All three men heard the report from the JT receiver when it came. “More pounding. Quiet like. It’s above us, I think.” Schultz nodded vigorously, pointed to his own earphones. He, too, had heard something, although neither Rich nor Buck had noted it.
Buck flipped the switch Schultz had been using. “What’s it like, JT?”
“Sounds like a rubber hammer hitting something. Not iron. Maybe it’s hitting wood.”
“Keith!” said Rich. “He’s okay! They’re making repairs! It’s got to be him!”
And then Rich felt a blow on his hip. Schultz was pressing both earphones against his head. He was gazing at his sonar scope, but his eyes were far away, far out in the ocean, which, for him, was totally represented by this circular fluorescent tube.
“What do you hear, Chief?” But Schultz could not hear the question. They waited, agonizing, wanting him to speak, not willing to break into his concentration. Finally he put his finger on his scope, tapping it gently with the fingernail.
“I hear something,” he said. “About here!”
“Is it the Soviet sub?”
“I think so. It’s getting louder, but it’s still faint.”
Coached by Schultz, Rich and Buck were soon able to hear the noise themselves, and finally there came the verdict which made all the waiting, and worry, and discomfort, of the past few hours worthwhile. “It’s him. That’s the same signature we’ve been hearing.”
“Skipper,” said Richardson, “I’d give my right arm to be able to see up!”
“So would I, boss,” returned Buck, unaccountably pleased with the unexpected salutation. “We’ll raise the ’scopes as soon as the hoists can lift them against sea pressure.”
“Have you calculated the extra stress?”
“Yes. It’s well within the tensile strength of our hoist rods. The problem is that our hydraulic hoist cylinders don’t have the area to overcome sea pressure at our present depth. They can’t lift them below about two hundred feet. Maybe not then.”
“Well, it sure would be good to do this deeper, but let’s stop our rise as soon as the ’scopes can lift. I’d like to be under both subs, with them silhouetted against the light coming through the ice cover. If we can only see what we’re doing, we might be able to figure out something. We’ll only have one shot, you know!”
Buck knew very well. Once the enemy realized he had been fired on by the submarine he thought he had eliminated, there would not be another chance. Without speaking, Buck reached for the periscope hoist controls, put them both on Raise.
Plot and the DRT both indicated they were under the calculated position of the immobile Cushing, and Tom Clancy had been directed to bring Manta upward very slowly. A small air bubble in safety tank had started the ascent, and now he was judiciously venting it inboard — into the interior of the Manta—so that no betraying air could escape into the water. The enemy submarine, estimated to be a mile or so away, was approaching cautiously. A Mark Fourteen torpedo salvo, judged to have the best chance of being immune to whatever exotic defense system he had, nevertheless required point-blank range and a positive depth determination.
The torpedoes themselves had been modified to accept depth settings of up to one hundred fifty feet. A minimum setting of ninety feet would guarantee safety of the Cushing resting against the ice, even if she happened to be in the line of fire. But the vertical dimension of the enemy sub, except in the small conning tower and bridge area, might be as little as thirty feet. The depth setting chosen would have to be within this thirty-foot spread. And, of course, the torpedoes would have to be correctly aimed.
Manta had passed the two-hundred-foot mark before Jerry Abbott, at the periscope station, called his superiors from the sonar room. “ ’Scopes starting up!” he reported.
“Holding her at one-eight-five, Captain!” called Clancy. Jerry Abbott quietly slipped into the sonar room as Rich and Buck took his place at the periscope station. Both ’scopes were rising slowly.
“They’ll be mighty hard to turn when they’re up, Skipper,” warned Buck.
“Can’t be helped,” grunted Rich impatiently. He grasped the hoist rods with both hands, tried to force his periscope to rise faster. It did no good. The progress of the bottom of the periscope out of its well was excruciatingly slow. With his hands on the barrel or the hoist rods, he could feel the movement, but there was hardly any way to discern it in its shiny steel surface, which was the same from top to bottom. Lights had been dimmed in the control room because of the limited illumination expected in the water. Looking down into the well, Rich was gratified to see faint light shining out of the exit pupil, striking the oily surface of the narrow steel well. At least it appeared there might be enough to see by!
Buck had the shorter periscope, as was his right because its eyepiece would be the first out of the well and it had the greater light-gathering power. He fixed himself to it as soon as it came above deck level, slowly rose with it. Heaving it around with difficulty he said, “The bottom of the ice is almost white. It’s translucent. But there’s no black hull anywhere!”
One minute later Rich duplicated Buck’s action. It was much easier to swing the periscope while it was rising than after it had reached the top of its ascent. “The same,” said Rich. “Nothing in sight!” It was a disappointment, but Richardson told himself they should not have expected to see the Cushing immediately. Now would be the time for Keith to do more pounding, but they had not been willing to risk calling him on the underwater telephone. Either the intruding submarine or Keith’s would come into view sooner or later. Patience!
After two hours of lugging on the periscope handles, Richardson’s arms were sore. He suspected Buck’s were too. He would have liked to give up his vigil to someone else, Jerry Abbott, for instance. But he could not, would not. Neither would Buck, he knew.
A thought struck him. Not knowing Manta was there, if Keith were to get an unexpected sonar contact he might shoot a Mark Forty at it. Well, this risk would have to be accepted. Keith would not shoot unless sure of his target. He would keep on hoping Manta had survived, would know his friends would return if able, might even divine their stratagem. Because it was what he would have done. Then Rich’s thoughts took another tack. Cushing’s sonar was at least as good, and a great deal more modern, than Manta’s. If Manta could hear the approaching enemy, the Cushing should also — unless, this time, sound conditions right up against the ice were poor.
“I’m having Jerry swing us around to put our bow on the noise,” said Buck’s voice in his ear. “He’s drifting slowly right. Plot calls his speed at four knots, range no more than half a mile.” How could they know that? It must be a sheer guess. It did make sense — maybe because he wanted it to. “Jerry says Schultz gives it half a mile also.” Now, that was good news. Schultz, at least, had something to go on, and to him the sonar was an extension of his senses. Half a mile away, a thousand yards. How far could one see horizontally? Not far. A ship would have to be almost directly overhead for its hull to be outlined against the dull light through the ice. Where the devil was Keith? Why didn’t he start pounding again? And had he hauled up his anchor? If not, the chain would present an additional hazard.