He had made his voice cold, devoid of emotion. Standing at his desk, he tore up Jim’s paper, threw it aside.
The effect on Laura was something Rich knew he would have to endure in silence. Whatever she knew or surmised about the workings of the navy, she must certainly have been bitter at the hand the navy had dealt her. She must have stated it to Jim. It just wasn’t fair. Jim should have been allowed to stay in New London a while longer. Someone else, despite the black mark of his earlier failure, surely would have given him a second chance to qualify for command. Both of them must have known it was Richardson who had blocked that road.
And then there had been the emotion-charged day of leaving New London for the war zone. Memorial Day, 1942. Laura had been a guest for lunch in Walrus’ tiny wardroom. She and Jim had been married for only five days. It was the last time they were to see each other. Here, with Walrus on the point of departure — forever, as it had turned out — Richardson received a flash of pure personal insight. It was an affecting moment for all hands, with most of the crew saying longing and fearful farewells to their loved ones. He, on the other hand, the captain of the sub, had no one to bid him good-bye except the admiral at the submarine base, who routinely did this for all departing boats; Captain Blunt, his squadron commander; and a few other skippers.
It was at that instant, for the first time, that he was able to identify the strange feeling he had for Laura. She was Jim’s. They had pledged themselves to each other. Richardson had grown to love her, and that was the beginning and the end of that, too.
Through it all, something of which he could never speak, Laura had come to personify the girl he would one day want to marry. Gradually he had come to know it, to accept it. But why had he opposed Jim’s request for transfer? Why had he insisted on taking a disgruntled, potentially disloyal, second-in-command to sea with him? Was it only, as he tried to make himself believe, and as Jim had apparently at last been convinced, that he felt a responsibility to protect Jim from the full consequences of his ineptitude? Was this the only reason, or was there something underlying it, something deeper, more basic? Could he have wanted to separate Jim from Laura?
Buried within every soul lies a capacity for evil. Could that have been his real, his (even to himself) unadmitted motive? It was the first time he had followed this train of thought. It scared him. It was monstrous, diabolical. He, Edward Richardson—“Rich” to Jim and Laura — was not capable of such an act, much less the thought of it. Yet now he had thought of it. The question was whether he had also thought of it, somehow, subtly, unconsciously, before the Walrus got underway from New London.
Joan had sensed something. She was withdrawing from him, growing indefinably more distant. There was something cold inside him. The second self was telling him to stop this morbid thinking. He had acted honestly, without conscious thought of self, or Laura. He had salvaged Jim’s submarine career. It was because of him that Jim had had the chance to find himself. He could hold himself to no responsibility for Jim’s death. Good men had died in the war. Jim had simply been one of them. So had Tateo Nakame.
Joan accepted his mute apology. No word had been spoken. He wondered whether she had guessed he was thinking about another girl.
The in-port routine between patrols always involved, at its end, a third week of exercises at sea. With three submarines designated to travel out to the same exercise area and there operate as a coordinated team, the at-sea period became a strenuous rehearsal for the tactics they had practiced on the game floor. A supply convoy was due in Pearl Harbor from San Francisco. The three boats spent the entire week lying in wait for it, planning its interception, trailing it. For two days and two nights, simulated attacks were carried out. At the end of the time, when the ships arrived at their destination, the eight-ship convoy had twice been theoretically wiped out. Richardson and Leone, who found themselves almost without supervision laying out the problem and the tactics for all three submarines, were so short on sleep as to be virtually wiped out themselves. Blunt, on the other hand, having delegated both minor and major decisions to his two subordinates, made up for long nights of pursuit and attack by equally long naps during the days. At the conclusion of the training he felt better rested, he said, than he had for years. Being at sea again, he repeated several times, was a tremendous tonic.
It was already dark when Eel slid alongside her berth at the submarine base. The training period had been pronounced a complete success. A staff car was waiting for the freshly shaven and showered wolfpack commander, who promptly disappeared. Keith gave Richardson a long, silent look as the two wearily dropped on their bunks.
ComSubPac was holding a conference. The reason was clear when the only attendees turned out to be a Captain Caldwell, the operations officer now temporarily also filling in as chief of staff, Blunt as wolfpack commander, and the skippers of the three submarines assigned to him. “This is top secret,” Admiral Small cautioned them. “You may not speak of it outside this room, not even to your execs. After you get to sea and are beyond Midway, you are authorized to let them know, but not until then, and no one else under any circumstances.”
The three skippers nodded their understanding. Rich shot a glance at Blunt and Caldwell. They were looking steadily at the admiral. From their expressions, they already knew what was to come. This interview, then, was for the benefit of Les Hartly, Whitey Everett, and himself. It would prove the rightness or wrongness of his deductions regarding the importance of the mission they were to be sent on.
Even as the thought raced through his head, Admiral Small confirmed it. “The purpose of this meeting is to inform you three commanding officers of your special mission. You will commit it to memory. You may make no notes of any kind. It will not be mentioned in your operation orders. While I’m speaking, go ahead and ask questions on any points you wish. This is the only notification you’ll receive.”
Small motioned to Caldwell, who rose to draw back the curtain covering the wall chart. It was a different chart from the one Richardson had seen only a few months ago. Larger, more detailed as to land topography. Evidently a metal backing had been installed when the chart was changed, for Caldwell next selected several items from a box and placed them, with a noticeable metallic click, upon its vertical surface. Even Blunt leaned forward attentively.
A red ring had been placed around a tiny island almost at the southern tip of the Nampo Shoto chain — the Bonins — and, almost due west, a large red arrow pointed to a much bigger island at the southern extremity of the Nansei Shoto, the Ryukyu group. Below the arrow, hand-lettered on a piece of cardboard mounted on a large magnet, were the words, “OPERATION ICEBERG.”
The red ring covered the name of the small island, but Rich had plotted his way through the Nampo Shoto too many times to fail to recognize it instantly. Iwo Jima.
The other island, almost directly west of Iwo Jima, was equally familiar: Okinawa.
The admiral was talking. “Gentlemen, Operation ICEBERG is scheduled to begin in January. It is only the first move, and perhaps the most important, in the campaign which will end in Tokyo, we hope, in the fall. First, we are going to take Iwo Jima by assault. Its garrison is already isolated. There will be a heavy bombardment by naval ships and the army air corps, and then our Marines will move in. The Japanese general there is a dedicated soldier and will fight to the last, but we expect to take it fairly quickly after his troops are softened up. Immediately afterward, before the Japs have time to catch their breath, we will move on Okinawa. That’s our real objective. It will be the staging area for the attack on the home islands.” He paused. His listeners were staring at the wall chart. His voice, measured, flat, emotionless, each sentence carrying the impact of an explosive charge, continued.