Shipley was in the conning tower when Arneau crawled up the ladder.
“Up scope,” Shipley said after a quick glance at his XO. Shipley squatted slightly, grabbing the handles as the periscope rose. He put his eyes to the scope as it continued to rise, watching the water slide away as the periscope broke surface. It was dark; his quick look revealed no navigation lights of ships and also revealed no sign of stars. Van Ness’s eight-o’clock report a few minutes earlier spoke of a quarter moon, but if it was out there, the clouds hid it.
The submarine rocked slightly, and as Shipley watched, a wave broke over the periscope.
“Switch to diesel,” he said without removing his eyes. “And prepare to surface.” He listened as the conning tower watch echoed his orders into action.
Shipley stepped back from the periscope. “Periscope down. Surface the boat.”
The two “oogles” of the submarine horn sounded throughout the Squallfish. Silent, he watched the crew respond to the officer of the deck’s orders as Lieutenant Junior Grade Olsson surfaced the boat. Shipley knew the communications officer was nervous with the skipper standing behind him. He had been there; done that; and survived it. No other way to learn unless you were doing. “Ballasts clear!”
“Ballasts clear,” Senior Chief Boohan echoed.
“Very well!” Olsson replied in acknowledgment.
The real key to surfacing and taking a submarine down was the chief of the boat. If you had a good COB, there was no way a junior officer or even a senior one could screw up a command and endanger the submarine. The COB would never permit it. Tactfully the COB would say something such as “Say again, sir!” The second time you screwed up a command, the COB would let you know with a curse and a dance of annoyance. Shipley smiled. A dancing senior or master chief was a sight to behold. He had his share of their mentorship his first year in the service.
“What you got, XO?” he finally asked.
Arneau handed him a metal clipboard.
Shipley lifted the metal top of the clipboard and read the draft Arneau and Logan had worked. “Good message. Add a paragraph asking them for any information on the depth of Kola Bay, then go ahead and send it. Let’s see if Naval Intelligence can reply in time. Be sure to tell Mr. Olsson when he gets off watch to keep any messages coming in from Naval Intelligence among him, you, and me.”
“And Lieutenant Logan.”
Shipley nodded. “And Lieutenant Logan.”
Shipley lifted the draft message to read the message below it. The bright red ink of the TOP SECRET stamp drew his attention. He looked at Arneau, whose eyebrows rose when their eyes met. “Guess we get to do it,” Shipley said, shutting the clipboard. “Yes, sir. I thought I’d schedule a meeting for later.”
Shipley looked at the clock. It was after midnight. “The sooner the better. I want to discuss rules of engagement. I want to be certain that we have touched every base to ensure a safe and successful return to Holy Loch.”
Around the conning tower, the noise of the overhead hatch opening, ears popping at the change of pressure, and the scrambling of Mr. Olsson as he scurried up the ladder, quickly followed by two topside observers, obscured the words exchanged between Shipley and Arneau. The cold Arctic air whipped through the opening, quickly bringing the temperature below freezing.
Shipley looked at the open hatch leading down to the control room.
“Want me to shut it?”
“No, XO. We need fresh air more than comfort right now.” He handed the clipboard to the XO. “As for the meeting, we’ll do it after we have exchanged air, topped off the batteries, and settled down for the final leg of our transit,” he said.
“Aye, sir.”
A sailor emerged from below with a foul-weather jacket in his hand. He mumbled “Captain” as he handed it to Shipley, who quickly put on the garment.
Arneau disappeared down the ladder.
Shipley’s thoughts went back to years ago during World War
II when they had prepared for the mission into Tokyo Bay. Back then, not only did they have two weeks of transit time to prepare, but also they had known long before they left Pearl Harbor where they were headed. This time they were going in cold — he smiled at the double meaning — and he didn’t even know if they had sufficient depth for the Squallfish to do it submerged.
ELEVEN
“Captain,” Arneau said, knocking on the bulkhead near Shipley’s stateroom.
Shipley’s eyes opened. He looked at the small clock on his desk, a gift from June years ago. The hands showed five-fifteen. He pushed himself up on both elbows and looked at Arneau. “What is it, XO?”
“Sir, you wanted to be in the conning tower when we had to turn into Soviet waters.”
“How long—”
“About thirty minutes until we turn.” Arneau put one foot into the small stateroom and set a cup of steaming coffee on the small desk. “Compliments of Crocky. Got there as the light turned red.”
“Thanks.” Shipley spun his feet off the bed. “I feel like shit.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, Skipper, you look it, too.”
“Thanks, XO. What every skipper needs: a smart-ass exec.”
“Some have to work at it. For me, my father said it was something inherited from a long line of Jewish activists.”
“Activists? Is that some sort of sect within the Jew religion?” Arneau smiled and shook his head. “Never mind, Skipper. Poor joke on my part. And, it’s the Jewish religion, not the Jew religion.”
Shipley took a sip of the coffee, enjoying the fresh taste and smell of what would grow into a bastion of tannic acid and gray sludge by the end of the workday.
He set the cup down and quickly put on his shoes. “Torpedoes?”
“All tubes are loaded.”
“Both forward and aft crews briefed?”
“Both briefed. No one is to even open an outer door on a tube without your express permission or order.”
Shipley nodded. “Good.” He tied the last shoe, stood, and grabbed his coffee. “One thing I have yet to learn is how to climb those ladders with a cup of hot coffee in my hand.”
“But we do it.”
“And we make a mess each time, but this is too good to waste.”
Moments later the two stood in the conning tower. Van Ness was hunkered over the small navigation table, with the lead signalman petty officer shoulder to shoulder with him.
Shipley took the few steps to where the two men were working. “Report, officer of the deck.”
“Sir, steering course one one zero at eight knots.”
“Depth?”
“Oh, sorry, sir. Depth one hundred fifty feet.”
“Time to turn?”
Van Ness straightened, twiddling his pencil with both his hands. “Sir, estimated time to turn is fifteen minutes. New course will have us crossing the twelve-nautical-mile territorial waters of the Soviet Union in thirty minutes.”
Shipley quickly looked around the compartment, lowered his voice, and replied, “Cliff, I know it’s hardly a secret with the crew where we are or even where we are going, but let’s at least pretend they don’t know. Okay?”
Van Ness blushed. “Sorry, sir. I said—”
“I know what you said, navigator. What’s next?”
“Recommend we come to course one seven five degrees”— Van Ness glanced at the clock on the bulkhead, then back down at the chart—“in five minutes.”
“Weren’t you the OOD last night when I left, Mr. Van Ness?”
“Yes, sir; but four hours on watch; four hours off; and the next thing you know, you’re right back up here.”
Shipley smiled at Van Ness’s attempt at humor. Van Ness was not his best OOD. When he reviewed the man’s personnel qualification standards, he had seen where his predecessor had the same impression. “Okay, make the turn as scheduled.” He looked at the officer. “How long until we reach the entrance of the bay?”