The sound of the torpedo propeller could be heard as it passed by, slightly above and only a little to the right.
“All ahead full.”
“All ahead full.”
Once more Magsaysay began very slowly to gain headway in the water, her control surfaces gradually taking hold and aligning her on course. On the con the captain began to walk back and forth. Being careful to keep out of the way, Wagner studied him and was relieved to discover that he was human after all. For there was a fine mist of perspiration on the captain’s forehead, not from fear, but from the weight of responsibility that was his and that he had to bear.
The exec went to the M.C. “Sonar, do you have anything?”
“Negative, sir. Do you wish me to go active?”
The exec looked at the captain, who shook his head.
“How good was the hit?” the exec asked.
“Definite, sir, I’ll swear to it.”
“Carry on.”
“Ay, sir.”
It was silent again after that. For the first time since he had been on board the submarine, Walter Wagner felt closed in. Claustrophobia did not disturb him, but he wanted almost desperately to see what was going on; he felt like a blind man who must depend on his ears alone to tell him what is happening. There was a multitude of possibilities: the submarine that had attacked them might be playing possum; the hit could have been fatal or, as far as he knew, minor. There might be many other potential attackers in position, and Magsaysay was not an attack-type submarine — she carried only a very limited torpedo load. In fact she had a mixed load which included some SUBROC missiles, highly useful in certain situations, but cutting down her available torpedoes still more. And there was the element of battle luck with which he was all too familiar: in any kind of conflict situation luck could have a lot to do with it — such as setting a well-aimed torpedo slightly too shallow. The breaks of the game worked according to the law of averages. The breaks had all been good so far; a bad one was due any time.
Gradually Magsaysay began to pick up speed, overcoming her inertia and the strong tendency of the propeller to cavitate in the water. When a full half hour had passed and there was no sign of any further activity Wagner assumed that they were somewhere in the Bering Strait, but the frustrating inability to see anything but the inside of the submarine denied him the sharp sense of reality. Minute by minute, as the ship moved onward, he gave thanks that another half mile had been covered; had he been running things from the enemy’s side he would have had some surprises prepared; the waters could have been mined by aircraft.
“Why don’t you go and get some chow?” the captain asked him.
That was as polite a dismissal as he had ever heard. “Good idea,” he answered and climbed down from the con onto the main deck. In the wardroom he discovered that he had been hungry without knowing it. By common consent no one had referred to food when the ship had been running without any provisions; now that there was plenty once more he still seemed to feel the discomfort of those days before the Dolly had been found ready and waiting.
After he had finished his meal he wandered to the small stateroom which had been assigned to him and the commander of the Hunters Point shipyard. He found his colleague there trying to pass the time with a book on submarine operations and tactics. He put it down gladly when Wagner appeared and welcomed the opportunity to talk.
They were still so engaged when Magsaysay first pushed her nose into the beginning waters of the Chukchi Sea. Fifty-eight minutes later, intently at work at his station, the navigator reached with his dividers once more and plotted her position one half nautical mile north of the Arctic Circle. Now there were only vast waters ahead and the shrouding cover of the great ice cap.
Feodor Zalinsky was thoroughly worried because it was already midmorning and his interpreter had not yet reported for work. He had been informed, of course, that the man Hewlitt had been seen being kidnapped on the street, but that was not what caused him concern. He was particularly afraid that Rostovitch had him.
If that were the case, then that meant that the position and authority he presently held were being challenged. Previously, not even Colonel Rostovitch would have dared to interfere with members of his personal staff without at least advising him first. But if Rostovitch did not have Hewlitt, then who did? Zalinsky could not answer that question and it haunted him.
He picked up a phone. “Get me Colonel Rostovitch,” he said.
As soon as the connection was made he was on the firmer ground of his own language. The conversation was brief; the colonel, who was in his usual biting mood, denied any knowledge whatsoever of Hewlitt’s whereabouts. This in itself was bad news, since the chances were better than ninety per cent that he was lying. Zalinsky hung up and then considered carefully what he ought to do next. Rostovitch technically reported to him as the head of the occupying authority, but in real fact the ferociously ambitious colonel headed his own organization and reported back directly to the premier himself.
Zalinsky was most concerned over his own position and its protection. The question before him was a simple one: had Rostovitch picked up his interpreter and if so why? Hewlitt himself was a minor pawn in this kind of a power play and what happened to him was incidental. At the same time he had recognized a certain ability in the man and even Rostovitch might find him troublesome for a short while.
He was still pondering the matter when the silence of the Oval Office was broken by a brief tap on the door. Before he could respond it was swung open and he was startled to see Hewlitt himself standing there. The surprise of his arrival was compounded by his appearance: he was unshaven and his hair appeared to have been given little or no attention. His clothes looked as if he had slept in them and his tie was crumpled and limp.
“I am glad to see you,” Zalinsky said in his own language. “Are you all right?”
Hewlitt came into the room, almost an incongruous figure in the vaulted dignity of the White House office. “Yes, I’m all right,” he answered. “Please excuse my appearance; I came here in a hurry because it was urgent.”
“Evidently.”
Hewlitt stood before him, disheveled but nonetheless fully in control of himself. “Mr. Zalinsky,” he said, “you’d better stop whatever you’re doing and listen to me; I have something very important to tell you.”
Senator Solomon Fitzhugh stepped through the doorway into the VIP suite and displayed his membership card to the young lady at the desk. “Good morning, senator,” she greeted him. “Nice to have you with us again. Your flight will be departing on time for a wonder.”
“I believe you have my ticket,” Fitzhugh said.
“Yes, right here, sir.” She produced it. “You should have a nice flight; the weather’s good all the way and it’s quite pleasant in Chicago this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“You aren’t leaving us are you, sir?”
He did not like the question, but he answered it courteously. “For a little while. Congress isn’t meeting at the moment and I’m allowing myself a short vacation. I have a small place in Upper Michigan where I can get some rest.”
The girl handed him his ticket. “Have a good time, senator, if that’s the thing to say right now. Anyhow, good luck.”
“Thank you,” he acknowledged.
A little more than an hour later he was airborne and headed westward from Washington. He sat alone, paying no attention whatever to the attractive woman two rows behind him, who was apparently totally concerned with her own affairs.