Eleven minutes later she entered the ship channel. It was a critical time, since for the next three miles there would be no doubt where she was and if the outer exit were to be blocked in any way, she would be trapped. Ten additional, slow, agonizing minutes passed in the fog-clouded atmosphere.
The captain said nothing, he was keeping his attention on the fathometer and the increasing depth of water underneath his ship’s keel. The water was a little rougher now and the Magsaysay was rolling fairly heavily. The depth was eighty-four feet.
“Dave,” the captain broke his silence, “prepare to take her down.”
“Ay, sir.”
The necessary orders were passed below into an atmosphere that was already completely professional. The men of the crew, those who had come aboard in decontamination suits and those who had been masquerading as day workmen, had almost all managed to change into the standard poopie suits worn by Navy submariners at sea. Many of the men had worn them under their decontamination gear; the rest had drawn theirs from the stock on board. The dropped isotope had been expertly recovered from its hiding place and put back into a safe container. The prediving preparations were gone about smoothly and precisely, the crew for the first time looking the part of a hand-picked, coordinated team.
A depth of ninety feet registered as Magsaysay turned twenty degrees to starboard and took up a heading of two seven zero — due west. On the bridge a message came up from below and the phone talker passed it on to the OD. “Ready to dive, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The fog hung on, shrouding the submarine visually, but not from the prying eyes of radar. The captain remained as quietly composed as he had seemed from the first moment that he had taken his place on the bridge, but the OD was well aware of all of the things that must be unreeling themselves in his brain. It was so close now, but it was not yet a sure thing. Once under the water the speed could be increased more than ten knots, and much more sophisticated equipment would be required to pinpoint the ship’s position. Eventually it would be all but impossible and then, at last, Operation Low Blow would be an accomplished fact.
“One hundred and three feet, sir,” the OD said, “and deepening.”
“All right, Dave, take her down. Make your depth fifty feet. Five degree down bubble.”
“Ay, sir.”
The phone talker left the bridge first, then the OD, and finally the captain. After he had passed through, the hatch was closed and secured.
Steadily, and without haste, the bow of Magsaysay began to sink lower; the wave changed in contour and crept closer to the base of the sail. Presently the sail itself began breaking the oncoming water; it continued to do so as the flat missile area behind it came awash and then the visible part of the stern. The sail alone was above the water after that, sinking steadily and flooding as it did so. It began to move forward at a slightly faster rate, gradually disappearing until only the top remained. Water came onto the bridge deck, conquered it, and then took possession of the rest of the structure until only the shaft of the periscope remained visible, churning up a tiny wake behind it. Then it too disappeared and the surface of the water returned to a solid pattern of waves and swells untouched by any man-made creation.
Admiral Barney Haymarket sat all but motionless, a cup of coffee set before him, watching the message board and the face of the clock beside it. The last message to be received was still displayed: Magsaysay had been seen to disappear into the fogbank which lay a short distance off the coastline. Some transport aircraft had been observed, but nothing of a combat type had been spotted.
The clock continued to measure off the minutes, an emotionless indicator which supplied data but could not interpret them.
Major Pappas spoke from halfway down the table. “She should be out of the channel now.”
They all knew that, but it helped somewhat to put it into words. Then it fell silent again, the clock now the center of all attention unless the message board chose to come alive once more.
At the end of almost twenty minutes more of waiting the admiral picked up his coffee cup and tasted the now lukewarm brew. It was taken as a signal; in response a little stir of movement began in the room.
The message board flashed: beale ok. That meant that the operational personnel who had been assigned there by Colonel Prichard had made it safely back to their base and were considered out of immediate danger. Better news still was the fact that no other message concerning the submarine itself had come in. When another ten minutes had been measured off and no more signals had been received, the admiral got to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I believe they pulled it off.”
That broke the tension which had lasted for so long. There were other hazards still ahead, but the most difficult part of the operation appeared to have been concluded satisfactorily. As the admiral turned toward his office he caught the eye of General Gifford and motioned. The general arose and followed him; among the rest only Major Pappas remained where he was, waiting for a possible final confirmation. If anything went wrong at the last minute and the submarine could not dive, he had one more remaining emergency plan to deal with the situation.
In the confines of his office the admiral sat down and faced his second in command. “What do you think?” he asked.
The general took his time about lighting a cigar. “We’re not out of the woods yet, but we can start breathing again. As I see it, it will take them a minimum of twenty-four hours to muster and position any kind of an ASW force and by then they’ll have an eight-hundred-mile radius to attempt to search.”
“It’s possible that they could find her.”
“Possible, yes, Barney, but they don’t know how. Their technology simply isn’t up to it, I’m confident of that. And if they get very very smart about the resupply operation, it still won’t do them very much good unlegs we have terrible luck. And as you know, we’re protected against that.”
The admiral shook his head as though to clear his brain. “I’m going to sack out for a little while, Carl, and I think that you should too. Pass the word that I’m to be notified immediately if anything concrete comes in.”
“Will do. Where do we go from here?”
Admiral Haymarket pressed the base of his palms hard against his skull just above his ears and moved them back and forth. “Let me get six hours’ sleep,” he said. “After that we’ll eat and then start in on the next phase.”
In the quiet of his very modest study the Reverend Mr. Jones addressed himself to the packet of mail which had just been handed to him. He sorted out the junk literature, set aside two or three bills which would have to be attended to, and then explored the rest. On the very bottom of the pile there was an airmail letter with an Israeli stamp. He opened the letter carefully because there was a twelve-year-old girl in his congregation who collected stamps, unfolded it, and began to read:
Dear Rev. Jones:
Although we had planned on settling in England for a while, we have now arrived in Israel, where we have received a cordial welcome if somewhat spartan accommodations. The vast influx from America, as well as many others who are arriving daily from Europe in fear of a pogrom there, has crowded this small country almost to the bursting point. Hazel, Molly and I are living in a tent dormitory with something more than a hundred others. We have been given army-type cots which are necessarily placed as close together as practical in long rows. We take our meals in a chow line which is the most suitable method under the existing circumstances.