Not until the next day, in the insulated quiet of the frigid Arctic under its sheet of solid ice cover, as the submarine hovered powerless, unable to move, did the sonarman call his superior’s attention to the strange crunching noise — as he had described it — which he heard just as the reverberations of the bomb explosion finally died away.
12
Vice Admiral Murphy, ComSubLant, talking long distance from his headquarters in Norfolk, sounded at the moment like anything but the stodgy individual he was so well known to be. “Yes, they just brought me the message, Rich. I was about to pick up the phone to call you.” The note of uneasiness in his voice was unusual. “This will have to go to CNO right away, and he’ll probably take it to the Joint Chiefs this morning. The National Security Council and the President will have it this afternoon!”
Keith’s message was obviously of major importance and Murphy’s disquietude therefore understandable, but the idea that the very highest authority would directly and immediately become involved produced shock waves in Richardson’s mind. Seconds later he was grateful for the indoctrination which had kept him silent. “How long has Leone been gone?” The admiral answered his own question immediately. “A little more than three weeks. He’s been up there a week.”
Rich paused a moment. Keith would have reported any deviation from the detailed operation order. “He’s been in the operating area just nine days, sir.”
“Right. Umm — that’s right. Maybe we should have turned him around before he got there.”
“How’s that?” Rich realized his own voice had risen too. It had never occurred to him to question the decision to send Keith to the Arctic.
“Probably we should have told you. This whole business has gotten a lot hotter than we thought it would. Somehow the Russians got word of Leone’s mission, and they protested even before he entered the area — are you there, Rich? So, when the Joint Chiefs heard about the collision, the flap got a lot worse. That was yesterday. This second message will put them in orbit.” Murphy put a characteristically drooping note to his final sentence.
“I see, sir,” Richardson replied after a moment. He paused, thinking how to phrase what he wanted to say, then went on. “We had Leone on single side-band for about a minute, three hours ago.” He told of the attempt at voice communication and its sudden termination. “He was right there, on the line himself, and then something happened. He had to break off, and we’ve heard nothing since.”
“How long ago was this?” There was now a tone of acerbity and a rising inflection. “Why didn’t you report it?”
“We hadn’t broken the second message yet, and since we intercepted it direct, we knew your coding board couldn’t have either. I figured you’d be getting it about now. The rest of the time we’ve been checking up on the Manta.” Richardson spoke carefully, sensing that in Murphy’s obviously agitated frame of mind it would be characteristic of him to find fault with something relatively minor.
“Um — we didn’t mind your fooling around with the towing contraption, even though we thought you were wasting your time, but you should have asked me before trying that voice caper.”
“There wasn’t time, Admiral! The only way to be sure to get to him with the old wolfpack code was to break right in on the CW circuit! He’d have been gone in a minute, back under the ice or anyway shut down. Besides, it’s standard operating procedure to use voice when you can. The only thing out of the ordinary was the distance.” Rich saw Buck’s eyes narrow. He was speaking swiftly now, still trying to think ahead carefully. “It’s that towing rig I want to report on. It will work. We’ve tested it. I’m recommending we send the Manta to snake the Cushing out. She’ll be ready to get underway tomorrow!”
Admiral Murphy was anything but mercurial in temperament, but the third change in his attitude was instantly obvious over the telephone. “Do you really think it will do the job? How do you know? How are you going to rig the towline?”
“We’ve been testing it for a couple of weeks. It works, all right. We get him to lower his anchor. He can do this from inside the torpedo room, you know. The Manta passes beneath, snags the anchor chain, and off they go.”
“What if your rig doesn’t make contact?”
“She circles around and makes another pass.”
“What if it parts under the strain of towing?”
“The catenary drag of the chain will help take up the initial shock, and she’ll be keeping a close watch on the strain gauge, so it ought not to break. That’s part of what the training exercises were for. Anyway, we have two rigs, one for each stern tube. So there’ll be a second chance if she does break one.”
“You say you’ve tested this thing, Rich?”
“Yes, sir. It takes some practice doing it right, but we’re pretty sure we’ve got the bugs out of it and know how to handle it. We’ve worked it on the Tringa and the Besugo both. The Besugo was submerged, and that made her a lot easier to tow than the Tringa, once the hookup was made. Of course, the Cushing is a much heavier ship…”
“Um … Umm … When did you say the Manta will be ready?”
“Tomorrow, forenoon. She’s topping off provisions right now. There’s a couple of adjustments still to make to the chain grab, and we decided to replace all the nylon cable with new line in case any part’s been weakened.”
“Okay, Rich. I’ll report this to Washington right away … umm …” Admiral Murphy’s voice took on its more customary phlegmatic quality. “Can you take a quick flight to Washington and be there this afternoon? The CNO may want you to brief him directly.”
Going to Washington was something that had not occurred to Richardson. His instinct was against it. Thinking quickly, he said, “Admiral, I think I ought to stay here in New London and make sure everything Buck Williams needs is taken care of. He and I are the only ones …”
“I understand, Rich, I’ll report that up the line. Maybe they’ll want to call you on the telephone.”
It was midnight of the same day in Richardson’s combined office and sitting room on board the Proteus which, with the addition of extra chairs, had been converted to a small conference room. Rich had just finished describing his towing device to the small but powerful group of naval officers present. All, except Rich and Buck, were in civilian clothes. He stifled a huge yawn as he stood, pointer in hand, before the easel upon which were several poster cards with large hand-drawn diagrams of the hookup gear. He and Williams were the only two present below the rank of rear admiral. Admiral Donaldson, Chief of Naval operations, a near legendary destroyer commander during World War II, now nearing the end of his term as CNO, had taken charge of the briefing and was asking a final question.
“Richardson, what gave you the idea to make this thing?”
“I don’t know, Admiral,” Rich confessed honestly. “I just began to wonder how we’d be able to help the Cushing if she broke down, and the idea sort of grew in my mind.”
“But you couldn’t have foreseen the collision. A simultaneous breakdown of both main propulsion and the secondary motor is a one-in-a-million chance.”
“True,” said Rich, “but a reactor breakdown under ice cover, where Keith couldn’t use his snorkle, would stop both of them.” Rich was conscious of darting eyes framed in the famous pinched face of Vice Admiral Brighting in the second row.
“No reactor has ever broken down,” said the monotonous, expressionless voice.