“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.