The simulated transatlantic trip was, of course, well known throughout the nuclear power program. Every four hours the theoretically attained position had been marked on a chart. Mark One had been relentlessly kept at full power, her single turbine screaming its high whine, her reduction gears roaring, clouds of steam rising from the cooling pond, the water brake steadily rising in temperature so that it had to be bathed continuously in a spray of cold water to prevent failure of the simulated propeller, the enthusiasm of the prototype crew building to an emotional crescendo as the regularly plotted line on their chart approached the coast of Ireland. Some of the more conservative engineers, worried about breakdown of turbine, water brake, main bearings or the steam generators themselves, had counseled shutdown once the ability of the plant to attain its designated operating characteristics had been demonstrated. It was Brighting, monitoring the test from his Washington office, who had refused all such requests, assumed all responsibility, insisted the run be carried through to completion.
Predictably, Brighting’s detractors had pointed out that a breakdown at this early stage would have delayed the entire program, that such a severe test of new machinery was not good engineering practice under any circumstances. Some whispered their belief the test run was more for the personal aggrandizement of Brighting than for any other reason. No one mentioned the fact that the nuclear reactor, the heart of the entire nuclear power effort and the only really new, innovative item in all of Mark One, had flawlessly provided the energy source for the entire “trip” without difficulty of any kind. It had been fear for the other machinery, all of it standard off-the-shelf items, even the main turbine and the water brake, which had caused the concern of their manufacturers’ representatives.
Much of this Richardson had heard before, although without emphasis on the extraordinary performance of the nuclear plant. The familiar story as told by Brighting now sounded a different note. For the first time, Richardson was able to savor fully the vitally important view Brighting and his assistants took of their tests, their refusal to accept a halfhearted trial as adequate witness of performance to be expected or, realistically, to be demanded during the exigencies of war. Had submarine torpedoes been properly tested, the course of the war in the Pacific would have been vastly different, especially in the early stages. This was something no submariner who had lived through it could ever forget, or forgive. More recently, proving that not all designers in the Navy had learned the lesson, the new fleet submarines built during the early 1950s had been a hushed-up scandal; their diesels had been undependable, their torpedo control input erratic, their freshwater distilling apparatus farcically ineffective, their torpedo tubes a maintenance nightmare. The skipper of the first one to go to sea, an experienced wartime submariner, had furiously radioed in during her shakedown cruise that his new boat was a travesty not fit for service — with the shattering result that he was severely dressed down, nearly relieved of command, for excessive forthrightness. Many submariners, Richardson among them, had been incensed at the refusal of the Bureau of Ships to accept the obvious fact that the new class of submarines was a failure, and to move heaven and earth — or at least bestir itself — to fix them immediately.
But here, in the person of Admiral Brighting, was proof that with nuclear power old mistakes would not be repeated. And the three submarine officers learned also of another aspect of Brighting’s approach to engineering: like the commander of a ship at sea, he accepted full and complete responsibility for everything connected with his charge.
Admiral Brighting spoke for some time. Richardson was entirely unaware of the expressionless monotone he usually noticed, and certainly one would never have guessed that this articulate, actually eloquent person was renowned for his taciturnity. The strange, naïve expression, the one he had earlier termed “puckish,” was still there. Only now Richardson thought of it as a a look of exaltation, something he might have expected of a passionately idealistic young man. A flash of insight tugged at his senses, and suddenly Brighting was talking about the central question of all. “Have you figured out what you’re here for?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Buck. “We’re here to learn how to handle nuclear power.”
“That’s only part of it.”
Rich began, “Nuclear power in the years ahead—”
Brighting interrupted impatiently. “You’re like all the rest. You see everything as just small improvements on the stuff you’re used to. What do you think the Navy will be like in the years ahead?” He answered his own question. “This is the program for a totally new navy. We’re starting over. Suppose we had the Nautilus in World War Two — what do you think you could have done with her?”
“With the Nautilus and good torpedoes,” began Rich, “one submarine could have taken on the whole Japanese Navy. We’d not have had to worry about recharging our batteries, or evading at slow speed. We could have outrun almost any antisubmarine ship—” He would have gone on, but Brighting again broke in.
“You’re a piker, Richardson! Who cares about World War Two torpedoes? Did you ever think of a submarine that could stay submerged weeks or months? Or one that could blockade an entire nation by itself? How long could you stay submerged in the Eel? Twenty-four hours?”
The shift from weaponry to endurance to a global concept and then back to endurance had come rapidly. “Seventy-two, with everyone except a minimum watch turned in to conserve oxygen,” said Rich, “except I don’t think the battery could make it that long.”
“How long on the battery? And how far could you go?”
“We figured forty-eight hours at minimum speed, maybe a little more, if you started with a full charge and had all nonessential services secured. About a hundred miles.”
“What would you have done if you could stay down six months and go twice around the world without coming up? What if your submarine had been the size of a cruiser, with a load of missiles that could hit any target in the world from any position in the sea? What if your submarine could outrun any surface ship ever built?”
“We could have ended the war a lot quicker,” said Keith.
“We’re not talking about the last war!” A note of triumph, his own inconsistency brushed aside, sprang into Brighting’s voice. “Can’t you get that through your head? That’s the trouble with all you people. You can’t see beyond your previous experience. You have no imagination. We’re not even talking about the next war, either, or the one after that. We’re talking about the prevention of all war by total control of the sea! All of it, from above the surface down to the very bottom! We’re through with the Mahan concept of big fleets maneuvering around trying to outguess each other!”
The three submariners sat silently. Rich could feel the mind-expanding impact of Brighting’s vision. From the rapt, fascinated expressions on their faces, it was clear that Buck and Keith did too.
“We’re only in the early phases of the history of man,” Brighting went on, “and the key to development has always been the availability of power. But all power has always required consumption of oxygen, combustion somewhere in the process. With the exception of hydroelectric power, that is. The key to control of the sea in a manner similar to the way we control the land is to have adequate power. Mobile power, for the time being. The sea is the last and most limitless resource of man. It’s three-dimensional, and so is the air above it. For all these years, the surface of the sea has been the prize we were after, because it provided cheap transport, and livelihood. That’s what navies have been built for since year one. But not forever. The changes are coming fast. First mobile power, for new and wonderful ships. Then stationary power, with fantastic capability, on the land or in the sea, wherever power is needed.”