Awaiting them was an enemy officer who stepped forward and demanded, “Who is leader?”
Before he got an answer the first of the suited nuclear specialists, a piece of electronic gear in his hand, strode across the brow and swung himself down the hatch into the submarine’s pressure hull.
The commander appeared on the scene, shadowed by his overseer. “What’s the problem?” he asked of the enemy officer.
The man turned to him. “I am Kepinsky, nuclear expert. I check everything.”
“Get a suit, then,” the commander answered.
“I inspect all equipment.”
“Go right ahead.”
The efficiency with which the nukes went to work was obvious to the enemy personnel; it answered any questions as to whether or not they were the experts they were supposed to be. On the pier a short conference was held between the enemy security head and the three enemy personnel who had come down from Mare Island, one on each bus. The commander could hear them, but he could not understand a word. When the brief huddle broke up, he noted that those concerned seemed to have been satisfied, at least about something.
Kepinsky took his place at the end of the brow and examined each piece of gear briefly for a few seconds. One he held out and put aside, refusing to permit it on board until it was opened up before him and he could see the interior. “I know this not,” he said.
“New; classified,” the man said who was carrying it.
“All right.”
Floodlights came on the pier, lights which had been installed by the enemy to allow inspection at any hour. The crew manning the 105-mm fieldpiece was relieved and replaced by three fresh men, who put on their helmets and took up their position as though nothing whatever had happened.
More equipment arrived; a group of trucks under escort came heavily out onto the pier. One of them, a huge flatbed vehicle with multiple wheels on its rear axle, carried a large piece of electronic gear which appeared to weigh three or four tons. The crane was summoned; on instruction the operator picked it up gently and set it down close to the end of the brow. Kepinsky looked it over for a full minute and then said, “You may use it.”
Other gear was placed by hand until the end of the pier was comfortably filled with equipment, barring only the forbidden circle painted around the rapid-fire field gun. Everyone seemed to know about that and kept clear.
After some minutes one man came up out of the submarine, motioned to Kepinsky, and then joined the commander. As soon as the enemy nuclear expert was with them he reported, “There’s a leak in the reactor, it seems to be expanding slowly. She’s freshly fueled, which doesn’t help. Radiation level inside the hull is well above toleration limits, so keep everybody out who isn’t suited and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“How long to fix it?” the commander asked.
“If we’re lucky, several hours. It could be days. Keep the area clear of all unnecessary personnel, for God’s sake; if it ruptures, then anything can happen.”
“Have you enough men?”
“I think so. It’s too early to be sure but there’s only room for so many, of course. We work in short shifts to keep the exposure down.” He turned to Kepinsky. “I know you probably want to go on board, but right now it’s hell down there. Of course you can do what you want.”
Kepinsky once more read the radiation detector which was standing a few feet away and for the moment appeared to be satisfied. “I see everything,” he instructed. “You tell me everything.”
“All right.”
In the underground headquarters of Thomas Jefferson the message board had been busy. Plates of food had been placed on the table, but they had been generally ignored. The conference room was filled to near capacity by the many men who had worked for so long on Operation Low Blow and who were almost desperately anxious for every bit of incoming news.
When the word came through that the nukes from Mare Island had been admitted to the base without delay of any kind, General Gifford allowed himself the luxury of a smile. That end of things had been his particular responsibility; he also happened to be a lodge brother of the yard commander who obviously had done a completely convincing job. The enemy personnel were almost fanatic in their suspicion of everyone and everything; faking out such men called for much more than ordinary talent and total effort.
The admiral very much wanted to know if word of the events at Hunters Point had been passed to Colonel Rostovitch. That relentless, ruthless, and eternally questioning man might well see through the whole thing in a flash and if he did, that would be the end of everything. Rostovitch was too intricate a plotter himself not to recognize the signs, and he had a fearsome reputation in counterintelligence. The admiral had considered the idea of trying to get to Rostovitch to insure that he would be fully engaged at the time of Low BlowA but none of the assembled intellects comprising the First Team, or their almost equally bright back-up personnel, had been able to suggest anything that had a reasonable hope of working. Also there was the strong possibility that the colonel would read out any attempts at himself, as he had done many times before, and would be immediately alerted. The admiral had wisely decided to leave Rostovitch alone for the time being. He could be dealt with later on.
Major Pappas laid aside two more contingency plans which would no longer be needed. So far the show was right on the road, but that was no guarantee that it would remain that way. Too many very tricky gambits lay immediately ahead.
16
The first darkness of the new night saw no visible letup in the intensive work that was being done in and around the inert, silent submarine. The eerie, white-suited figures from Mare Island contrasted starkly with the dead black hull of the Magsaysay which lay in the water with only the sail and the top of her deck visible. On the dock the radiation detector still indicated a level close to the danger point; the men of the regular work crew who had been detained were gathered on the opposite side of the pier, keeping out of the way.
The commander was there also, nervously pacing up and down from time to time, then stopping to ponder some additional problem. It was not all acting; he had good cause to worry and he knew it. During the next several hours the effects of surprise would all wear off and in the coldly realistic small hours of the night it would be a different ball game. Furthermore, there was a great deal to be done yet and every bit of it would be difficult and dangerous. All the enemy had to do was to bring in a qualified crew of nuclear experts and it would all be over. They could appropriate the decontamination suits and have a look for themselves. If that occurred, everyone concerned would be lined up on the dock and shot right there.
Inside the hull of the Magsaysay a great deal was going on. In the forward part of the ship, which had been screened off from the live radiation, three men who had stripped down to their skivvies were carefully getting into wet suits which were part of the submarine’s standard equipment. They helped each other to strap on SCUBA gear and then went through a series of careful checks, particularly on the rebreathers. As they were finishing another man came into the compartment. He still had on his decontamination suit, but he had taken off his headpiece and was holding it under his arm. He was a little less than normal height, slightly dark in complexion, and of slender build.
The nearest of the divers nodded to him. “Ready, captain,” he said.
“Good. The pre-launch check is set in eight minutes. The best of luck, Hank.”
“Thank you, sir, we’ll do our best.”
There was no more time to spend in conversation; the captain refitted his headgear and went back through the hatch. Down the passageway he was met by a colleague who was waiting for him.