“Me neither,” said Buck, “but I wasn’t going to say so. We’ll be trying this thing out for real day after tomorrow. But we ought not cut the wardroom off from movies just because we don’t want one — why don’t we get another cup of coffee, and I’ll tell them to go ahead without us.”
Prior to Manta’s departure from New London, a carefully drafted priority message had been sent to Keith via the special low-frequency station in Maine in the hope that even though unable to transmit, Cushing was still able to receive signals through her underwater antenna. At Donaldson’s insistence, Rich himself had drafted the message. Coded in Washington before transmittal (in deference to the hour, the CNO had offered to have this done by his own coding board), the message conveyed the purpose of the Manta’s voyage, details of the submerged hookup, and the procedures required of the Cushing. On the day of Manta’s projected arrival, Cushing was directed periodically to echo-range on her active sonar, blow a police whistle on her underwater voice communication set or release an air bubble through her main ballast tanks, all in a complicated time sequence. She was to keep this up, precisely as specified, until further instruction.
In the meantime, with her receiving senses at maximum alert, Manta would patrol the vicinity of Cushing’s last known grid position and home in on the noises: a combination of locating device and recognition signal. Once the two submarines were at close range, conversation was authorized over the UQC in plain language and at minimum volume. Keith was to have ready and transmit directly to Rich, by voice, an already enciphered message stating his condition and, most specifically, any information he might have regarding the aircraft the Russians claimed to have lost in his vicinity. Then, before doing anything else, the Manta was to seek a polynya in which she could surface to relay the message.
Not until then would Manta be free to begin the hookup and extraction operation. Although acting as a radio relay link had initially been Rich’s suggestion, he had privately argued strenuously against requiring the additional delay the message would involve. “If the Cushing’s in the shape we think most likely, without propulsion but otherwise okay, there’ll be a good chance of getting both ship and crew out of there. If that’s true, and nothing else is changed, then the idea of abandoning ship and scuttling her will be put on standby, right? Then why waste time? If there’s any kind of skulduggery going on, as soon as whoever’s doing it realizes there may be a chance of our getting them out …”
But this argument he had lost. Admiral Donaldson shook his head, interrupted him. “I know exactly what you’re saying,” he said, “but I’ve got my orders, too. This came right from the National Security Council to the Joint Chiefs. This is an affair of state, now, and they want answers just as soon as they can get them. Sorry, Rich, but that has to stay in the message, and it’s a direct order to you.”
“Don’t they see this puts Keith and his crew in even greater jeopardy?” Rich said desperately, momentarily forgetting he was speaking with the Chief of Naval Operations, the highest officer on active duty in the Navy. He was thinking only of the possibility of the lengthy sonar or radio transmissions being overheard, of their arousing curiosity (he almost said “the enemy’s curiosity”) and then allowing time for possible inimical reaction. He recovered himself in confusion. “Sorry, Admiral, But look. Whatever happened that made Keith go off the air so suddenly came right after his long second message. Direction-finding is a fact of life in radio communications. We’ve got to figure they have the capability, whoever they are. They could have DF-ed him and homed in on him. Maybe they even homed in on our single side-band talk, but that was so short it’s less likely, especially with the frequency shifts we made. Now we’re telling him to make a long transmission on the UQC, the most easily detected sonar there is!”
Admiral Donaldson was listening gravely, nodded slightly as Richardson spoke.
Encouraged, Rich continued with even greater urgency. “If they pick it up, they’ll know there’s another sub there. And then the Manta has to go find a thin place in the ice cover, break through, and repeat the same thing on the air. Even if they don’t pick up the low-power UQC, there’s nothing secure about our ship-to-shore frequency. If they DF-ed him then, they’ll DF us too. We’ve got to expect they’ve got a direction-finder. Either way, they’ll know another sub has got up there, or else that the Cushing has repaired things enough to do it herself. They’ll be alerted that something’s going on. If their sub is still around, and if the collision was no accident, it will join the party for sure!” Richardson suddenly realized he had raised his voice, dropped it precipitantly. Thank God they had closeted themselves privately to compose the message!
“I know it, Rich,” said Donaldson steadily. “Don’t apologize for telling me what you think. I was in the war too, remember, and we had to think this way all the time. If I can get the JCS to lift the requirement, I’ll get a message off to you right away, but for now this is the way it’s got to be.”
But no message had ever come. Without doubt, Donaldson had made the effort. He must have been turned down. The information must be considered vital. Rich could not help wondering if the NSC planning-group functionary who had demanded it had any concept of the cost it might exact.
Richardson said nothing to Buck of his misgivings, nor did he mention his private protest to Donaldson on the subject. With the slow fading of the hope that a message would arrive negating the requirement, he realized he must try to dismiss the problem from his mind. All the more so since there was nothing he could do about it. He concentrated on the pleasure of being at sea on an extended voyage, on the companionship of Buck and his officers, on the sheer joy of seeing a magnificent combination of men and machinery running faultlessly, apparently effortlessly, doing the daily drills demanded of it with precision and élan. He concentrated also on the necessity of keeping every sense alert, every possible situation analyzed in advance, every conceivable contingency prepared for, in anticipation of the trial that lay ahead. It had been difficult at first, but he had managed it.
Then gradually, as the magic of the submarine and its extraordinary capabilities — so different from those he had been accustomed to for so many years — enfolded him, the tension evoked by the interview with Donaldson drifted away. Not entirely away, but into the recesses of consciousness. There it remained, only occasionally to be brought out and examined. Donaldson was not given to unconsidered, impulsive action. At least, not in these later years. Why, then, had he contrived to make it seem as though sending Rich along with Buck had been an afterthought, almost a whim of his own? And if, as Rich now had begun to suspect, Admiral Donaldson had intended to do this all along, there must be some important function for Rich to perform.
But what? He had received no instructions whatever, unless those strange words the admiral had used on board the Proteus, later reinforced by his additional comment in the Navy sedan as the two rode to the airport, were to be so considered.
Finding the Cushing proved not an easy task. She was not where she was supposed to be, not at Golf November two-nine — at least, according to the Manta’s navigation, checked and rechecked. It was necessary not to alert the Soviets, if their submarine happened still to be in the area, or if they were listening in another way. There was, too, the worry about collision with the other sub or, for that matter, with the Cushing, if somehow the notorious capriciousness of sonar expressed itself at just the wrong time and in the wrong way. One could not simply go blundering ahead at full speed.