?” He held the trapped finger up for all to see. “How about the crew?”
“Wayne Newell is one of the best. He was one of my officers when I had Stonewall Jackson. Dick Makin, his XO, is a superior officer, too. There could have been an accident, but….” He finished the sentence by shaking his head.
“There’s no choice, then.” Larsen’s eyes were narrowed now into their familiar slits to display his unhappiness. “I haven’t got any proof, but I’ve got to tell the President that it appears our problems are due to enemy action — and the only enemy that I can imagine out there is Soviet … even if we haven’t located any of their submarines. He has to make a decision.”
“Captain, really … believe me, if I so much as hear a peep that sounds the least bit odd, you’ll be the first to know.” Moroney had been chief sonarman aboard Manchester for eighteen months, even before Ben Steel had assumed command. Up until now the captain had been what the men considered “cool.” Never flustered. Not a sign of anger unless it was obviously called for. He handled himself well in any situation. But now there were signs that he was anxious, an omnipresent figure lurking behind the sonarmen on watch, asking them questions every few minutes, borrowing headphones to make sure they were functioning properly. Moroney could see signs of irritation from his men.
“Am I that obvious, Chief?”
“Like your fly was wide open and the flag was dying, Captain. You know … when you’re looking for a contact, it takes twice as long to find it than if you just wait for it to show up. I’ve been in this business all my life, and I guarantee that if you’re not looking too hard, they just come to you.”
Steel felt a smile beckoning at the corners of his mouth. Moroney was right. That old saying about the chiefs running the Navy was right, too. If you let them do their job, you were running your ship properly. “Okay, Chief, you win. I’ll stay out of your hair. I can’t will a contact no matter how bad I want it. I promise I’ll stay out of your hair for the time being. But you got to understand it’s not easy for an old sonar officer.”
“Now, sir, you don’t have to ask permission to visit. We wouldn’t know what to do if you didn’t stop around for a cup of coffee. It’s just that I think you’ll be more ready for an attack when the time comes if you take it easier.…” He was fumbling for the right words.
“Say no more, Chief. I understand. As usual, you’re right.”
Moroney could feel his face warming. “I didn’t mean—”
“You’re just like my mother, Chief. She was always right, too. It just took me a little longer to admit it. “I’m on my way to control to bother Mr. Simonds. Then maybe I’ll grab a little sack time while you’re all busting your asses. That’s the soft life of a captain.” Steel was tempted to clap Moroney on the shoulder, as he might do to encourage the younger officers, but it didn’t seem the proper thing to do. The chief already had the headphones back on his ears and was leaning over one of the sonarmen’s shoulders, pointing at something on his screen.
Steel took the few short steps that brought him into the control room and stopped, gently sliding the sonar door shut behind him. It was almost as quiet as sonar. Each man was immersed in his job. Only the diving officer was talking, softly explaining something to one of the planesmen from his position to their rear. From the raised platform behind them the OOD quietly noted the displays on the control panel, one hand gripping the brace hanging from the overhead. The duty quartermaster was at the rear of the control room punching buttons on the navigation computer which would provide him with an accurate ship’s position. Two others were working on the fire-control equipment on the starboard side of the space.
No one noticed Steel until a radioman appeared from his tiny space situated back near the entrance to engineering. The radioman headed through control toward the forward passageway and glanced at his watch before saying, “Good morning, Captain.”
“Good morning, Wirtz. Got anything for me?”
“Negative, sir. We don’t go up to copy our broadcast for another couple of hours. If you’re headed for the sack, sir, you’d better grab a few quick hours. I’ll be the one waking you up then.”
Steel nodded. “Fine. Maybe I will try a few hours’ snoozing.” He caught the OOD’s eye. “Is Mr. Simonds taking a nap?”
“No, sir. He headed back to engineering about twenty minutes ago, after Chief Moroney told him there was some sound from aft passing through the hull.”
“That’s right. I remember.” And he should have remembered. He’d been standing beside Moroney when the chief had picked up a sound he thought was a wrench coming from the aft section of the submarine. The call had gone to Peter Simonds, just as the captain’s orders had indicated, and the OOD had reported immediately that the XO was on his way aft. Maybe he should try to sleep.
“Want me to call him for you, Captain?” the OOD asked. “Or maybe you want to take a nap.”
Steel shook his head. “Don’t bother. I think I’ll chase him down myself.”
As he climbed through the hatch back by the navigational computers, Steel once again appreciated the different world in the rear half of Manchester. The well-lighted engineering spaces were a world totally separate from the darkened, red-lit forward control area. They housed the power plant that made the true submersible possible — the nuclear reactor. It was here that the controlled atomic reaction produced the heat that not only moved Manchester through the water at tremendous speed, but allowed her to remain below the surface as long as sustenance for the human body lasted.
It was clean and neat back here. The power plant literally ran itself. The engineers seemed merely there to monitor, to ensure that every piece of machinery operated as it had been designed to do. In addition to the watch officer, there was a reactor operator who controlled the rods, main cooling pumps, and the reactor’s instrumentation; the throttleman who turned the large wheel that released steam to the turbines to turn the shaft; and an electrician who regulated the distribution of electrical power. They watched dials intently, recorded data constantly, performed routine maintenance, kept their space clean enough to eat off the tile-covered decks, and responded to the maneuvering orders from control. The place even smelled different, more lite a hospital, sanitary and neat, everything in its proper place — a world apart from the weapons systems and control room forward!
He found Peter Simonds in the maneuvering room in conversation with the chief engineer and the main propulsion assistant. “Well, setting up a subsidiary wardroom back here?” Steel said.