The narrow passage about which he had been concerned was discovered not to be as narrow as it was shallow. The constant echo soundings sonar did gave them depth readings. Deep enough to dive, but too shallow to evade any concerted ASW effort. He turned on his flashlight. The red lens across the light kept the glow red. Shining it on his watch, he saw it was nearly midnight Zulu time.
“Depth three hundred feet and dropping rapidly, Captain,” Arneau added.
Shipley turned off the flashlight. He acknowledged the report, raised his binoculars, and searched right and left. The fog was too thick for him to see the shore, and he was in too precarious a situation to use the radar. At least the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
“Four hundred fifty feet!” Boohan announced.
“Not so loud,” Arneau cautioned.
Shipley glanced one last time at the merchant freighter ahead of them. They had been quiet as possible with their voices while following the Soviet freighter into Kola Bay. In calm seas voices could carry quite a distance, though with the rain, wind, and seas they had had for the past three hours, it had been hard for them to hear each other as they maneuvered into position behind the freighter, using it to guide them into the bay. The passing of the storm and the fog that rolled up behind it changed everything but the waves, which continued to be pushed by the wind. Not gale force, but sufficient for a wave to crash over the stern every now and again. The wind was southerly and could carry their voices the nautical mile to the freighter.
“Let’s take the boat down, XO,” Shipley said, then added, “But pass the word: don’t use the horn.” Logan’s head appeared in the hatch. “Lieutenant Logan, before I tell you to get the hell out of the hatch, what do the Soviets use for diving? A horn, beeping, or what?”
Logan shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.”
Shipley nodded. “Well, don’t ask Naval Intelligence; we’ve gotten one message that failed to provide enough answers to justify the cost of sending it. And they have yet to reply to our questions on Soviet submarine tactics. We’ll be in Holy Loch by the time they do. Now get the hell out of the hatch so we can submerge.”
Behind Logan, he heard Arneau ordering the intelligence officer to get his butt off the ladder. Logan jumped down.
Logan looked up at Shipley and held up a sheet of paper, the familiar blocked diagram of a Navy message visible in the red light of the conning tower.
“XO, tell me when the ‘Christmas Tree’ is green with the exception of the topside hatch.”
“Aye, sir.”
He heard the diesels switching to battery, looking aft as the main induction valves closed. He looked up at the snorkel, surprised — though he shouldn’t have been — to see ice caking both the snorkel and the periscope shafts. Once they submerged, the waters would deice the bridge, the decks, and the superstructure.
What should have taken less than a minute for a 2,000-ton, 350-foot submarine with 100 sailors to disappear beneath the waves stretched into nearly three before Shipley heard the cry “All green except main hatch!”
“You two, get below. Secure your positions and prepare to dive,” Shipley said to the topside watches.
Within ten seconds the two topside watches disappeared through the hatch. Shipley did quick looks forward and aft. A wave washed over the stern, rolling up the deck to splash against the conning tower. Then he checked the bridge area, making sure everything was secured. They had been on the surface for several hours, changing watches and personnel throughout that time to protect against frostbite. Satisfied, he scurried down the hatch. Pausing on the topside rungs of the ladder, Shipley pulled the hatch shut and dogged it down, ensuring watertight integrity.
Before his feet touched the deck of the conning tower, the cry of “All green!” came from the control room below.
“Take her down to fifty feet, officer of the deck.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Weaver said.
Shipley shivered, then turned the makeshift face guard up, rolling it into the shape of a watch cap. “Seems so bloody warm inside here after thirty minutes topside.” He patted his cheeks, the gloves keeping him from feeling them. Shipley glanced at the thermometer. It showed sixteen degrees. “Regular heat wave down here.”
“Yes, sir; blazing summer weather,” Arneau answered, hunching his shoulders inside the buttoned-down foul-weather jacket. The watch cap was pulled forward over the XO’s forehead and across both ears.
Boohan ran out the bow planes on the Squallfish. “Bow planes out,” he announced.
Topside, Shipley knew the water was rushing over the periscope support structure, clearing the ice.
“Passing thirty-five feet,” Weaver announced. Then, the operations officer turned to the planesmen. “Ease the planes.”
The diving angle started to change as the submarine angled toward fifty feet.
“Flood forward trim from the sea,” Weaver added.
The boat began to level off as the planesmen eased up on the angle of the planes. A couple of minutes passed as the Squallfish eased its depth to fifty feet. The tilt of the deck disappeared, and Weaver looked at Shipley. “Final trim, sir.”
“Up periscope.” As the shiny metal column rose, Shipley squatted, slapped the handles down when they emerged, and pressed his eye to the scope. He could see nothing as he waited for the lens to emerge above the surface. Then suddenly it was up and above. He walked the scope around, taking in the dark, naked surface, which seemed to put the Squallfish in a bowl of water sealed off by fog. Waves washed over the periscope, and try as he might, he could not see the stern light of the merchant they had been following.
“Sound, you have anything?”
“Just the merchant, sir.”
“Bearing, range?”
“Target bears one niner zero at one thousand yards.”
Shipley stepped back. “Periscope down. Come to course two hundred, speed eight knots.” He looked at Arneau. “Don’t want to run up her butt. We’ve already lost a thousand yards of separation in the dive.”
Arneau nodded.
A hand emerged from the ladder below, setting a cup of steaming coffee on the deck. The steam and aroma rose quickly through the cold, cramped conning tower. Another came through the hatch, then a third, followed by several more cups of coffee setting in a semicircle on the deck around the hatch. Crocky’s head, a Navy watch cap pulled over his ears, followed, the blackness of the veteran’s skin blending into the watch cap he wore.
“Thought you might need something hot and fresh,” Crocky said, not coming any farther into the conning tower.
“Come on up,” Shipley offered.
“Steadying on course two zero zero,” the helmsman announced.
“Sir, if it is all right with you, ain’t nothing outside those bulkheads but sea. I am fine right here.”
Weaver squatted and passed the coffee around, handing the first cup to Shipley. The heat from the ceramic cup felt wonderful through the gloves Shipley wore. He turned to say thanks, but Crocky had disappeared belowdecks. Wasn’t often you could get the head cook away from his kingdom of the mess.
Shipley sipped. It was fresh, which meant Crocky had specifically made the coffee for him and the others.
“Depth?” Shipley asked.
“Fifty feet, sir,” Weaver answered with a puzzled expression. “I meant below us,” Shipley explained.
“Do a ping,” Weaver told the sailor manning the sonar. He held up one finger. “Just one.”
The ping of the echo sounder reverberated through the hull. “Six hundred feet.”
“Take her down to two hundred feet.” Shipley turned to Van Ness at the plotting table. Lieutenant Logan stood beside him.