“I heard we won the Battle of Midway because of their success,” Weaver added.
“Yep. You’re right there. I think there’s a lot more we don’t know, but eventually — maybe during our lifetime — we’ll find out about it,” Shipley added. He pulled out a sealed white letter envelope. “Someday we may know the whole story.”
“Box within a box,” Arneau added. “Like those Russian dolls I saw one time.”
This time Shipley wasted little effort. He ripped opened the end of the envelope and pulled the folded papers out. He unfolded the papers, smoothing them out on the table. Arneau and Weaver leaned forward for a better view, the blue logo of CINCNELM easily discernible across the top.
Shipley picked it up and quickly read the cover letter before handing it to his XO.
“Jesus Christ!” Arneau said. “He can’t be serious, can he? I don’t know if we have the garb on board to go that far north.”
Shipley forced a smile as he nodded. “Ours is not to reason why. .”
“. . But ours is to do or die,” Weaver finished with a heavy sigh, reaching across the table for the cover letter.
The XO pulled the letter back. “Just a moment. I haven’t finished.”
Shipley unfolded the attachment. He rubbed the pages apart— three pages; this seemed awfully lean for such a mission. He scanned the pages quickly. Looking up once, he saw Weaver reading the cover letter. Cover letters were nothing more than a synopsis of what the orders contained, but this cover letter was stamped in bright red “TOP SECRET,” with a compartmented code word he did not recognize in smaller print after the word SECRET.
Shipley leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. Then he read the orders again, each and every word, interpreting the nuances of the sentences and the “between the lines” meanings of the orders. He took his time, trying to grasp the impact to the Squall-fish. This was different from those of more than a decade ago.
They were not at war right now, and he did not want history to show him at the helm of starting the next one.
His mind quickly organized the mission without him even aware he was doing it — a natural habit of a leader forged in combat during the roughest of times when nearly a third of submariners never returned from their mission.
When he finished the first page, he passed it along to the XO. What would he need to meet this change of orders? Did he have the resources on board? Admiral Wright would not think kindly if Shipley pulled into port somewhere because he had failed to fully outfit the boat. Submarine skippers were expected to have their boat fitted out properly, fuel topped off, and ready to meet any contingency within their primary and secondary warfare areas. He handed the second page to Arneau, who then passed the cover letter to Weaver.
Weaver’s eyes quickly scanned the letter. “Skipper, is this real?” Weaver asked, pushing his glasses back, off the end of his nose. “This could be dangerous.”
Arneau laughed. “Dangerous? Can’t imagine why you would say that.”
Shipley nodded, his lips tight. He alone knew how dangerous this was, and they had yet to read this last page. “The orders are real, Alec. We are going into the mouth of the bear.”
“You’d think they would have made this decision with a little more forethought in the planning,” Arneau offered. “Running down to the dock as we’re getting under way”—he made an underhand throwing motion—“and tossing a change of orders at us isn’t what I would have expected.”
Shipley lowered the last sheet. “What did you expect?” he asked without rancor.
Arneau shrugged. “I would have expected them to have briefed us with sufficient time so we could ensure we had the right things on board for a mission in the Arctic waters”—he lifted page two—“not just hand us this to read while we’re two hundred feet below the surface.”
“Is this the way they did it in World War II, Skipper?” Weaver asked.
Shipley shook his head. “No. During the war we had several hours’ notice when our mission changed. But sometimes we received change of orders during routine comms cycles.” He looked at the two men. If something happened to him, these two would shoulder the responsibility of bringing Squallfish and the men who rode her back to Holy Loch. “In answer to your question: they thought about it. This isn’t something that was hatched overnight. They brought this down to us while we were casting off lines and getting under way for one reason: to ensure no leak ashore and to give no observers any indication that we were doing anything other than the normal Iceland-U.K. gap patrol assigned.”
“Still dangerous,” Arneau said.
“If we didn’t like danger, then we wouldn’t be submariners, XO.”
“Aye, sir.”
Even as Shipley said that, he continued to weigh what these orders meant to his boat. They had little to do with either the primary mission of the Squallfish to search out and destroy enemy forces, or its secondary mission of antisubmarine warfare. They would do it. Of that, there never was a question. Unfortunately, there were a multitude of questions on what could happen if he screwed this up.
And so the three top officers of the Squallfish sat quietly in the wardroom, reading and rereading the orders. After a time, Shipley pulled his small green Navy-tssued notebook from his shirt pocket and began to write notes, discussing things with his XO and OPSO that they needed to do. The coffee in his cup grew cold over time, and when other officers stuck their heads into the wardroom and saw the three meeting, they quickly withdrew.
“Crocky!” Bleecker roared when he stuck his head into the mess.
The heavyset steward’s mate first class turned to face the mustang who blocked his mess. He wiped his hands on his apron. “Well, as I live and breathe, you are still alive, Lieutenant. Lost a little weight, I see.”
Bleecker smiled as he stepped inside the mess. “Petty Officer Crocky, I haven’t lost a pound since we first met, and you keep saying that as if any moment I’m going to cave in on myself from lack of food. We get enough in the black gang.”
Crocky laughed. “My, oh, my, Lieutenant; why you engineers want to call yourself the black gang and not a black face among you is beyond me.”
Bleecker laughed. “It reminds us of. .”
“. . Of how dirty those spaces are. You ought to start eating in the wardroom, where I can at least give you some clean food.”
“Food without the taint of oil and the smell of diesel fuel ain’t really food for a good engineer.”
“Then you must be one spectacular engineer, Lieutenant.” Bleecker noticed the young colored sailor squatting near the shelves in back, searching for something. “Thought I’d swing by and let you know that they’re going to tell you to get your food out of the torpedo tubes.”
“Why?” Crocky kept wiping his hands. It was normal aboard submarines to use the torpedo tubes to store some of the fresh foods such as fruit until the skipper needed the tubes. “I thought we were on a nice, normal, leisurely rump along the gap. What the ole man thinking of doin’ now?”
They both smiled. “Old man?” Bleecker asked. “I think he’s about half your age, old man.”
“Maybe; he’s definitely half yours.”
“He’s a year older.”
“Then you musta led a spectacular life in the Philippines.”
“No photographs; no proof.”
The sailor to the rear stood up with a huge tin can in his hands. “I found it, Petty Officer Crocky.”
“That’s good, Washington. Put it on the counter and see if you can open it without ripping off a finger.” He looked back at Bleecker. “Wouldn’t want more meat in the pot than the recipe calls for.” He lowered his voice. “Got any idea what we are doing? Rumor has it the skipper, XO, and Weaver were holed up in the wardroom all morning with the couriered mail.”