Petty Officer Baron opened and ducked through the aft hatch. He saw Shipley. “Captain, Mr. Olsson asked me to find you and ask you to come to the radio shack, sir.”
Shipley pulled his gloves off and put them in his pocket. “Did he say why?”
“No, sir,” Baron answered, starting to shiver.
“Let’s get out of here, Petty Officer Baron. When you get back to radio, you put on your foul-weather gear before you head back this way again.” He would have to put off the coffee for a few more minutes. The radio shack was near the control room, but when Shipley stepped through the hatch, the warmer submarine spaces hit him in the face, bringing pain to his cold face. He reached up and touched it, running his hand around his face. Everything seemed to be there. He wriggled his toes again when they reached the curtain of radio. He could feel them. He told himself to slip on an extra set of socks before he went topside again.
“Skipper,” Olsson said when he saw him. “Christ, sir! What’s wrong with your face?”
Shipley ran his hand across it again. “Feels all right to me, Mr. Olsson. Why? Is something missing?”
“No, sir; just it’s so red.”
“I’ve been topside. What is so important while we are surfaced that you need me here?” He was slightly irritated, but being irritated when someone needed you was a quick way for them to find ways to never need you.
“It’s Lieutenant Logan. . ”
Behind Olsson, the smaller Logan stuck his head out and raised his hand. “I’m here, Skipper.”
“What is it?”
“Sir, we need a secure space to discuss the message that just came across.”
“Lieutenant Logan, how many times have I told you that we don’t have secure spaces on the diesel? Secure spaces, as you intelligence types think of it, don’t exist here. This is the radio shack; this is the Squallfish; and this is as secure as it gets. Now, what do you have?” Before Logan could answer, he looked at Olsson. “You know anything?”
Olsson shook his head. “No, sir; Lieutenant Logan asked me to leave while he deciphered the message.”
“Okay, Lieutenant Logan, what do you have?”
Logan looked at Olsson and then at Baron. “Maybe if we can talk with just you and me,” he said, pointing at Shipley.
Shipley let out a deep sigh. “Okay. Mr. Olsson, would you and Petty Officer Baron give Mr. Logan and me a few minutes alone?”
“No, sir; I mean yes, sir.”
“Don’t go far, as we won’t be here long.”
“I thought I’d go get some coffee. It’s getting cold in here.”
It felt like a heat wave to Shipley. He glanced inside the radio shack but did not see a thermometer.
Shipley nodded. He told Olsson about the need for his foul-weather gear through the control room and asked him to bring him a cup back. Petty Officer Baron headed aft, probably to the crew’s quarters.
“Okay, Lieutenant Logan. We have cleared the immediate vicinity. What is so all-fired important that you have made me clear radio?”
He handed the message to Shipley, who read it, then reread it.
Then he looked up at Logan. “This is nuts. Is this something Naval Intelligence dreamed up?” he asked, shaking his head.
“I can’t answer that, sir. It’s from CINCNELM.”
“CINCNELM is in London. He won’t be here when this goes to shit.” Shipley paused for a moment, reading the message again. What were they thinking in London and in the Pentagon? This wasn’t Japan they were asking him to do, and they weren’t at war with the Soviet Union. “There are right orders and there are dumb orders.” He shoved the message into Logan’s hand. “This is a dumb order, and all it’s going to do is get us all killed.”
“What do I tell CINCNELM?”
“You”—Shipley leaned forward until his face was inches from Logan’s—“don’t tell them anything. That’s my responsibility,” he said, enunciating each word.
“But Admiral Frost wants me to respond expeditiously to this order, sir.”
Shipley leaned back. Surely Admiral “Thirty-one-Knot” Burke isn’t listening to this. But then Admiral Laurence “Jack” Frost, the Director of Naval Intelligence, had been Admiral Burke’s flag captain during the war. Probably why Frost was the DNI now. Shipley took a deep breath, reached over, and took the message from Logan. He would not be getting this message if Admiral Burke was not aware of what he was asking. “Let me have this. We’ll draft a reply later. You go ahead and draft one for me to reply to this ludicrous mission that has gone from dangerous to deadly.” He leaned down, his face hard. “And don’t send it or anything else without my permission. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The forward hatch opened, and Lieutenant Junior Grade Ols-son thanked the person holding the hatch as he stepped inside the passageway. He held two cups of coffee in his hands. “Here, sir.” Shipley thanked him. He looked at the clock on the bulkhead inside the small radio shack. He had ten minutes before he needed to relieve Weaver. He’d make a quick head call and then relieve the operations officer so the man could crawl topside to rescue the XO who by now was counting the seconds.
“We are going to be busy for the next couple of hours exchanging air. When we finish and are settled down for the night, we’ll work on our response.”
Shipley cradled the cup with the palms of his hands, enjoying the feel of the heat against his skin. He set the hot cup down just long enough to pull on his gloves for the journey back through the control room toward officers’ country. Neither of the junior officers spoke. Shipley’s mind whirled with the implications of what he was being ordered to do.
Picking up his cup, Shipley turned toward the forward hatch. As he grabbed the handle, he turned. “By the way, Lieutenant Logan, don’t ever order any of my officers out of their assigned areas again without my permission.” He looked up. “Understand?”
TEN
Anton stood in the hatchway to the forward torpedo room. The place stank of the fire from a week ago. Everything loose had been moved out since his return from visiting Admiral Katshora. The work party had tried haphazardly to scrub away the soot and stains of the fire, but it was impossible among the wires, cabling, and pipes that ringed the small compartment, most of which would have to be ripped out and replaced eventually. It was something the yards would have to do when the Whale went through her routine upkeep. He ran his hand through his hair. That was something he should know: when was the Whale next scheduled for her yard period?
“I think this is the best we can do,” Gesny offered from inside the compartment, turning to face Anton. A smear of soot marked the XO’s right cheek. “Everything that can burn that can be taken out has been taken out. Thankfully, torpedoes were not items we had to deal with,” Gesny said, repeating the observation nearly every time the two of them talked of the fire. If torpedoes had been in the aft torpedo room, chances are none of them would be standing on the Whale now. Most would be dead.
The XO swept his hand around the compartment. Behind him a couple of sailors squatted near the controls to the torpedo tubes.
“We can maintain access to the compartment along the port passageway”—he pointed toward Anton—“since it circumvents the reactor room that should keep Doctor Zotkin happy.” He slapped an overhead pipe. “As you ordered, Captain, I have instructed the operations officer to maintain a security and safety watch in this compartment all the time.”