In Williams’ eyes, Richardson seemed to have reached a decision of some kind. He rose to his feet, led Buck into his sleeping quarters in the adjoining compartment, unrolled a blueprint on the bed. “You may as well see this,” he said. “It’s designed for one of your after torpedo tubes. We’re building two of them in our machine shop right now.”
Ever afterward, Buck Williams would remember this moment as one of the climactic ones in his relationship with Richardson at this period, rivaled by only one other, of very different character, a few weeks later. He studied the blueprint in silence, bending over the bed, aware only of Richardson’s measured breathing as he stood beside him. The open inner door of the torpedo tube was familiar enough. The side view of the tube was equally clear, but the rest was totally new to him. There was a circular steel thing labeled “Anchor Billet,” evidently sized to fit into the breech of the open torpedo tube and lock there. There were two lengths of chain, one with a heavy grapnel-like hook on one end, a tight coil of eight-inch cable, a strange football-shaped object with stubby wings labeled “Floating Paravane,” all shown separately in detail. And there was a composite sketch showing all the parts put together, the anchor billet at one end and the paravane at the other, with dotted lines around it to indicate the dimensions of the torpedo tube into which it would fit.
Buck finished his inspection, turned to Richardson. “What is it?” he asked. “I see it fits our stern tubes — they’re shorter than our bow tubes, you know — but what does this thing have to do with Keith?”
“It’s a contraption we hope will snag his anchor chain if he has it hanging down. You take off the inner door of one of your after torpedo tubes, slide this into it, and lock the anchor billet in place of the breech door. It’s watertight, of course, and will take full submergence pressure. When you open the outer door, the paravane streams out and upward, dragging this first chain with the hook and six hundred feet of premium nylon hawser. The other end of the cable is attached to the center of the anchor billet via the second chain. We’ve set the paravane vanes so that it will tow off to the side and a little above the submarine.”
“Anybody ever use this before?” asked Williams.
“Nope. We’ve only just now invented it. That’s where you and your ship come in. I’ve convinced ComSubLant that we need this capability, and we’ve been putting a lot of steam behind it these last few days. It’ll be ready for a trial in a couple of days more. We’ll do our first experiments with our own squadron rescue vessel, the Tringa. That way it will attract the least notice. She’ll lie to in deep water with her anchor hanging down twenty fathoms or so. You’ll come along underneath and off to the side just enough so that the paravane streams across her chain and snags it with this hook. This eight-inch cable hardly looks strong enough to tow a big ship like the Cushing, but the figures say it will, so long as you don’t go too fast. Probably there should be a strain gauge on the line, anyway. The main thing I’m worried about is the initial jerk.” Richardson was talking rapidly, with certitude in his voice. The speech had evidently been made several times already.
“It’s time you were brought into this, anyway. I was about to ask permission to brief you. You’ll have to have the right amount of way on for the paravane to stream properly, and that’s a point we’ll have to check. Maybe that will be too fast, and the line won’t take the jerk when you make contact. However, picking up the catenary of the other ship’s chain will ease the shock. Nylon line is very elastic, as well as being the strongest line there is. Also, it floats and doesn’t absorb water. That will help. Since you’ll both be submerged there’ll be no wave action to worry about while you’re towing. That much we do know. But we have no experience in any of these other factors at all. This is what we have to find out.”
Buck Williams’ puzzled look vanished as the idea sank in. “What a terrific idea!” he exclaimed. “Of course, if Manta or any older submarine were in trouble they’d have to have men topside to handle their anchor gear…”
“But all new submarines use a mushroom anchor operated from inside the hull. They can lower and raise it while submerged,” finished Richardson with a grin. “You want to give this rig a try?”
“You could make a dozen passes and miss contact,” said Buck, “but once you do pick up the other ship’s chain you have only one shot. That’s the weak point in the scheme. There’ll be no way to rig a new line or make repairs. If you break the line, you’re dead.”
“You won’t be able to take this anchor billet out of your torpedo tube breech if this hunk of chain is lying in the way of closing the outer door,” said Richardson. “But you’ll have another whole rig for your other stern tube. If you break that one too, it’s the other fellow who’s just found out he’s dead. It’s Keith up there, and if he gets into any trouble you’re the one who should go to help him.”
Williams saw the smile slowly vanish from Richardson’s face, to be replaced by a look he could only describe as foreboding.
9
Montauk Point was well astern when Keith climbed down the ladders from Cushing’s narrow bridge, through the watertight hatch, and descended into the control room. “We’ll be diving in a minute,” he said to the men on watch. “What’s the sounding?”
“Just on the fifty-fathom curve, Captain,” said one of them, his eyes close to the fathometer window through which could be seen a stylus tracing an exaggerated profile of the bottom. “Mark; fifty fathoms,” he said.
“Control, this is bridge! Sounding!” the control room speaker blared the order from the officer of the deck above. The chief of the watch reached up to the speaker-control panel mounted above his station, pressed one of the toggle switches. “Fifty fathoms, bridge,” he called.
“Is the diving officer ready in the control room?” said the loudspeaker.
Lieutenant Curt Taylor leaned across the chief, pressed the toggle, spoke into the microphone. “I’m here, Howie. Ready below!” He turned to Keith. “I have the first watch, Captain. I’ll relieve Howie of the conn after we’re down.”
Keith nodded. Jim Hanson had arranged all this several days ago. The report was unnecessary, and both of them knew it; but regular ship’s routine required the report to be made, inasmuch as the captain was in the control room. The control room watch, already on their stations, had gradually assumed an aura of expectancy. Keith could not have specified any particular attitude, but he had seen it many times. The way the men lounged at their stations told its own message: an orderly, professional readiness, apparent in the certitude with which they eyed the controls and gauges occupying every available inch of space on the compartment’s bulkheads and the curved skin of the ship as well.
There was a bustle in the hatch trunk leading to the bridge. A pair of dungaree-clad legs appeared, quickly followed by a second pair. Two men wearing foul-weather gear jackets, the hoods drawn tightly by the drawstrings around faces reddened and slightly swollen from the cold wind into which they had been peering.
“Lookouts,” one of them said through stiffened lips to Taylor. This too was part of the regular routine.
“Okay,” responded Taylor. “Get your coffee and come on back here.” The two men shambled stiffly off in the direction of the crew’s mess hall, fumbling with parka strings and zippers.
Again the loudspeaker blared. “Clear the bridge! Dive! Dive!” Almost simultaneously the diving alarm sounded twice: two raucous blasts transmitted on the ship’s general announcing system to all compartments. The chief of the watch, now standing before his diving control console, had forsaken his built-in stool. Alongside him stood Curt Taylor. Both of them kept their eyes fixed on the hull opening indicator panel, which showed two red circles and a series of dashes. This was the successor to the old “Christmas tree,” with its red and green lights, which could never be positively and clearly interpreted under conditions of night adaptation when the only light permitted was red. The chief, fingering a switch on his diving panel, glanced inquiringly at Taylor.