Finally, the chief could contain himself no longer. “Can I give you a hand with anything, Admiral?”
“No… no thanks. Just playing, Chief.” Reed’s voice was still hoarse and he cleared his throat. After a pause, he added, “Gives me a sense of place… time… I know it’s deep as hell out here, but it’s always been a habit.”
It wasn’t a custom for quartermasters to chat with admirals, but Reed appeared interested in continuing the conversation. Enlisted men knew only what they were told when it came to where they were headed and what the ship’s orders entailed. The scuttlebutt that passed for information was regarded with more suspicion after each promotion until chiefs generally realized the worth of rumors.
“I still like to study the bottom and figure out where roads would go and where I’d build a house for the best view if it was all above the surface,” the chief offered. “I’ve started some very nice developments if I do say so.” He handed Reed a sharpened pencil.
“Well, what do you know. The only other guy I ever knew did that was a friend of mine on the Will Rogers
The chief pointed his finger knowingly at Reed with a wink. “Commander Folger…”
“Yeah… Brud Folger. That’s the guy, Chief. We were at the academy together… he was funny as hell then. Used to do comedy routines making fun of all the instructors.”
“Used to do the same thing, Admiral, when I rode the old TR with him. Hell of a funny guy.” The chief shook his head from side to side. “Captain caught him one time ashore doing an imitation of the commodore and almost busted him. Got any idea where he is today, sir?”
“You wouldn’t believe it, Chief. He started doing the same type of routines after he retired. You know, I wouldn’t tell on him if he was still active”—Reed pondered for a moment—“but he did a bit for some ladies’ group at an officers’ club somewhere around the District, and brought the house down. It seems the CNO’s wife was there and she passed the word around so now he’s in demand every weekend.”
“Mr. Folger sure was a funny guy.” The quartermaster looked down at the chart that Reed was contemplating. “Fine navigator too, sir. He was the one that taught me how to make believe the ocean bottom was actually above the surface. Said it was the best way to imagine where a submarine might hide if you got in a tight place. Sometimes late at night on one of those dull boomer patrols — running around inside a box — he used to teach me how to design underwater highways and that sort of thing.”
“You were only on boomers with him then.”
“Yes, sir, just the TR.”
“He served on attack boats, too. He was the one who taught me how to look at the bottom of the ice just like he taught you to look at the sea floor. Did he ever explain that to you?”
“Sure did, sir. But it’s a son of a bitch trying to do the same thing when it’s on top of you… sort of like standing on your head to figure out where you are.”
Reed had been hoping he wouldn’t have to interpret it alone. “Do you think you could do it again if you had to?”
“You mean turn upside down… look at the ice like a highway?”
Reed’s expression changed perceptibly. “That’s right, Chief, and navigate that highway overhead just like your life depended on it.”
The quartermaster’s expression never changed. There was still a smile on his face as he said, “I’ll bet my life does depend on it, doesn’t it, sir?”
“Sure does. Mine, too. You see, we’re going to have two OODs doing the driving, one just to make sure we don’t hit anything, and the captain’s going to be looking for targets with me. I need someone who can work with all of us. If you think you can help the OOD navigate, no matter how fast we want to go, and at the same time tell me where I want to go if I’m leaning over your shoulder, you’re going to become a super chief before you hit the beach next time.”
Now Chief Gorham’s expression altered slightly as he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I guess I never should have mentioned Mr. Folger’s name… right, sir?”
“Wouldn’t have mattered.” Reed grinned. “I checked all the service records and decided maybe the two of you knew each other.” He tapped his forehead with an index finger. “I figured I didn’t have time to do it all myself, and if Brud Folger taught you, I figure I can run around those ice fields without a second thought.”
The captain’s stateroom had become Reed’s for the length of the voyage. It was the one place on Houston where he could be alone with his thoughts. Every possible element that could possibly affect the submarines under his command was evaluated, then reevaluated if he were to fulfill his responsibilities to each man aboard.
This was more than a simple showdown with a man he’d encountered twice at sea but never met — Abe Danilov. While each man understood his country’s strategy was the focal point, much more was required of them. Since Abe Danilov had to face a secret weapon—Imperator—his superiors were ensuring that he would face the unknown with superior numbers. Andy Reed, on the other hand, had to learn Imperator’s limits against those odds. In addition, control of the environment above the ice pack could be as important as that below, so each country was prepared to launch aircraft for inserting their specially trained arctic forces depending on surface conditions at the time.
While the weather below the ice never changed, that above now became a critical factor. There were two purposes for inserting combat teams. If a submarine was damaged, the only chance for survival might involve surfacing through a polynya or a lead to either vent smoke from a fire or make limited repairs. Whichever country controlled the area where a submarine surfaced would be able to protect their own or finish off an enemy. There was also the possibility of technical assistance during undersea combat. Though it had never before occurred, a surface support group could place either noisemakers or mines below the ice to give their own submarine an added advantage.
As Reed considered how long a combat team could be sustained, and studied the regional weather reports, he experienced a feeling of insufficiency. He understood submarines and how to fight them, but the vagaries of arctic weather were beyond him. He knew that navy SEAL teams could be inserted wherever he decided that Abe Danilov would stand and fight. They would be within range to assist him as long as they could survive the climate. Their odds of being extracted might be poor.
A chart of the Arctic Ocean was taped to the bulkhead above the desk. He stared at it until his eyes smarted. They were traveling at just over thirty knots on a course that would bring them close to the North Pole shortly. They were currently passing over the Lomonosov Ridge, a subsurface mountain range rising as much as nine thousand feet above the deep Arctic Ocean. Beyond was the Fram Basin and ten to twelve thousand feet of water almost to the edge of the ice pack.
As hard as he tried, he was unable to imagine how best to determine where Danilov would turn. Again, it was dependent on the surface weather. Intercepted reports indicated that Soviet strategy was little different from his own, and their weather analysis was equal to his. It all finally came down to plotting a larger area than desired where aid might be provided from the surface.