Before heading on to his cabin. Colter took a moment to visit the station that was set immediately aft of the diving console. Silently picking his way through the equipment-packed deck, the captain caught sight of the glowing, green fluorescent display of the radar screen. Projected on this monitor was a portion of the coastline they had long since left behind them, and a single blinking contact that was situated off their starboard bow.
Matt Colter firmly addressed the young seaman who was perched beside this screen.
“Make certain to inform Lieutenant Commander Layman the moment that contact changes its course.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” shot back the alert sailor. “As it appears now, our closest point of approach will be three miles.”
The captain nodded.
“Good. I want to keep it that way. Any idea what type of vessel it might be?”
Ever ready to impress his commanding officer, the seaman retorted.
“Looks like a fishing trawler, sir.”
“If that’s the case, let’s just hope they don’t have any nets in the water. We certainly wouldn’t want to get snagged.”
His gaze still glued to the radar monitor, the young seaman cleared his throat and dared to put forth a single question.
“Sir, is it true that we’re headed back for the ice?”
The astounding speed with which Navy scuttlebutt spread never failed to impress Colter. He cautiously answered, “I’ll be officially announcing our destination tomorrow, sailor. But in the meantime, if I were you, I’d keep those woolen sweaters and long Johns handy.”
The radar operator grinned; “I’ll do that. Captain.”
Having affectionately patted the young sailor on the back. Colter turned for his quarters. It had been a long tiring day. The unexpected sailing orders had caught everyone by complete surprise, himself most of all. It had taken a combined effort to get the Defiance once again ready for the sea. The restocking of their limited food supply was a primary concern.
Yet because they had just returned a week earlier than anticipated, their larders hadn’t been totally empty.
Since their reactor didn’t need to be refueled for at least another year. Colter next concentrated on tracking down those crew members who had already left the ship to be with their friends or families. While phone calls, and even messengers, were used to track down these errant seamen, Matt turned to yet another major concern — the surface-scanning Fathometers.
No matter how you looked at it, the Defiance would soon be on its way to the frozen Arctic without either of its Fathometers in working order.
Hopefully, this deficiency would be rectified in three days’ time. Yet Matt was still hesitant to rely on the prototype system. Regardless of the fact that Laurie Lansing was aboard to insure that the device was functioning properly, his gut feeling warned him to be extra cautious this time around. At the first sign of trouble, he intended to switch over to the old unit; the chief engineer had promised it would also be operational in three more days. Of course, by that time he’d most probably have the rest of his orders and know precisely what their mission was.
Unexpected patrols such as the one they were on were a headache to coordinate, but they were exciting.
Usually designed with a definite purpose in mind, such missions were far more invigorating than dull sea trials and predictable maneuvers with the fleet. Because Dr. Lansing had been ordered to sea with them, it was evident that the orders he’d soon be receiving would have something to do with an ascent to the surface of the polar ice cap.
Remembering his all too recent meeting in New London, Colter wondered if the admiral had known about this mission all along. Could this then be the reason why Long had proceeded to vehemently question Matt about his decision to return a week early? It would also explain why he had resurrected the incident concerning Matt’s reluctance to surface beside the English weather station, over a year ago. It was evident that Command was afraid he had lost his nerve, and wouldn’t be fit to lead the next mission under the ice they already had in mind for him!
Bravado and recklessness were two vastly different terms that were sometimes confused. This was especially true when a careless act, carried out with total disregard for human life, reaped successful consequences.
Wars were full of such incidents. Yet Matt Colter was not about to risk his ship and crew merely to show that he was made out of the right stuff. To him, human life was sacred, and shouldn’t be needlessly wasted if a legitimate threat existed.
The brand of coward stung every man. Even more so those who’d chosen to be officers in the military.
There was a thin line between responsibility for carrying out the order of the day and the obligation to look after the welfare of those entrusted to one’s command.
For Matt Colter, the choice had been obvious.
He had been unwilling to compromise his ideals, and stood behind his decisions one hundred percent. The mere fact that he had once again been sent to sea proved that the powers that he had accepted his judgment, and that his choice had been the correct one.
Satisfied with this realization. Colter stepped through the hatchway that led to officers’ country.
The wardroom table was empty as he turned to his left and entered his cramped private domain.
It seemed that he had just fallen asleep, when his cabin filled with the resonant sound of the diving klaxon. Briefly opening his weary eyes, he stared out into the pitch black confines of his stateroom, and instinctively felt the angle of the deck alter as the Defiance took on ballast and dipped its spherical bow beneath the surging Atlantic. Confident of his crew’s ability to safely run the ship in his absence, Matt Colter yawned and almost instantly fell back into a sound dreamless sleep.
Meanwhile, on the deck immediately below. Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth sat in the crew’s mess room, gingerly spooning down a bowl of oatmeal. At the same table, his shipmate Brian MacMillan was also in the midst of a meal. Yet unlike the sonar technician, Mac as he was known to the crew, was well into a four-course steak dinner. Wolfing down his chow like he hadn’t eaten for a week, Mac started with a bowl of onion soup and a tossed salad. Once this was consumed, he began working on a plate filled to capacity with a juicy T-bone steak, fried potatoes, and an ear of steamed white corn.
His mouth still filled with partially chewed meat, the curly, blond-haired torpedoman gulped down a sip of milk and addressed his dining companion.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try a bite of this steak, Stan? For once in his life, Cooky prepared it good and rare like a steak ought to be.”
Stanley Roth wearily downed another spoonful of oatmeal before replying.
“I’ll take a rain check, Mac. This tooth of mine is still a bit sensitive.”
“But I thought you were going to see the base dentist today?” quizzed the torpedoman in between bites of potato.
Stanley disgustedly threw down his spoon and cautiously rubbed the lower left side of his jaw.
“I did, Mac.”
“Well if that’s the case, why can’t you have a real supper?” queried the puzzled seaman.
Reaching into his pocket, Stanley removed a folded sheet of prescription paper, and attempted to read from it.
“The doc says I have a deep peridontal pocket on the distal of my left mandibular first bicuspid.”
“Sounds fatal,” reflected the torpedoman as he went to work on his corn. He proceeded to polish off half the ear before adding.
“Now, in English, what the hell type of ailment is that?”