Irresolute, Richardson did not answer. The reactor in Idaho had certainly broken down. Had there not been a large group of trained men, each able to spend three precious minutes in the heat and radioactivity of the lower reactor compartment, it could not have been fixed. A slightly bigger casualty of the same nature would have required a lengthy shutdown. No mere ship, out of the resources of her own crew, could have handled the situation. It had been precisely the idea that there might be a repetition, at sea, which had been the compelling force urging him on. But the fact could not be stated in front of Admiral Brighting.
It was Donaldson, sensing the reason for Richardson’s hesitation, who answered for him. “Your reactors are first-class, Martin. They’ve hung up the most remarkable record for reliability of any piece of machinery ever built. Not one has broken down in service yet, for any reason. They’ve been absolutely extraordinary. Their record for sustained performance is unprecedented in history, and the credit is clearly due to you.” There was an odd twist to Brighting’s mouth as he looked quickly from side to side to see how the others were taking this praise. Richardson stared at him, then deliberately dropped his eyes to the floor to mask his sudden perception that Brighting saw nothing extravagant in the words. A glance at Donaldson: his face was impassive, guileless. Rich wondered if he were entirely imagining an undercurrent of deliberate flattery. Certainly Donaldson knew that Nautilus had once experienced an involuntary shutdown which took twenty-four hours to overcome, during which she had only steerageway on the surface on her diesel auxiliary engine, and that at one time or another every nuclear reactor built had scrammed unexpectedly, though usually not for serious cause. Triton, with two reactors, twice had had reactor difficulty during her epochal round-the-world cruise, a fact which had been kept out of the papers but had been duly reported to higher authority.
Granted, because of the intensive training both crews had received, Nautilus and Triton had been able to effect repairs themselves and had suffered no permanent disability. But the next reactor scram might be less benign. If the reactor could not be restarted, if it happened under solid ice cover, as might be the case with a single-reactor ship under winter Arctic conditions, Cushing’s exact situation, things could become difficult.
But Donaldson was continuing. “Whatever may have motivated Commodore Richardson, the important thing is that he’s come up with an idea to save the situation. It was a good enough idea to bring us up from Washington for this midnight conference aboard his own flagship. He’s the man on the spot. He’s studied this more than any of us here. He’s made a recommendation, and he invented the means to carry it out. The thing for us here is to decide. Sending Manta, as Richardson proposes, is one alternative. There may be others. What are they?”
No one spoke for a moment. Richardson waited. “We could order Leone to scuttle and send a ski-equipped transport to bring the crew back,” said a voice. It sounded like Admiral Treadwell, but Richardson, who had been watching Admiral Donaldson, did not turn in time to see who it was.
“There’s still a chance the Cushing’s propeller isn’t entirely gone,” said Admiral Murphy. “We should be getting another message with more information any time. Maybe he’ll be able to get out on his own.”
“When did your message clear, Murph?” Donaldson asked.
“About noon. I checked on it before leaving Norfolk. It’s been rebroadcast three times. Leone ought to have answered before this.”
“Maybe he can’t. What do you think, Rich?” Donaldson turned a level gaze on Richardson. The chief of naval operations had used his nickname, he noted.
“Something happened suddenly, sir,” Rich answered. “Leone’s tone of voice changed right while we were talking. We’d hardly started, when he had to cut us off. Our radio room has been keeping a special watch ever since. He’s not come back up on either CW or voice. That means he must have had to dive back under the ice.”
“Go on,” said Donaldson.
“If he’s at shallow depth, up against the underside of the ice floe,” said Richardson, “he can receive messages through his underwater antenna. But he can’t transmit unless he can get an antenna up through the ice cover. My guess is that he can’t move. If he could, he’d find another polynya and come back up.”
“How long can he last up there?”
“His reactor must be all right, or he’d have said something. So he’s got plenty of power. He can control his own atmosphere. Provisions are his limiting factor. Assuming nothing happens to his reactor, he can last three months. More, if he cuts down on rations.”
“June or July, eh?”
“Yes.”
“When is the ice at its thinnest?”
“It’s supposed to be thinnest in October, but there’s lots of variation. Right now we figure it’s as thick as it ever gets. That’s why the operation was scheduled for this month.”
Donaldson nodded. “Yes. I remember. In retrospect, it wasn’t too good an idea.” The set of his mouth was suddenly grim. “If Leone won’t transmit, we have to assume it’s because he can’t. Even if he doesn’t get any messages, he knows we need to hear from him.” His hearers nodded their assent. “So, if we don’t get something pretty damn soon, we’ll have to take action based on not expecting to hear from him at all.”
“Yessir,” said Murphy.
“The Joint Chiefs have already considered ordering him to scuttle and sending a couple of Arctic-equipped planes to pick up the crew, but we don’t know yet whether they can get out of their submarine and on top of the ice. Even so, we’ve directed the Air Force to get two transports ready, but just preparing the aircraft to land on the ice will take at least two weeks. Maybe longer.”
“We ought not to abandon the ship,” said Brighting. “That’s our newest and best reactor. Scuttling should be our last option.”
“We all agree on that, Martin,” said the Chief of Naval Operations, “except that saving the crew is the very bottom line. Tready, you’ve not said a word lately. Have your New London boys come up with any more ideas? How about Electric Boat’s engineers? Is there any way they can think of to fix the propeller, or replace the emergency propulsion motor?”
Rear Admiral Treadwell, in charge of the New London submarine flotilla, shook his head. “We’ve been brainstorming ideas all day, but we’re all working in the dark. Without knowing anything about what we’re up against, except that it’s underwater and damned cold, there’s nothing anybody can do by remote control. The Manta could carry up a spare propeller for the Cushing, all right, secured on deck somehow, but nobody can figure out a way of putting it on her propeller shaft, even assuming divers could get the damaged one off, using explosive charges or something like that. The same with the outboard motor. Who knows what damage was done to the recess it fits in. Either one of these fixes is a drydock job. Waterborne, up there under the ice, there’s no way at all.” He cleared his throat morosely. Murphy was nodding his agreement as he spoke.
Richardson, who had been carrying on a low-voiced discussion with Buck Williams while Treadwell was speaking, looked up and caught Donaldson’s eye. “May I make a suggestion?” he asked. With Donaldson’s nod of assent, he said, “There’s really three things Manta can do when she gets up there. One is to try the submerged hookup and tow operation. Another is to serve as communications relay station. Assuming the Cushing is immobilized under the ice and can’t transmit, if the Manta can talk to her through her Gertrude set she’ll at least be able to relay messages for her. The third thing is that if worst comes to worst she can come up close alongside under the ice and take the Cushing’s crew aboard a few at a time through the escape hatches. Buck Williams has three qualified scuba divers aboard and an extra supply of scuba equipment. It will be a slow operation, hauling all that gear between ships and changing it from one man to another, but it’s possible.