“Who are ‘they’?” Arneau asked.
“Admiral Frost, Director of Naval Intelligence. And I understand it was a point of discussion between him and Admiral Burke.”
Arleigh Burke, Chief of Naval Operations — World War II hero and a fellow Academy grad.
“I thought this was between your Admiral Frost and the commander, eastern Atlantic and Mediterranean — CINCNELM; Admiral Wright. The tasker you brought me was signed by Admiral Frost, but the cover letter to the papers delivered pierside at Holy Loch was signed by Admiral Wright. So who is behind this mission, Lieutenant?” Shipley asked.
Logan swallowed. “Sir, the CNO himself has approved this operation. Admiral Frost and Admiral Wright are the officers in tactical charge.”
Shipley shook his head. “Lieutenant, you have a lot to learn about working with the submarine force.” Shipley leaned down and in a whisper all could hear added, “Is there anything else you have failed to tell me? Do you know which Soviet warships will be operating in our OPAREA when we arrive?”
Logan nodded. “I have a good idea, Skipper. We know which ships have successfully passed their most recent refresher training and are destined to deploy to the Mediterranean early next year.”
“The Soviets have never deployed the Northern Fleet to the Mediterranean,” Arneau said.
“That is correct, Captain. It has always been elements of the Black Sea flotilla,” Logan added. “But the Soviets intend to show the world that theirs is an oceangoing Navy, one that can deploy ships from any fleet to anywhere in the world.”
Shipley waved his hand. “Back to the question: do you know which class of ships will be out there when we arrive?”
“Just what I said, Captain; I have an idea based on the warships assigned to the Soviet Northern Fleet. Most likely they’re going to use their destroyers. They can track their own submarines.”
“Soviet submarines are going to be out there?” Shipley asked curtly. “Soviet submarines, and you didn’t think this was important enough to mention? I can understand the purpose of your mission, but during the war, submarines were the best antisubmarine force the Japanese and we had. We submarines fought each other nearly as much as we tried to avoid destroyers.”
“I think there will be only one submarine out there, and if our intelligence is right, that submarine is what they will be tracking.”
Shipley bit his lip. “Then take your good ideas and work with the OPSO here so we can know what we are going to be facing when we arrive,” Shipley replied.
“It can’t be a good thing when the word ‘Fleet’ is part of the opposition force,” Weaver said.
“And, about our speed, Captain?” Logan asked.
Shipley turned to Weaver, who now stood alongside him. “Looks to me, OPSO, that we will have to increase our speed to get on station. I want to be there before the Soviet Northern Fleet arrives on station.”
“Sir, if the Northern Fleet puts to sea, there is a good chance we are going to be detected. It is a great risk,” Arneau offered.
This was like World War II missions, Shipley realized, astounded to realize he was looking forward to the operation. The thrill of pitting his lone craft against the forces of the second most powerful Navy in the world. He could understand their trepidations about going into harm’s way, but when they came out he would have a seasoned wardroom. It was doubtful the Navy would award them a combat pin because of security reasons, but he would still have a wardroom ready to go anywhere.
The sooner they got on station the better the odds of him controlling events rather than having events control him.
“I appreciate everyone’s arguments for and against how we maneuver to arrive on station,” Shipley said.
He straightened, looked at the officers, and then tapped the chart on the table. “During World War II we did what was called ‘end arounds.’ We would detect an enemy formation miles ahead of us or speeding past us, knowing we couldn’t catch them as long as we were submerged and on battery power. Battery power lets you bore a hole in the ocean, but it’s a long, slow hole when you’re hitting six knots. So when night fell, we’d surface and speed ahead, leapfrogging to where we thought they would have to pass. Then we’d submerge and wait for them to come to us.” He scratched his chin. “I can’t think of a time when a submerged sub during the war ever caught up with a target sailing away from it. Unless when they were zigzagging, they zigzagged right into your lap.”
No one said anything. He wondered if his reminiscing went over their heads, or if they were thinking, How in the hell did I get this crazy man as my captain?
Shipley looked at Logan. “We’ll increase our submerged speed a couple of knots, to eight during the day. That will depend on battery power. I don’t want to find us with no spare power to make a submerged evasive run. We’ll surface at night to make up time.” He paused, “But we are not going to do more than that to make up time. The lives and welfare of the boat and the crew come first. Do we understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cliff,” Shipley continued, pointing at Van Ness, “you work with Alec and Lieutenant Logan to work out a dead-reckoning approach to put us in the Soviet Navy OPAREA off the mouth of Kola Bay no later than three days from now. See if we can do it in two days.”
“Sir, two days is going to be nigh impossible. Three is chancy.”
“Ya,” Olsson said. Every head turned toward the broadchested Swede, who waved his hands in front of him and shook his head.
“Then show me, Cliff.” He turned to the XO. “Arneau, would you see me in my stateroom?”
“Aye, sir.”
Shipley stepped out of the wardroom and headed to his small stateroom. He understood the feeling of euphoria. When the war ended abruptly in 1945, many captains found themselves disappointed. Maybe that was the word here: disappointed. This mission might be the closest he ever came again to reliving the anxiety and emotions of combat he experienced in World War II. No one would voice the word “thrill,” but it was there. For a brief second, he nearly loved Logan. Then he shivered over the idea of his boat being used as a reconnaissance vehicle.
A couple of sailors turned sideways, their backs to the bulkhead of the passageway as Shipley passed.
“Morning, Skipper,” they both said.
Shipley acknowledged their greeting and continued onward. He should not feel thrilled. The routine patrol of the Iceland-U.K. gap was forgotten. The adrenaline wasn’t racing through his body yet, but he recalled the fear of the depth charging north of Luzon and the thrill of life when they managed to evade and escape the Japanese destroyers. Then, within an hour of that event, the submarine had merged into the center of a Japanese task force, firing fore and aft torpedoes, with the expectation of escaping during the carnage. They had been wrong. A Japanese destroyer had detected them again, and for two days the Imperial Fleet had chased them, dropping depth charges, until either the destroyers had run out of them or thought they had sunk the submarine. Either way, they finally escaped. Life never seems sweeter than when you escape death. Even the topside air smelled better.
He had been three days in Pearl before he finally sobered up. This was World War II again — a lone submarine against an entire fleet — the fear of forces above him and the thrill of life afterward.
He — Bleecker — Crocky — probably the only ones on board who could know what his emotions told him. Fellow veterans of depth charges; the joy of surviving; and the hard alcoholic hazes ashore after a mission. No one knew the inane emotions combat created unless they lived through it.