We waited five minutes… another five… No sound… nothing at all. A half hour… still nothing…
And then, finally, Sonar said, "Conn, Sonar, the Whiskey's starting up…"
And that simple announcement put an end to the pent-up tension.
"Run on the battery for a couple of hours," the Skipper told me. "Let's make sure he isn't up to one of his tricks again."
Two hours later, I ordered Maneuvering to start up the turbines, and I shifted propulsion to the main plant. I remained at 700 feet and kicked her all the way up to six and a half knots as we continued on our course toward Guam. In another ten days or so the Whiskey skipper would come to grips with his miscalculation. For the time being, we really didn't care what he would do then. We would be safely tied to the dock surrounded by the might and power of the United States, and — as the southern lady once said, "Tomorrow is another day."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Apra Harbor is a beautiful natural harbor located midway on the west side of the Island of Guam. To the south it is protected by Orote Point Peninsula, and to the north by an arching reef extending out from Cabras Island three miles to the northeast and by an extended breakwater just inside and south of the reef. At the western tip of the peninsula, the bluffs of Udall Island guard the harbor entrance. About three miles due east from the entrance lies Polaris Point. It forms a narrow north-south channel with the backside of Orote Point Peninsula, the entrance to Navy Harbor. The west side of mile-wide, one-and-a-half mile long Navy Harbor is lined with Naval Supply Depot wharfs.
Right at the entrance to Navy Harbor at the north end of the Navy Supply Depot is San Luis Point, cut by two short inlets on either side of a protected small boat harbor. Immediately to the west of the easternmost cut, a wide wharf juts into the harbor, connecting to a 622 foot long, 124 foot wide blue-gray box-like structure with high slab sides. Emblazoned high on one end, the words USS Richland AFDM-8 identify the vessel as a floating dry dock ship repair facility. She is run by four officers and 146 enlisted specialists who have the capability of repairing any navy vessel, but who specialize in nuclear submarines.
We timed our arrival at Apra Harbor for dawn, the sun rising ahead of us in a clear sky over the low hills behind the harbor. The Skipper and I were on the bridge with lookouts Skidmore and Roscoe as we sailed past Udall Island, towering above us a scant half-mile to the south. Outside Glass Breakwater, which the Skipper told me was named after Captain Henry Glass, who liberated Guam from the Spanish in 1898 during the Spanish-American War, a rolling swell lifted us by the stern and pushed us forward as the swell passed. Each successive swell caused Halibut to rock fore and aft like a giant rocking horse. I suspected some of the guys below were getting seasick. Frankly, I was glad to be on the bridge.
As we sailed through the harbor entrance past the breakwater, the swell diminished and then disappeared. We passed a cruiser docked along Wharf K to the south, and could see some type of supply ship tied off at Buoy 702 to the north just inside the breakwater — probably awaiting room to moor alongside the Supply Depot wharfs inside Navy Harbor. The white sand of Gab Gab Beach sparkled in the morning sun along the north side of Orote Peninsula as we sailed past slowly. Gray-sided Richland loomed ahead of us on the right, sinking into the water as we approached.
We slowed to just bare steerageway, and a navy tug approached us. I called below for the Deck Gang, and in less than a minute Joe Thornton and his guys appeared topside wearing bright orange life vests. A couple of monkey fists flew through the air, and a minute later the tug was firmly lashed alongside our port quarter.
"We're ready to go, Sir," Joe called up.
"Take her right to the entry, Mac," the Skipper said. "Don't rely on the tug. Keep control at all times with the thrusters. Park her at the entrance and let the line handlers and the capstans on Richland do their job."
"Aye, Skipper."
We were doing all of one-half to one knot as I adjusted our heading with the forward thruster. I communicated with the tug by Handi-Talki, the ubiquitous hand-held radios used throughout the Navy. I told him to bring me to about twenty yards from the dry dock, and then to hold me until I told him differently. The tug operator acknowledged as we pulled into position, and sailors on both of Richland's walls hurled messenger lines across our bow from both sides.
Joe's guys quickly hauled two hawsers from each dry dock wall and dropped the loops over the sub's deck cleats. Under the watchful eye of the Richland's First Lieutenant, Chief Warrant Officer Tommie Bridger, sailors on both dry dock walls wrapped the hawsers from Halibut around large capstans, and carefully, slowly hauled the submarine between the walls into the sunken dry dock. On signals from their First Lieutenant, the Richland sailors eased off or tightened their hawsers on the capstans to keep Halibut perfectly centered.
As our bow entered the dry dock, I officially turned over control of the submarine to Bridger. Should something go wrong now, it was their fault, not ours. As the second set of messengers crossed our deck, and the hawsers dropped over the cleats by the sail, I released the tug.
Thirty minutes later, Halibut was firmly moored, centered between the walls, with her stern and rudder just inside the floating dry dock, engines shut down, nuclear power plant secured, silently waiting for the next step.
A group of men in civvies stood in a small cluster across from our sail. They had arrived a day earlier from NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. They waited in silence. They would board when the gangway was put over the gap separating the wall from our deck, but that wouldn't happen until we were solidly settled on the blocks and the dock was raised, exposing the sub for servicing. And that wouldn't happen until the Richland crew had moved the sub to the back of the dry dock, over the wooden keel blocks waiting for us. And none of this would happen until my guys had safely and surreptitiously dropped the treasures still held snuggly against our belly.
Since this dive would not involve saturation, or even decompression, for that matter, I decided to dive with the guys. Getting ready for the dive was simplicity itself. The water was so warm that we would not need temperature protection. Mask, tank and regulator, fins, a tool satchel, and the ever-present diver's knife — that was all we needed; oh yes, and gloves, to keep from getting cut on the sharp edges.
Water entry was basic diving 101. Stand on the forecastle fully dressed for the dive, put regulator in mouth, hold mask and regulator against face with left hand (or right), and jump. Which is exactly what we did.
I hung back, letting the guys do their thing. They had been there before, of course, so I didn't want to get in the way. It took them little more than a half-hour to lower the net entirely. Once it was flat on the dry dock deck, I swam over to examine the haul. Actually looking at the Russian missile parts was a lot different than watching the operation through the video eyes of the Basketball. I marveled at the haul we had snatched right from under Ivan's nose.
I chuckled. No wonder the Whiskey skipper was so pissed.
Together, we pulled a canvas tarp over the haul, so it would be completely concealed from prying eyes when the dry dock was pumped empty. Then we surfaced and I signaled Bridger to move Halibut forward to her permanent position.