She nodded.
“Not the Navy.”
“No.”
“And the Navy men operating her are agreeable to this.”
“Entirely so; at the moment I would say that the First Team is the Navy — among other things.”
“This understood, Mrs. Smith, why am I here?”
“If you are willing, to be the go-between, the bridge between our organization and the enemy. It is quite a sensitive assignment; you cannot afford to make any mistakes.”
Hewlitt remembered something. “Mrs. Smith, when I talked to Zalinsky today he told me that he knows the name and identity of one of our key people who occasionally visits Davy Jones’ place. That could only be Percival.”
“If he told you that, then there is little cause for concern — he was probing. As a matter of fact, Percival has an excellent alibi for tonight if he should need it.”
“I think he should be warned, though.”
“He will be, naturally. Now, if you don’t mind, I have arranged for you to remain in this house at least overnight — it may be longer depending on certain other events. I’m sure that you will be quite comfortable. These premises are considered very secure.” Hewlitt looked at her again. “Am I likely to miss work tomorrow?”
Mrs. Smith got up. “At the moment that is quite possible. If so, it will probably be to our and your advantage.”
“As long as they know that I’ve been kidnapped I presume it will be all right.”
“Oh, they know — we saw to that.” She walked toward the bar. “Before I go on, would you care for a drink now?”
“I think it would be a very good idea,” Hewlitt said.
20
Deep down in the quiet dark waters of the northernmost Bering Sea the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay moved forward at reduced speed. For several hours an invisible but persistent tension had been slowly building throughout the whole ship; there was not a man on board who had not felt it in the air. At sixty-five degrees north latitude the speed had been cut for the sake of greater quiet. All of the ship’s acute sensing devices were operating, but there was no sweep of radar, no pinging of sonar. All detection was passive. To the best of her ability she was hiding, for immediately before her was the narrow passage of the Bering Strait.
Inside the submarine only the navigator’s chart and the readouts from the inertial platform and other positioning devices gave any visible clues to her position. On the con, the nerve center from which the ship was controlled and operated, the captain stood waiting, listening to every report given and reading the faces of the instruments that supplied continuous vital data. All contact with the outside world was indirect and appeared largely in the form of numbers. Human senses as such had little to go on; there was nothing to see apart from the largely unchanging interior of the submarine, no way physically to sense the climatic cold of northern Alaska or to draw even one lungful of the Arctic air. The Seward Peninsula lay off to the right, but it was a textbook fact only — detached and remote. Yet the knowledge that it was there gave rise to the awareness of danger, and Walter Wagner, who was on the con by special permission of the captain, could feel it like a living thing.
He knew, as did every other man on board, that the enemy would be waiting for them with everything that he had been able to muster and position in the time available. And Magsaysay was strictly on her own; if anything happened to her there would be no escaping into the frigid water, where human survival time would be a matter of brief minutes. And if the ship sustained damage and could not maneuver, there would be no rescue party to recover the men trapped inside her hull.
The captain interrupted his thoughts. “We may have a break here, Walt. It’s been abnormally cold even for this region this fall, and there is at least some ice in the strait. If it’s thick enough, it may impede surface traffic.”
“That would complicate things for aircraft too, I imagine,” Wagner said.
“True. Against us is the fact that they know our speed and when to expect us. Any attack subs that they’ve been able to get into position will be faster and more maneuverable then we are — they don’t have missile bays to contend with.”
“Will they be nukes?”
The captain shook his head. “Impossible to say: it depends on their deployment just before we broke loose — what they had available that they could get here ahead of us. Perhaps nothing.”
Wagner did not allow himself to fix on that hope for a moment; it was wishful thinking and little else. The enemy was noted for his tenacity of purpose, he would be up there somewhere if all he had was rowboats.
“And we can’t use SUBROC when there’s an ice cover,” Wagner noted.
“Right. I’m keeping them in the tubes because in open water they give us a major advantage.”
A crewman arrived with fresh coffee. With the brew there was a plate of freshly baked sweet rolls; the captain bit into one mechanically while he kept his attention focused on the readouts that surrounded him. In his own compartment the navigator was silently at work, continuously updating the position of the ship from the inertial platform data.
Wagner did not have to ask when contact with a possible enemy force would be made; the tight, controlled atmosphere within the submarine answered that question before it could be born. The men went about their work quietly, waiting for the sensing devices to give warning as the ship moved steadily and silently forward. Each minute that passed brought the crucial strait a quarter of a mile closer, and also the Arctic Circle, beyond which the Magsay-say would be once more in open water and free of its narrow constrictions.
He reached for a sweet roll; his hand was still in the air when over the one M.C. intercom a single word broke the quiet. “Contact.”
The exec was closest and he responded. “What is it?”
“Submarine, sir,” sonar responded. “She’s echo-ranging.”
“Range and bearing?”
“Not yet, sir, too far away.”
The captain took the one M.C. “This is the captain speaking. We have a submarine contact at maximum range. All hands man battle stations.” He turned to the exec. “Rig for silent running. Depth three hundred; get in as close to shore as you can.”
“Ay, sir.”
With that single terse response the whole atmosphere changed; Wagner saw and felt it. The watchful waiting was over; the hopes of getting through unchallenged had gone. The ship was in a combat situation now and swiftly preparing for action. From the elevated platform of the con he saw men hurrying to their appointed stations — Magsaysay was preparing for action.
He looked at the captain, and saw that he remained very much as he had been — quiet, in unquestioned command, and unshaken. His ship and his crew were his immediate prime concern, but the whole immediate future welfare of his country was on his shoulders also. If Magsaysay did not get through, then Operation Low Blow with all of its intensive planning, effort, and dedication was over.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“Chief Summers is in charge of damage control; if he needs help you could make a hand there.”
“Gladly. Shall I go now?”
“You might as well wait here for the present.”
Reports began to come in quickly: the torpedoes were readied; the ship was headed toward the shallower water where she might more easily escape detection. The exec called sonar on the M.C. “Anything more?” he asked.
“She’s still some distance away, sir, and echo-ranging at random intervals. I haven’t got her pinpointed yet.”