Cold is the Sea (25 page)

“I know,” Buck said, containing his impatience. “But if we can hear him, isn't right now the best chance we'll ever get for him to hear us?”

“Where is he at, sir?”

“Oh. Sorry, Chief.” Buck quickly covered his near breach of security. “Anyway, he's in about the same longitude as we are, and so is Radio Annapolis. So that means the radio conditions in this north-south line right now are at their best, and we ought to be able to work him direct ourselves.” Richardson had become an interested and approving onlooker, Buck noticed.

It would be necessary to disregard the rule against transmitting while in port.
Proteus
' transmitter, already on the frequency, would be fine-tuned to Annapolis' transmissions. Then, as soon as Annapolis receipted to the
Cushing, Proteus
, acting as though she were another ship at sea waiting for the circuit to clear, would open up with the cryptic call signs of the old wolfpack code. These would mean nothing to anyone, not even
Cushing
's radio operator (unless Keith had prepared him for this eventuality) but they would to Keith, if he were there and heard them, or even if he only saw them appear on his radioman's typewriter log sheet. Keith
would
be there. He might even be hoping for something like this to happen.

The problem was whether Keith could afford to stay on the surface long enough for more messages. He had to have surfaced through the ice to transmit this message coming in. Those were his own beeps and key clicks they were hearing, faint and weak because of the distance but clear and distinct, nevertheless, and they proved that at that moment, at least, he was on the surface.
Unless
Cushing
was in immediate danger, he would stay surfaced long enough to hear the receipt signal from Annapolis, probably would stay longer if not under pressure to submerge again. On the other hand, he might have to go down immediately—if the damaged
Cushing
was able to dive—and if that happened the only way to get a message to him would be the one already used: the long-wave low-frequency radio transmitter system based at Cutler, Maine, designed for communication with submerged submarines.

Richardson had uncovered his free ear also. “We don't have much time,” he said. “What do we send him?”

Buck showed him the message he had written. “Here it is. He'll spot this for the wolfpack code as soon as he hears it.”

“
KE RI BU C
5” read Richardson aloud. “I remember the code was in two-letter groups. But why do you think he'll be able to decode it on sight? He won't have the code with him in the radio room.”

“He won't need it. That's the beauty of it. It's designed to be used between people who know each other well. The first three groups are the first two letters of the names we use for each other. For Keith, just that much will do a lot.”

There was pleasure in Richardson's voice as he acknowledged the truth of Buck's statement. Then he asked, “But what's this c5?”

“Once Keith catches on that we're trying to communicate something via the old wolfpack code, he'll know it means crystal system number five. Single side-band is frequency-controlled by crystal. So this whole message tells him we're here in the
Proteus
radio room—somebody's radio room, anyway—that we want to talk to him on single side-band radio, and which sets of crystals to use. He and I spent quite a bit of time working these out for that barrier exercise. He'll understand exactly what we're saying to him. We'll be using one crystal, on its frequency, and he'll be using a different one and come back at us with a different frequency.”

There was a drop in Richardson's voice. “Remember, Buck, voice isn't secure. Don't get your hopes up too high about what we can tell him. Any ideas about what we can do to help him from down here will have to go in a classified encoded message. Matter of fact, we told him about your towing hookup rig in our
answer to his first message. We're monitoring the scheds right now to pick up the transmission.”

“I know, and I checked on that too, a little while ago.” Buck had moved closer to Richardson, dropped his voice until he was practically whispering. “Our answer hasn't been sent out yet. That's one of the troubles with our system. There's so many messages to send that they haven't got to it yet. It's been hours since he sent his first message, and now here's the second, and still he's not received an answer to the first one. When it does go on the air, it will take him an hour or so to decode it, besides. It's just too slow!”

Richardson said nothing, and after a pause Buck went on. “You're boss, and you'll do the talking, but we've got to tell him something! Just say we're not sitting here on our ass while he's got a problem! You don't have to say anything classified!”

Williams' entreaty was having its effect, bolstered by Richardson's own natural desire. “The Russians might be able to find Keith's transmissions if they're continuously searching the entire spectrum. If they hear us down here they'll have no idea who we're talking to.” He was talking to himself. “But if they've got a frequency scanner anywhere near where he is, when he opens up they'll zero in on him right away.”

“And a lot of good may it do them! Keith has all the right in the world to use his radio!” Buck waved the message pad. “They're nearly finished transmitting. The group count's solid. Can I give the chief the go-ahead? I've already briefed him. We've got to break right in on CW before the
Cushing
closes down.” With Richardson's nod of assent, Buck handed him the earphone, seized the chief radioman by the arm, began talking earnestly to him.

“He's already got his transmitter on the frequency,” Buck reported a moment later with a smile of pleasure, “and he knows exactly what to do. Says every time he's listened on a circuit he's thought of how he could get something across to one of the other operators, if only he'd be allowed to try. He's getting set right now. As soon as NSS sends a receipt he'll zero beat with them. That will put him exactly on with NSS, and therefore with the
Cushing
. They'll hear him, too, and out of curiosity they'll listen to see what's coming off. Then they'll hear the chief send our little message five times and shut down. Keith will both see it on
paper and hear it in his earphones, and that ought to do it.”

“You're sure he won't answer and alert anyone listening that it was meant for him?”

“He won't answer,” said Buck with a confident grin. “That's not in the code. I mean, it's in the code not to do that, ever. He invented it, remember. He won't send another thing on CW. ‘c5' gives him both crystals. We wait a little while, then open up on voice, that's all. If he heard our CW transmission he'll simply set up his own radio, and wait. The next thing we hear from him will be his own voice, with no warning to anyone, when he answers us.”

There was a change in the smooth cadence of the incoming message. The last few letters were drawn out, lengthened by the tiniest of fractions. Then the distant transmitter fell silent. Rich, Buck and the chief swung simultaneously to the two operators. Both were counting the coded groups they had been receiving. The chief seated himself at a third operating station, fingered the transmitting key, looked inquiringly at Richardson.

“Go ahead,” said Rich. “Open up as soon as Annapolis sends the
R
. I'll take responsibility for breaking the rule.”

“Whoever Keith had on the key was a damn good operator,” said Buck. “I'll bet NSS doesn't need many repeats. Maybe not any. Our men seem to have it solid. NSS should too.” He put both hands to his head, pressed the earpiece hard against one ear. Richardson, he saw, was doing the same.

W
7
ST
130642
DE NSS
went down on two radio typewriters. The signal was much louder than the one they had been hearing. There was a slight pause, then a prolonged, positive, dot-dash-dot, the letter
R
, sent with all the finality that could be mustered in a single monosyllabic note. Instantly they heard a faint tap from the distant station.
Cushing
's operator had barely touched his key, acknowledging, in the unwritten code of professional radiomen, that he had been fully serviced. His next move would be to turn off his transmitter. His message had been sent and receipted for, and there would be no further use for it.

Proteus
' chief had, however, swung into action himself. One hand on his tuning dial, the other on his transmitter key, he sent a single long dash, varying his frequency slightly. It took only a second or two, but it was already beginning to seem too long to
Buck when the man released his key, apparently satisfied. Then, without preamble, he began to send the eight letters, four groups of two, over and over without pause. Five times Rich and Buck mentally recorded the four two-letter groups. Five times the radiomen at the receiving stations typed the short message. Then, as unceremoniously as it had begun, the transmission was finished. The chief was already looking for the next order. Buck made the sign of cutting his own throat, the chief reached into the recess of his operating station, and with a loud
cachunk
the transmitter power hum abruptly stopped.

AA DE NSS
, the radiomen typed, and a moment later,
K
. “Unknown station using this net, identify yourself.” There was a faintly querulous note to Radio Annapolis' normally steady tone.
AA DE NSS
, it sent again, and then, after a nearly imperceptible pause,
ZKA ZKB
. One of the radiomen jerked out a well-used pamphlet which had been stuffed between receivers at his station, flipped it open. Rich and Buck crowded to read over his shoulder. He ran his thumb down the margin.
ZKA
first. “I am net control,” read the procedure signal entry. Immediately below,
ZKB
—“You are required to request permission to use this net.”

Buck and the chief were smiling. There was an upward twitch also to Richardson's mouth as he said, “Don't answer. I suppose we'll have to confess someday, just to keep them from apoplexy down in Naval Communications in Washington. But we'll worry about that some other time. What now, mister communications wizard?”

“We wait long enough for Keith's people to set up his SSB set, and then we pick up our hand mike and start talking. If he heard our wolfpack transmission, he'll be there.” Buck's pleasure at Richardson's compliment was evident.

The radio supervisor and one of his assistants were bustling about one of the radio sets ranged on the shelf above the operating positions. “Do you want to take it here?” he asked, addressing both Rich and Buck. “We can pipe it either to the bridge or to the Commodore's Office.”

“Here's fine,” said Rich. “If we have any problems, we may need your help.”

“Okay, sir,” said the chief, handing a microphone on the end of a wire to Richardson. “You can give me back that headset.
You'll not be needing that. Just press this button on the mike and talk across it, not directly into it. You'll hear him on our speaker when you let go the button. Use normal voice procedure.”

Rich fingered the microphone, looked it over carefully. The button was on the side convenient to his thumb. “Are we all ready? Has he had enough time?” he asked.

“Yessir. Go ahead.” The chief still had his eyes on his equipment. Buck only smiled, nodded his head.

Richardson pressed the button, let go. A faint buzz came from the bulkhead-mounted speaker above the radio set. He could sense the powerful carrier wave emanating from the antenna on the tender's foremast, spreading instantaneously, in a huge ellipse oriented north and south up to and partway through earth's Heaviside Layer. A portion of it, now much weakened by distance over the frozen Arctic, would come within reach of the
Cushing
's antennas and thence to the receivers in her radio room.

This had, in fact, already happened, and with the speed of light. Keith's receiver, if turned on and properly tuned to the right frequency, had already heard the unmodified note Rich had transmitted by pressing the button.

He pressed it again, held the microphone to one side of his mouth. “Keith,” he said, “this is Rich. Buck is here too. Do you read me? How are you, old man?” He released the button, heard the squelch come off the bulkhead speaker.

The chief radioman had his fingers on the receiver dials, sensitively and carefully moving them. There was a faint crackle. He turned past the spot again, more slowly yet. There were words, high-pitched, faint, surrounded by static, but words nevertheless. More gentle adjustment of the dials.

“—and clear,” the distant voice, suddenly distinct, said through the speaker. “How me? Over.” It was Keith. Richardson felt a peculiar sensation on his skin. Keith was speaking slowly, distinctly, to give his words maximum readability over the thousands of miles of frozen sea, tundra and ordinary land it must cover. He must be in his own radio room, therefore well below the ice even if
Cushing
were somehow entirely surfaced.

Richardson squeezed the mike button. “We hear you the same, Keith. Buck's here with me. There's an answer already on
the way to your first dispatch, and we've just intercepted your second. Can you stay up on voice? Over.”