On the good side, the diesels were recharging the batteries. Even so, Shipley intended to surface later, when the sun set, and top them off again. Diesel-electric battery-powered submarines such as the Squallfish had to surface every three days or the air grew stale, headaches increased as carbon monoxide levels rose and the batteries grew low. The Navy said that in less than ten years the diesel boats would all be gone, replaced by the new nuclear-powered submarines. Build one nuke such as the Nautilus and the Navy thinks it’s going to replace diesels! What are they thinking? This Rear Admiral Hyman Rickover will find himself retired early, was Shipley’s bet. Though, they say, the Nautilus can stay submerged for days.
Regardless, that didn’t stop the operational mind-set that the surface was not their friend, especially during daylight hours. But here he sat, like a dumb merchant target wallowing along at a bare four knots, waiting for a team. What team? Who are they? Why was he — the commanding officer — being kept in the dark? God, he hated spooks when they send them to sea. Keep them ashore and just send him their analyses, like they did in World War II.
He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes since the last sweep. As he looked up and grabbed his binoculars again, he felt the static electric charge as the radar operator belowdecks energized the radar sweep across the bridge. Less than thirty seconds later the sensation disappeared as the operator secured the energy. He lifted his watch cap and brushed his hair back down into place.
“Any joy?” he shouted through the hatch.
Several seconds passed before Arneau shouted back, “We have a closing surface contact bearing two eight zero range three zero nautical miles, Captain. We have another four contacts on separating course. Those four are in the navigation lanes.”
“We have any electronic warfare hits on them?”
“Not on the one that is constant bearing, decreasing range. The other four show merchant ship radars. We’ve been watching them since we surfaced, sir.”
“Very well.” Surface contacts separating from them were okay. Chances of a contact sailing over the horizon being able to pick them up on radar were low. Surfaced submarines had a low profile, and many times waves protected them from radar hits. His orders were to pick up this spook team at this location. He bit his lower lip. He knew without thinking about it that Naval Intelligence was involved in this somehow. Anytime a warship was jerked around from its mission, it was because those intelligence dogs were barking at something.
He wondered if the team arriving would have another set of orders changing their mission objective. Patrolling the Iceland-U.K. gap was routine and boring, but they knew where and when the mission would end. Now he was heading into the Barents Sea, which was owned by the Soviet Navy, even if the world called it international; a Barents Sea that at this time of the year was freezing over. He doubted the Soviets were putting out more than coastal operations at this time of year.
A gust of cold Arctic wind whipped across the Squallfish, reminding Shipley that he was on the edge of the North Sea preparing to sail into some of the most treacherous waters of the world. Treacherous waters where a man overboard lived less than a minute in waters so cold they sapped the life from a person so fast he was long dead before he could have truly realized his situation.
“Contact continues to close, Skipper! Still no EW contact. . Wait! We have a sweep from it, sir. It’s an SPS-4 surface search radar according to the whirly operator,” Arneau said, referring to the AN/WLR electronic warfare system on board as “whirly.”
“Do we know which ship?”
“That’s a negative; but it’s definitely American.”
The Navy did have a World War II destroyer escort stationed in Iceland, he recalled. The USS John J. Stevens—the name popped into his mind. The Stevens was a World War II destroyer converted into a radar picket ship as part of the Cold War defense against a Soviet attack. It had been deployed to Iceland a few months ago to serve as part of the early-warning network. Part of the defense of America involved converting thirty destroyer escorts into radar pickets. What a horrid job having to sail through weather that was seldom as calm as today.
“Sir! It’s probably the Stevens out of Keflavik. Edsall class destroyer escort, Skipper!”
“Roger, XO; got it!”
“Here it is, Captain; 306 feet long!”
Shipley raised his binoculars as Arneau continued to rattle off the armaments, crew complement, and other specifics of the Ed-sall class DE. At times such as these, he wanted to lean over the hatch and say, “Thanks, but no thanks, XO,” but if nothing else, the recital from Jane’s Fighting Ships was good training for the others in the conning tower.
Christ! He hoped the bunch they were picking up weren’t civilians. Civilians were a scurvy lot, as Chief of the Boat Boohan was fond of saying: when they’re not complaining, they’re in the way. Ought to have a civilian locker on board submarines so we could stash them away until we reach shore and can offload them. Christ! He hoped CINCNELM wasn’t that cruel a bastard to send him a pack of civilians as they headed into the worst seas of the world. It wasn’t that Shipley was against civilians; he even married one, as sailors are prone to do. But at sea, where space was limited and danger unlimited, having excess human cargo meant additional work for the crew. If they had a major emergency, civilians were more likely to be hurt. Granted, he told himself, they were nice enough on shore, but what in the hell do you do with them when you’re at sea? They clutter the wardroom talking civilian shit and taking away the one spot on the boat where the officers have some semblance of privacy—if they shut their eyes and no one spoke.
Shipley shook his head. That bastard! I bet they’re civilians. “They’ve turned off their radar, Skipper.”
Probably don’t want us to sink them. The tin-can sailors are probably laughing their heads off over bringing civilians to him. “Very well, XO. Power ours up for a thirty-second sweep, then shut it down.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
A few seconds later, the XO shouted up, “Captain, the contact has adjusted his course and is CBDR.”
“Very well. Secure our radar.” CBDR stood for constant bearing, decreasing range. A CBDR contact was destined to collide with you unless you or it changed course, speed, or both in sufficient time to change the event.
Whatever Admiral Wright had in mind for Squallfish, it seemed to Shipley, all he was supposed to do was provide transportation. He wondered where they were taking this team. Or, where the team was going to take them. Patrolling up and down the coast of the Soviet Union in the Barents should be safe, but you never knew what the Arctic was going to throw at you.
An hour later, the approaching ship topped the horizon. The starboard-side signalman identified it as an American destroyer escort. Even Shipley could make out the dark gray color and hull numbers near the bow common to American warships.
Shipley maintained course and speed as the Stevens maneuvered upwind, creating a lee to deflect the wind picking up from the north. The Squallfish sea and anchor detail parties were topside in foul-weather coats encumbered with their Mae West life vests.
The boatswain mate on board the Stevens stepped to the safety line with the shotgun contraption that fired the gunline. The sailor raised the gun, paused for a moment, and shouted, “All on deck, duck!”