Disconsolately, the two scubamen reentered the escape trunk, closed the door, and made ready to report that there was no further action topside.
“Rich,” said Keith, speaking over the UQC in a quiet, yet tense voice, “we got everybody out but four. Jim Hanson and Curt Taylor are with me still, and chiefs Hollister and Mirklebaum. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ride her on down, boss. I hope all the others made it!”
“Five, Keith. You didn’t count yourself!”
“That’s right, five. Did you get all the rest?”
“I’m sure we did, Keith. We’re still taking a muster with your list. Howie Trumbull is in charge. And I have your ship’s log and your unfinished report. You can rest easy. All your men are okay!” Richardson was far from sure of the truth of this, for although he could not see, he had been receiving frequent reports and had an excellent idea of the struggle taking place outside the hull, only a few feet from where he stood in Manta’s control room. “Is there anything at all you can do, Keith?” he could not refrain from asking. “Is all your variable water out? Safety and negative and everything? How about your anchor and chain? Could you try a big bubble in main ballast? Couldn’t that boost you up for one final escape? One more time would do it.”
“Come on, old man, we’ve done all that. We all tried to pile in the hatch the last time, but the ship upended, and everybody fell down against the bulkhead. They were trying to make it back up, but there wasn’t time, so I had to slam the hatch on the two that were in already. Now we’re at two hundred feet, and I’m back in the control room sitting on the bulkhead to reach the UQC. It’s down between my feet. We can hear the air bubbling out of number-one main ballast through the flooding holes. We’re making our last dive, and it will be a deep one.”
Richardson felt something salty in his face. More than one submariner in a sinking submarine had closed the hatch that might have led to escape over his own head, thus closing the trap upon himself as well as the shipmates trapped with him. This was precisely what Keith had done, with life prolonged at his option, with two men, destined for survival, already in the escape chamber and waiting. Rich knew without its being said that Keith had been handling the lower hatch himself, had had it yawning open above; or perhaps, since Cushing had upended, was now vertical in the water, it had been by that time alongside of him — and had consciously chosen not to enter it. In fact, since he had personally shut the hatch himself, he must actually have entered the escape chamber, taken hold of the hatch, and pulled it shut behind him as he backed out! Captain of the ship, he could not leave so long as there were men for whom he was responsible still aboard. Faced with his life’s climactic decision, and only seconds to make it, he had chosen instantly. Or, possibly, he had firmly made up his mind before.
What to do? What to say? What to say to one’s own deep, personal friend, now about to be stilled forever? Rich felt his eyes stinging. There were tears there. His nose hurt. There was a knot at its base, at the top of his mouth. He gripped the mike to control himself, strained with both hands to squeeze it away, finally said in a voice he could not recognize, “We understand what you’re saying, Keith, old friend. Buck’s here too. All that we’ve heard will be reported fully, and believe me, there’s going to be some truth told when we get back. We’re sorry, Keith. Believe me, we’re so terribly sorry. What can we do for you and the fellows with you? Tell me. Anything. It’s a promise!” Something like a vise was closing down Richardson’s throat.
“Tell our wives that we love them. No, Stew Mirklebaum says he’s divorced. The rest of us. Mirklebaum says to find Sarah Schnee — Schneehaulder”—Keith spelled the name—“one of the fellows you’ve picked up will know who she is. Tell her he’s thinking of her. Jim Hanson wants you to tell Mary he loves her and little Jimmy. Larry Hollister sends love to Eleanor and says not to forget they’ll meet by the first bloom of the lilac tree. Curt says Suzanne knows he’s always hers. And tell Peggy and Ruthie for me”—here, Keith’s steady voice broke for a moment—“tell them I love them, and would like to have been able to get Peggy that little garden in the picket-fenced yard that I always promised her. Someday we’d have had it, too. Tell her the Navy didn’t let me down. It did all it could, and so did you and Buck. There’s nothing more anyone could do than you did for us. Tell her we’re not suffering, and aren’t going to.”
The stricture in Richardson’s throat threathened to suffocate him. “I’ve got it all, Keith. I promise, and so does Buck,” he choked out. “And there’ll be a full report on how you carried out the best and finest traditions of the United States Navy, and how you told that foreign submarine, Soviet or whoever he was, by that last torpedo of yours, that you weren’t about to give in to him or anyone. And we’ll also tell how you stayed with your ship to the very last, giving your own life to save your crew and making sure they escaped, even though you couldn’t.”
“I’m not the last, Rich. There’s Jim and Curt and Larry and Stew, and we’re all together now. Passing three hundred feet.”
Silently, Buck handed Rich a piece of paper. Richardson looked at it, frowned thoughtfully, did not speak for a full fifteen seconds.
“Rich, are you still on the line?”
“Rich, here. Yes, Keith. We’ve just got a report on your muster. For a minute I thought of lying to you, but I can’t. All of your crew is accounted for except five. They didn’t make it. They were in the last two groups, and didn’t have the wet suits. Jim Baker, Howard McCool, Willson Everett, Abe Lincoln Smith and John Varillo. I’m sorry, Keith. They got up all right, but they died in the water before we could get them in the chamber. Also we lost one of our divers when the line carried away.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Rich, and Buck too. I meant to tell you, I saw him carried over the side through the TV when the line parted, but I thought he’d have no strain getting back on deck with his safety line — what was his name?”
“Cliff Martini.”
“I’m sorry, Buck. Tell his family for me. We’re going down faster, now. Just passed four hundred feet. About the five of our men who died, they were all good men. John was a fine young officer and would have been a credit— I understand he was engaged to be married to a girl named Ellen Covina. She lives in New York. Look her up for him, will you? And also the next of kin for the other four— I don’t know all the details — oh, we know. McCool’s family is in Groton. So’s Abe Smith’s. Everett lived in Waterford. Baker was born and brought up in Norwich, Larry says. Passed five hundred while I was talking.”
“Okay, Keith. We’ve got it all. Wilco on all of it, old friend.”
“We’re nearing six hundred. Mark, six hundred. I’ll try to keep giving you the depths. That will be something the designers might like to know.” Keith’s voice was growing fainter, and with the last speech he must have raised the output gain control. The time of transmission of his voice from the sinking submarine was lengthening.