Behind him, he heard Arneau speak to Logan. “Guess Naval Intelligence hasn’t been much help, Lieutenant. We are going to go in cold, and let’s hope we come out the same way.”
“Sir?”
“A hot time by the Soviets is not what we want.”
Shipley turned to the two men. “Lieutenant Logan, are your men ready?” He turned. “Officer of deck, take us up to fifty feet— periscope depth.”
“As ready as they’ll ever be, sir. They are in the after engine room rigging up the air sampler.” He bit his lower lip. “Skipper, are we going to be able to use the main induction values while inside the bay? I mean, we have to surface for our equipment to sample the air.”
Shipley nodded. “I know, Lieutenant. Unless we find ourselves hiding from the Soviets, we will surface when the chances of them seeing us are reduced. I don’t think they expect an American submarine inside their fwelve-mile limit, much less this deep inside their national waters. I’ll give you all the time I can for you to do your spook stuff, but when I say we dive, we dive.” The deck tilted as the Squallfish started up.
“Yes, sir; I fully understand.”
“What are these air samples supposed to tell us, Lieutenant?”
“They’re supposed to tell us, XO, whether the Soviets are experimenting with atomic radiation at this facility.”
Shipley nodded. “If they are and we can detect it, Lieutenant, it would seem that whatever they are doing is endangering their men.”
Logan nodded. “I don’t know that much about radiation or nuclear power, Captain, but I know it kills if you get too much of it. Ask those people at Hiroshima or Nagasaki.”
“Passing one hundred feet,” the planesman reported.
“One hundred feet — aye,” Senior Chief Boohan repeated. “One hundred feet,” Weaver echoed. “Sound, any contacts?”
“Only the original one, sir. Still on course one eight zero at ten knots; range fifteen nautical miles.”
“Make our depth fifty feet,” Weaver repeated.
“Officer of the deck,” Shipley called, “ready snorkel. Prepare to switch to diesel. Have Lieutenant Bleecker give me a call.”
“Aye, sir.”
A couple of minutes later, at seventy-five feet, the intercom buzzed. It was the chief engineer.
“Lieutenant Bleecker, this might be our last chance to top off the batteries before we start our entrance to the bay. Make the most of it. It most likely will be twenty-four to thirty-six hours before we have another opportunity,” Shipley said into the handset. He had given up trying to keep their destination secret from the crew. Even the electrician mates and torpedomen knew they were heading toward the Soviet Northern Fleet headquarters. The primary purpose was clouded in the scuttlebutt of whispers.
He listened as Bleecker passed along his plan for keeping the ship making way while charging the batteries. Engines one and two would be directed to the electric motors, while engines three and four would be directed to the batteries. The estimated time to achieve full charge would be six hours.
He hung up the handset. Six hours on the surface at the mouth of Kola Bay was not his idea of an ideal location or time, but the night and the paucity of shipping traffic significantly reduced opportunities for the low profile of the Squallfish to be detected.
“XO, I want the topside watches changed every fifteen minutes instead of thirty. You and I will alternate.”
“Maybe I should take the first watch, Captain. You did it last time.”
Shipley liked the idea but decided against it. The captain’s place was on the bridge when a submarine first surfaced.
Since the incident with Van Ness and Logan, with the exception of minutes, either Shipley or the XO had been in the conning tower. Shipley’s intention was to keep it that way until they were safely out of Kola Bay and back in international waters.
“Up periscope,” he said.
Another body crawled into the conning tower.
“Chief Belford,” Shipley said to the man as he stepped off the ladder, “have they finally captured you for the watch bill?”
“Ah, Skipper, I’ve always been on the watch bill. You’re just never here when I’ve been here.”
The grind of the hydraulics filled the background noise inside the conning tower.
“What do you think of this trip so far, Chief?”
“I think me and my lads are going to have a lot of work to do once we tie up back at Holy Loch. You know how much damage Arctic seawater does to a good paint job?”
Shipley squinted his left eye shut as he pressed the right to the eyepiece as he rode the periscope up. “Can’t say that I do, Chief. But a good boatswain mate such as you will make short work of it.”
“Just a lot, sir; a hell of a lot. We’re going to look like shit when we sail in.”
“Get me a bearing on the contact, Chief.”
Shipley spun the periscope around so it aligned dead-on with the bow of the Squallfish. Dark water spun across the scope. Then suddenly the scope broke the surface, a different darkness covering the scope.
“Fifty feet!” he heard from Boohan, who was looking over the shoulders of the planesmen while still within reaching distance of the control handles to the ballasts.
Shipley saw the white stern light of the merchant vessel they had been trailing during the evening hours.
“Set.”
“Bearing one eight five, ten degrees off our starboard bow,” Chief Belford said.
Shipley stepped to the left, spinning the search periscope ten degrees to the right. He waited for the water to clear the scope, but when it didn’t. . “Christ,” he exclaimed, for he knew what it was. Eyes turned toward him, wondering if something was wrong. It was rain, and it was coming down hard.
He stepped away from the periscope. “Snorkel?” he shouted.
As if expecting his question, the hull vibrated as the diesel engines came online. He put his eye back on the scope and turned it aft, barely making out several bursts of gray-black smoke from the induction valve.
The XO climbed up into the conning tower. “Skipper, I wish you’d let me take the first watch topside.”
Shipley stepped away from the periscope, looked at Arneau, and nodded. “Okay. You win, XO. You take the first thirty minutes, then I’ll come topside to relieve you.” Should he tell him about the weather? Then, as much as he would have enjoyed letting Arneau discover it himself, the dangers of the Arctic overcame the urge. “You will need your rain slick over your foul-weather jacket, XO. It’s a rough one up there.”
The XO acknowledged his comment.
“Officer of the deck, surface the boat,” Shipley ordered. “Periscope down.”
Three minutes later the Squallfish was on the surface. The waves rocked the boat a little. The safety ballast beneath the bottom of the boat remained filled with water, acting much like a keel to help steady the ungainly maneuverability of a surfaced submarine.
The quartermaster scurried up the ladder and undogged the hatch, throwing it back. The clang of it hitting the bridge deck echoed through the conning tower. Shipley smiled. “XO, I’m dressed for it. Go get your rain slick and relieve me as soon as possible.” He tugged the foul-weather jacket. “This thing won’t be of much use against the cold once it’s soaked.”
“Sir, I have some rain slicks up here,” Senior Chief Boohan said before Arneau could hit the ladder.
The quartermaster leaped down the last few rungs.
“In the locker,” Boohan said to Belford.
Chief Belford pulled a bunch of rain slicks from a nearby storage locker. “Sir, this one might fit you,” he said, handing one to Shipley, who looked questioningly at him.