"Everything clear up there?" Barber asked.
"So far," Carter said. "But it looks a little choppy down there. It's not going to be particularly easy getting aboard the Silver Fish."
Barber grinned. "You're talking to an all-Navy team here, Nick. We'll manage."
It was pitch-black when they reached the Silver Fish. The sub had given them an intermittent homing beacon, so it had been very easy to find the boat. As soon as they were set barely fifty feet above the forward deck, which was bathed in red light, the chopper's crewmen got the rescue collar and winch ready.
On a light signal from below, Forester went first. The chopper pilot was very good, but a heavy sea was running. The sub rolled and wallowed, and Ed Forester hit the deck pretty hard.
Crewmen aboard the sub pulled him out of the collar and helped him below. Hansen was next, and he too hit the deck pretty hard.
The chopper's crewmen held up for a moment as they talked with someone below on the deck of the sub.
"They want to suspend operations, sir," the crewman said to Carter.
"Negative," Carter shouted. "We'll take our chances."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Barber went next. This time the crewman on the winch timed the last ten feet of cable, landing Barber lightly on the sub's deck, and then he let the winch go slack as the boat rode down into a trough.
Carter nodded and clapped the man on his back. "Once more, just like that one," he said.
"Yes, sir. And good luck."
Carter hauled on the rescue collar and then he was dangling out in the wind-driven snow, his arctic pack and case on a sling beneath him, and he was dropping toward the pitching sub.
His descent slowed the last few feet as the sub hit a trough and began to rise. At the top of the wave, Carter was quickly lowered the last ten feet and caught up with the rapidly moving deck. Almost instantly the sub's crewmen had his collar off, and the sub was rising again on a wave crest, the acceleration tremendous.
The helicopter was peeling off to the southwest as Carter was hustled below, and the hatch was secured. A few seconds later the dive alarm sounded, and the boat's PA system blared: "Dive, dive, dive!"
The Silver Fish was a fairly new, nuclear-driven attack submarine, but she was barely two-thirds the size of the Petrograd-class boats. Still she had plenty of room. The officers' wardroom was larger than many of the wardrooms of World War II surface ships. The corridors and companionways were broad and well lit. The compartments were large, well ventilated, and nicely furnished. AH the equipment looked ultramodern and efficient.
Their gear was stowed in their compartments, and they were shown to the wardroom where they were told that the skipper and his executive officer would be along shortly. In the meantime they had coffee, and the ship's cook was preparing them a late meal.
Forester looked a little pale, but he claimed that he hadn't broken or sprained anything, though he had hit hard enough to leave him dazed for a couple of minutes. Hansen was all right, and Barber was eager to get started, though he was concerned that so far they hadn't come up with a concrete plan.
"That depends on what time we get there tomorrow, how close we can get to the coast, and what the shore is like," Carter said.
A short dapper man with deep blue eyes and captain's stripes on his shoulder boards came in, followed by a taller, huskier man with thick dark hair.
"Which one of you is Carter?" the skipper asked.
"I am," Carter said.
The captain looked at him appraisingly for a long moment, then nodded. "I'm Stewart McDowell." He motioned toward the other man. "My exec, Kevin Addison."
Carter introduced the others and they all shook hands.
"Shortest orders I've ever received in my career," McDowell said, pouring himself some coffee. "I'm told to take you anywhere you want to go. That's on presidential authority."
Forester looked sharply at Carter.
"Have you been given a time limit, Captain?" Carter asked.
McDowell shook his head. "I'm yours for the duration. Just where is it you fellows want to go?"
"The Soviet submarine base at Svetlaya."
McDowell lowered his cup and whistled. "This isn't April, so it can't be an April Fool's joke. Can you tell me what you're after, and how you plan on getting it?"
"A computer chip out of a Petrograd-class submarine," Carter said.
McDowell glanced at his executive officer. "That is a rather tall order, Mr. Carter. Apparently you are experienced at these sorts of things, otherwise you wouldn't have been sent. What specifically can we do for you?"
Carter leaned forward. "Are you familiar with the coastline around Svetlaya?"
"Yes. This section is within my cruising orders this time out. The town and the base itself are some distance apart. There's a fishing village a few miles south of the base. Water is deep very close in. The shore itself is rocky, but there are no cliffs. You could have problems if there's a surf running. That section of the coast is open to the Pacific swells through La Pérouse Strait." McDowell shrugged. "Of course, at this time of the year, once you're ashore it won't be any picnic either. Lots of winter storms and blizzards out of the mountains."
"How quickly can we get there?"
McDowell looked at his executive officer, who glanced at his watch. "Running submerged, I'd say early evening tomorrow. I'd have to check our nav computer."
"How difficult will it be for you to lay off shore, undetected?" Carter asked.
"That's a tough one," the skipper mused. "If the weather is bad, we could stay indefinitely. If it clears up, their satellites might see us, or their patrol boats could detect us unless we stay on the bottom. But then we'd have no way of knowing when you were coming out."
"If they did detect you, would they fire on you?"
"We'll stay twelve miles out after we drop you off. But they'd shadow us from that point on. There'd be no way for you to get back out to us."
"Surface every midnight for five minutes. If you pick up our signal, come in for us. If not, resubmerge."
"For how long?"
Carter looked at the others. "One night in, the next night out, unless we run into impossible weather ashore."
Again McDowell stared at Carter for a long moment or two. He got to his feet. "You have arctic gear?"
Carter nodded. "We'll need rations, and a transmitter."
"Weapons?"
"We brought our own," Barber spoke up. "Mac tens."
Carter wasn't aware they had brought weapons, but he was pleased with their choice. The Mac 10 was a 45-caliber compact submachine gun. It wasn't very accurate, but it was reliable and very small.
"Have you been assigned quarters?"
"Yes, we have," Carter said.
"I suggest you get some sleep, then — I suspect you'll need it. I'll let you know when we're within an hour of the Soviet coast."
"One other thing, Captain," Carter said.
"Yes?" McDowell asked at the door.
"If we are detected on the way in, I'll want to know immediately."
McDowell nodded. "Anything else?"
"Before we pass through the strait I'll want to send an encrypted message to Washington."
"Buzz Mr. Addison when you're ready to send it. He'll take care of it for you."
"Thank you," Carter said.
"I think I'd hold on that, Carter, until you're back aboard," McDowell said, and he and Addison left.
Their dinner came a few minutes later, and afterward they ail turned in. Carter wrote out a brief message to Hawk detailing what had happened so far, and what his plans were. Addison stopped by his compartment for the message and promised to send it out immediately. They would have to run near the surface so that an antenna could be raised above the surface.