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.
This is not an Operation Order. Conditions are not yet clearly enough defined to permit definitive treatment. An Operation Order for conduct of this mission will be prepared later, after consultation. Whoever undertakes this mission must be prepared to improvise according to conditions and circumstances found. The purpose is to investigate the Arctic Ocean as a potential area for SSBN strategic operations and to determine appropriate tactical and materiel adjustments as may be necessary. Safety of ship and crew is paramount, but certain potential hazards must be recognized from the rigorous environment and from possible interference by unfriendly powers.
The most favorable entry for a submarine into the Arctic Ocean basin is via the Greenland or Barents sea. Entry may also be made from Baffin Bay via Barrow Strait, or via Smith Sound and the Lincoln Sea, but neither of these routes offers assurance it may not be totally choked by layers of rafted ice. Entering through Bering Strait presents even greater difficulty because of the extremely shallow water, lack of deep channels and near certainty of heavy rafted ice. Nautilus’ first attempt to transit the Arctic Ocean failed through inability to penetrate this barrier. Ice cover is heaviest during early spring, in both extent and thickness, and during this period it must be assumed that entry will only be possible via the Atlantic Ocean (i.e., Greenland or Barents sea). Undetected submerged entry should be possible here at any time of year.
The Arctic ice pack generally retreats north of Spitsbergen during summer, reducing in size through surface melting and wave action. Warm water from the North Atlantic Current assists in pushing it back. During winter it has on occasion been solid well south of Spitsbergen, and may extend as far as the north coast of Iceland. Iceland’s south coast, however, is generally ice-free. The edge of the ice pack is always marked by block and brash ice which has broken loose from the parent floe. Occasional icebergs of much greater size may be encountered frozen into the ice cover, and they will, of course, survive much longer in the sea, drifting to a far more southerly latitude in the process…
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…
8
The promises of eventual spring were freshening along the banks of the Thames River — what there could be of the signs of spring among the few forlorn plants able to exist amid the obscene ugliness placed there by man. A few buds were beginning to become evident, still wrapped tightly in their protective sheaths. There was a slightly warmer flavor to the still, cold air; for two days it had come from the south instead of the north. It was a lovely morning for late February, 1961. Richardson had just shaken hands with Keith and crossed the brow from the Cushing to the Proteus. The huge, delicately balanced crane with which the submarine tender was fitted had already been attached to the long brow bridging between her cargo port and the flat missile deck of the big submarine, and he had to duck under the wires. The brow was gone by the time the squadron commander of Submarine Squadron Ten reached the upper deck of Proteus.
The shorter brow between the Cushing and the Manta had already been removed. Manta’s own crew was at mooring stations, ready to cast off the Cushing’s lines and allow her to back out. Then she would warp herself in alongside the Proteus, bringing in with her the submarine outboard of herself, the Swordfish, which had arrived a few days before. The heavy mooring wire from the Cushing’s bow had already been shifted to the Manta. High on Proteus’ forecastle, the inboard end of the wire cable had been led to a hydraulic winch. All this was routine preparation for letting an inboard submarine out of a nest. Once the Cushing was clear, the Manta’s line-handling crew would pass their own lines around the heavy bitts built into the tender’s sides and then, with bow and stern capstans, gently bring her, with Swordfish clinging outboard, into the Cushing’s place alongside the wooden float — the camel — which served as a fender to keep steel from grinding on steel. In the meantime the cable to Manta’s nose would be heaved in by a capstan on Proteus’ forecastle, until Manta was located in precisely the desired position along the submarine tender’s starboard side.
It was a carefully orchestrated maneuver, one which had been done many times over and was consequently second nature to all those involved. Richardson saw with approval that Buck Williams was on the bridge of his ship, alongside his in-port duty officer, whose responsibility it was to supervise the line handling. A few feet beyond, on Swordfish’s identical bridge, the same situation existed, and there were men on deck at her mooring lines standing by in the event action was needed. Down below, in both ships, there would be an engineering watch on station ready to respond to orders to the propellers, should such be necessary. The reactors of both submarines had been shut down, however, and all maneuvering would have to be done on the much lower power available from their batteries. Because nuclear submarines are underpowered on battery alone, the squadron tug was lying off, ready to assist with her big, slow diesel. A couple of times in the past some unexpected current in the river, a poorly executed maneuver in one of the submarines alongside or inexpert handling of the wire cable had caused the tug to be called into use. A gentle shove at just the right place had prevented bent propellers or other expensive damage.
But there would be nothing of this sort today. Keith and Buck, the principal actors, would make no mistakes. The state of current, tide and wind would have been thoroughly considered. Orders to the lines and to the screws (if necessary) would be timely and forehanded. Only the most unexpected of situations — a sudden line squall, a ship passing too close aboard, at too high speed — would disturb the deceptive simplicity and ease with which the complicated maneuver would be carried out. Watching, so far as Rich was concerned, was purely ceremonial, a way of saying good-bye, a private farewell.