On the 1MC Larry (who had assumed the watch) notified me that they were ready to lift the Halibut on my say-so.
"Are you guys ready?" I asked the divers.
"Dive Control, Red Diver, we're standing by."
I gave Larry the go-ahead. Bobby moved the Basketball as close as possible without interfering with the operation. The skid inched off Bill's legs, and two shadowy figures yanked him out from under it.
"Dive Control, Red Diver, we got another problem. When we yanked him out, the umbilical wrapped completely around the skid. We can't pull it out."
That was a shitty situation. We had only two options. We could lift the sub high enough to thread Bill through the skid, and then under it, and then through it again to unwrap the umbilical, or we could cut the umbilical and hustle Bill to the Can on his come-home bottle. I could feel the sub reacting to the surface swells. We had to do something right then. I looked Ham in the eyes and ordered, "Red Diver, Dive Control, cut Bill's umbilical and get him back to the Can immediately. Blue Diver, you jerk the cut umbilical free and then drop it and help Whitey." I took a deep breath. "Go… Now!"
I punched the intercom. "Bobby, pull the Basketball back. I don't want any interference."
"I'll stow it," Bobby answered.
"No, Bobby — we still need to retrieve the sling," I said. "Just stand by."
About thirty seconds later, Bill's gas flow indicator on the console indicated free flow. Jack shut the control valve.
"Dive Control, Blue Diver, I'm in the lock with Harry. We're standing by for Bill."
A minute or so later the lock monitor showed Harry and Ski pulling Bill into the lock. They ripped off his helmet, and he lay on the deck gasping.
"Check him over," I ordered, "especially his legs and back."
I watched as the guys stripped his suit and began to check his legs and back.
"Nothing broken," Ski said, "but his upper thighs are gonna hurt like hell for a while." Ski pointed at marks on his legs. "They're turnin' purple," Ski added.
Bill looked up at the camera. "Thanks, El-Tee."
"Whadya mean, El-Tee? Who you think brought you here, ya dumb ass?" Ski slapped his head. "How the fuck you got stuck, anyway?"
"I don't know," Bill said. "I had just stowed the lift bags when the sub lifted right off the seafloor — me with it. I'm completely blinded by silt, and next thing I know I'm doin' underwater cartwheels. Then nothin', and I can't move. That's when I called for help."
Jer popped up through the hatch and ripped his helmet off. "You okay, Bill?"
"Yeah… where's Whitey?"
"Stowin' the cable," Jer said.
I interrupted them. "We still need to stow the sling."
"Let's keep Bill inside," Ham suggested, "and put Harry in the water with the others."
Within a few minutes, Harry joined his mates, and they spread out on both sides of the sub while Larry nudged it back over the sling, watched over by the Basketball. It took ten minutes, but Larry put it exactly on the dime. On my signal, the divers scattered to the four corners of the sling.
Within a few minutes, the guys had set up the winches, and coordinating between them, raised the sling tight to the sub's belly. Following the final torquing of the winch handles, Whitey swam the entire sling surface, making sure there were no twists or turns, nothing to catch, nothing to rattle. I knew better than to hurry him, even though we were definitely feeling every wave that passed by 400 feet overhead.
Actually, I agreed with Whitey. Making certain now would make it easier to avoid detection later.
We had the routine down pat by this time. The divers got back, stowed their equipment and hoses, grabbed a bite, and hit the rack in record time. Bill took the first watch — he said he was slept out but I figured he was trying to thank the guys for getting him out of his jam.
It had been a close call. If Bill had been pulled just a bit further, his chest would have been crushed. He might have survived that, but if it had gotten his head — well, that depended. Sideways, he might have made it, but front or back — how do you fall?
I was just thankful all he had were bruises.
While the guys slept, I went back on the watch list for a while, since we had about two days, maybe a bit less until the next operation. I brought the Halibut up to 200 feet to clear the area.
At 200 feet, we were being tossed around like a cork, but I had little choice as I headed due north. I didn't want to be slammed into the seabed, so I had to take the shallower course. We had one final task, to return to the missile test splash zone to see what else we could find. Since we had had no chance on our last visit to plant a beacon, we would have to deploy the Fish once we got into the vicinity to conduct a sidescan sonar area search. It was going to be a fun time.
I figured we would have some kind of company when we got there. For the time being, however, nobody was going to hear anybody in this mess. Sonar was taking it easy, since there really was nothing to hear. Chief Barkley gave them a bit of slack, but he still insisted on one set of ears manned all the time.
There was simply no way that the Ognevoy and Gnevnyy could do anything but stay alive in this shit. And while the Whiskey could be fairly comfortable submerged, a diesel-electric submarine simply didn't have the endurance that the Halibut enjoyed. If the Soviets were setting up a welcome party, it seemed likely to me that they would hole up somewhere protected for the duration — somewhere safe but close.
I stepped over to the chart table and examined the coastline due west of our position. The peninsula that defined the Gulf of Shelikhov juts into the Sea of Okhotsk with two prongs at the east and west ends separated by about 120 miles of jagged coastline. The westernmost prong forms the southern border of a 50-mile wide bay bordered to the north by a small peninsula spanned by the port city of Magadan. The main part of Magadan occupies the west side of the peninsula, at the end of a deep natural harbor, but there is a fishing facility and repair shops with several piers on the east side.
If I wanted to be close to the splash zone, but in protected waters, that's where I would go. I called the Skipper on the sound-powered phone and asked him to come to Control. When he arrived, I explained my thoughts to him, pointing to the harbor and its proximity to the splash zone.
"The Whiskey certainly could tie up to a fishing pier here," I pointed out. "And the destroyers could anchor safely." I pointed to the area we called the splash zone. "It's only about ten hours to here."
"Makes sense, Mac," the Skipper said. "That's assuming they are still looking for us."
"It's the only destination they're certain of, Skipper," I said.
It turned out that our guess was right, but we didn't know about the other vessel loading out on the same pier where the Whiskey was moored.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It took us less time than the weather. I mean, we were on the bottom in the splash zone, quietly waiting for the weather to cooperate. We stood regular watch rotation, and were on a relaxed alert — just in case.
Actually, when I said we were on the bottom in the zone, I really meant we were somewhere in the vicinity. As soon as it calmed down a bit topside, we were prepared to do a grid search with the Fish. Buck — Senior Chief Buck Christman — was in hot standby with his crew. They really had had nothing to do since the original search for the cable.
I was still on watch rotation, but what that really meant was hanging around in Control, just in case. Once things settled down sufficiently for my guys to go out, I would retire to the dive console while my guys did a bottom clean up, collecting anything that even remotely looked like a rocket part. So we waited.