Thirty hours were required to find an area where the ice cover was thin enough to break through. Buck directed his course to pass as nearly as possible through the same spot where the relayed message from the Cushing had been sent, but it was not found. Doubtless they passed within a short distance of it, but there was no indication of any thinning of the ice pack on the upward-beamed fathometer, nor any sign of discontinuity of the ice pack as the Manta cautiously circled the area with her periscopes up. Finally, it had been necessary to punch through ten feet of cover with the submarine’s bow, elevated at a steep angle so as to take the shock of the contact with her strongest ice-breaking capability. Then Manta came back around and, more gently this time, shouldered her way through the shattered slot in the ice with her sail. When the message was at last cleared — it had carried the highest possible priority prefix — she went deep and headed toward the place indicated on Jerry Abbott’s plot.
Buck Williams, sitting at the head of the wardroom table, was wagging his head. He and Richardson had adjourned there to study Jerry’s work, leaving the exec free to continue the incredibly complicated task of organizing living, sleeping and messing arrangements for an influx of nearly double the crew of the Manta.
Jerry had plotted backward every known movement of the enemy submarine, as Buck had instructed, but he had had to make a number of assumptions, some questionable at best. And there had been no opportunity to get anything from Keith. Fortunately, Keith had given an estimated position of the aircraft he had seen in his last message, the one transmitted via the Manta. How long ago had that been? Less than two days. A decoded copy lay on the table.
“I hate even to look at this,” growled Buck, clutching one hand into a fist while he tapped the paper with the other. “This little piece of paper cost Keith his life! I hope they choke on it down in Washington! Do you really think Admiral Donaldson will get it across how much this has cost? Will he ram it into the people responsible?”
“If I know him, he certainly will. The lives of eleven damn good men, not to mention a brand-new submarine, is a stiff price tag. He won’t let that pass easily. But, of course, all they can do is be sorry.”
“The very least they could do is send the people who insisted on this message up to New London when we hold the memorial service! They ought to be made to sit in the front row!”
“They’d better be incognito and sit in the back, as far as I’m concerned.” Rich paused. “But right now we’ve got to figure out what’s going on up here. Those guys are no little exploration party on the ice! There’s a lot more than that going on!”
After several hours of study, frequent interrogations of Jerry Abbott and many cups of coffee, an “indicated circle of probability” was decided on. It was twenty-five miles in diameter, circular since it was only the locus of centers of possibilities. As soon as it was reached, a slow, methodical, crisscross search of the circle would be begun, with both periscopes up looking for anything unusual. The area of practicable view was so tiny that Rich and Buck quickly realized they could pass nearly directly under the spot they were seeking without seeing it. Active sonar, which might increase the size of the area being searched at any moment, was ruled out.
“I don’t think we should echo-range,” Rich told Buck. “They could be listening. There could be another sub around. Anything.”
“We really don’t have any idea of what we’re looking for,” grumbled Buck, as the second day of fruitless search drew toward its end. By agreement, he and Rich were alternating periods of wakefulness, except that both found themselves haunting the radio room during the daily VLF listening stint, and both enjoyed the afterdinner coffee hour, now reconvened in Buck’s cabin.
“The main thing that worries me, Buck, is that for some reason we’ll be ordered out of the Arctic, or run out of oxygen or CO2 absorbent. With all the Cushing people aboard, that’s going to be a problem very soon. We’ll find out what’s going on if we’re able to look for a while. We just have to have enough time.”
“Do you think Washington knows what we’re doing, Skipper?”
“They’re just as curious as we are. If they call us off, it will be because they have to. That’s what I’m worried about.”
But no orders arrived. Cutler, which could be heard clearly, carried only a single message for them. Prosaically addressed to COMTASKGRU 83.1, it merely acknowledged receipt of Rich’s previous message and added the perfunctory, “Submit written report upon arrival Conus.”
The place was found by an unexpected means, by the sonarman on watch, midway of the third day. “I think I’m hearing a beacon,” he reported.
Schultz, instantly on the scene, confirmed it. “It’s very distant. It sounds like one of those homing beacons divers use. It’s a standard intermittent buzz. You can only hear them a mile or so!”
“It’s for that sub to home in on!” said Buck. “He navigates to a mile or so of this place, picks up this little thing, and homes in on it!”
“So will we, after we’ve made a couple of complete circles around it. After that, I want to pass under with the periscopes up, starting as deep as we can use them. Now that we’ve found their base of operations, whatever it is, it’s up to us to find out everything we can about it!” Rich’s logic was unassailable, and Buck found himself apologizing for hinting at a shortcut.
Moving slowly and deliberately in the dead-silent condition, Manta made not two but three complete circuits around the sound source, at different depths, plotting and recording every scrap of information that could be obtained. Finally, with Rich’s approval, Buck ordered her two periscopes raised and told Tom Clancy to gradually increase depth to 185 feet. “Any deeper, and the hoists won’t hold them up, boss,” he said. “They’ll still be hard to turn when we get down there, but at least we’ll not have to wait while they creep out of the wells.”
Rich smiled morosely as he received the report. Neither he nor Buck was far from the memory of Keith’s last moments, which hung, cloudlike, over everything.
Nor, for that matter, was anyone else aboard. Merely the fact of the Manta’s extraordinarily crowded condition was a constant reminder. Jerry Abbott had made the fairest possible division of sleeping spaces, eating schedules and “standing hours.” Since a man occupies less useful space in the vertical posture, everyone was required to be physically on his feet twelve hours out of every twenty-four. Wherever possible Cushing crew members were put on watch with their opposite numbers in Manta’s crew, again only to reduce congestion. But there were many, the missile department crew for example, who had no counterparts in the Manta. And all of them, despite sincere effort, were constantly in the way. Not that anyone complained. Men had died to make their safety possible.
Manta’s control room, at least, was kept moderately clear, most particularly in the vicinity of the sonar shack, the periscope station and the diving station. With extra personnel available, there were two quartermasters on watch with a third detailed to maintain a most complete notebook log of all activities. One quartermaster was assigned to assist at each periscope. “How much longer to pass under?” asked Buck, without taking his eyes from the eyepiece.