Cold is the Sea (3 page)

How to begin? “I came to try to convince you to reconsider, sir,” he said. “I want very much to go to nuclear power school.”

“Do you think just asking me will get you what you want?” Admiral Brighting's eyes remained on his loose-leaf binder. “Why don't you ask your friends at BuPers? They write the orders. They can send you to any university they want.”

“Your training is the only one that can qualify me in nuclear power, sir. I'm to be responsible for administration, training and operations of the nuclear subs in the Thames River. It's going to be a big and tricky job, and that's why I want to know something about your submarines and your program, sir.”

“Why aren't you wearing your Medal of Honor, Richardson? Are you trying to impress me with your modesty? Or are you ashamed of it?” The soft, monotonous voice had not changed. The admiral's eyes flickered, then once more fell to the notebook in his hand. The pink sheets were all carbon copies, Rich noted. Brighting picked up a pencil, absently began to make little marks in the corner of the turned-over, left-hand sheet.

It had not occurred to either Rich or Laura that Brighting might make reference to the wartime decoration which was part of his uniform. Richardson nearly stuttered. “I'm not ashamed of it, sir,” he finally said. “I just thought I'd come in civilian clothes today.” His voice reflected his sudden defensiveness. He was trying to keep all emotion out of it, not quite succeeding.

Admiral Brighting made more marks on the paper. “You're a hero, Richardson. We don't need heroes in nuclear power. What
we need is dedication, and workers who are willing to use their brains. We don't have any room for lazy naval officers. You go and be a hero in your new squadron. You won't have any trouble riding on your reputation there.”

“I've never been afraid of work, Admiral,” said Rich, fighting the urge to raise his voice. “All I'm asking is the same opportunity you are giving to others. I want to do a good job in New London, and it will be better for all the nuclear boats up there if I can talk to the skippers from knowledge instead of ignorance.”

“Do you read any books? What books have you read recently?”

Rich was ready for the sudden shift in subject. “I've been interested in Napoleon lately,” he said, “beginning a year ago with
War and Peace
. I've just finished General J. F. C. Fuller's
Military History of the Western World
, which I started mainly because he gives so much time to Napoleon.”

“I've read Fuller, but his history is principally about battles. Have you studied Victor Hugo and Emil Ludwig? Ludwig is the recognized authority on Napoleon.” Brighting looked up at last. “Do you think Maitland was right to induce Napoleon to come aboard the
Bellerophon
with a promise of asylum?”

“Fuller says he only promised to bring him to England unharmed,” Richardson said steadily. “Napoleon was lucky to get the protection of the British Navy at that point. The Germans would have killed him if they'd caught him, and the French royalists might have done the same if he'd not got aboard a big British warship.”

Brighting's eyes dropped again to the notebook. He made another tiny pencil mark in the upper left corner. “You're wasting your time reading about Napoleon, Richardson. Nothing about him is relevant to 1960. He died nearly a century and a half ago. If you're so interested in nuclear power, why haven't you been studying some of the books on the subject? You're like all the others. You're not interested in nuclear power; you're only interested in furthering your career.” He looked up. The pale gray eyes were now bleak. “No squadron commander is going to tell my skippers how to run my submarines, Richardson,” he said, still speaking softly. “You operators have no idea of what's required, and you're not willing to learn.”

“That's not true, Admiral,” said Richardson. “I'm willing to give it all I'm capable of, if you'll let me have the chance. None of the nuclear power books gives the operational know-how needed, anyway. They're all theoretical. The only way anyone can get that is through your program. You're the only person or organization which has ever built an operational nuclear power plant.” Trying to guess how the interview would go, he and Laura had decided that a little flattery would do no harm. “There's bound to be a lot of nuclear stuff in New London that I'll have to deal with. Personal ambition has nothing to do with it. With or without nuclear training, I'm already designated for the squadron up there. All I want is to be able to do a better job.”

“All I've got to do to keep you from commanding Squadron Ten is to say I don't want you up there. What do you think of that? Did the Chief of Personnel send you over here to beg?”

There had been an ever increasing bite to Brighting's words, and now the insult direct. Rich could feel his adrenaline flow increasing. But he had anticipated this. He would not succumb to Brighting's famous baiting tactics. He was willing to become a supplicant, was one already. He had already decided he would beg, if necessary. If Brighting insisted on it. He would choke, but he would do it. “Admiral,” he said evenly, as evenly as he could, “please! Nobody knows I'm here. I came over here on my own, to beg your help. I
am
begging. If you'll give me a chance, I guarantee you'll be pleased with my performance, both in training and in New London afterward.”

“What makes you think your performance one way or the other means anything to me?”

There was pressure on the back of Richardson's neck. He would not be able to stand this much longer. “Admiral, when I first came over to talk about this, you told me you agreed that ComSubRon Ten should get nuclear training. What has happened, sir? Won't you at least tell me what changed your mind?” This would have to be his final effort.

“I don't have to tell you anything. I didn't ask you to come over here. You might consider that it costs thousands of dollars to put one man through my course. I'm responsible for the proper use of that money. You have only a few more years of service before you either retire or they make an admiral out of
you. Either way, you'll have no further use for anything we could teach you. After thinking it over, I decided it would be a waste of government funds.”

“But Admiral,” Rich began desperately, “you told me it was going to be your policy from now on that commanders of nuclear squadrons would be nuclear-trained—”

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Brighting interrupted. He made one last penciled mark in the loose-leaf binder, put it down, picked up another book from his desk, leaned back in his chair and began to read.

“I don't know how I got out of there without saying something really disrespectful,” Rich told Laura. “He was arrogant and contemptuous. I can't remember when I've been so mad!”

Laura was lying with her arms around him, her head pillowed on his chest. “He was brutal to you,” she agreed, “but there's more to it than that.”

“He had his mind made up before I got there, that was obvious, and it's pretty clear he doesn't have much use for me. After today, I don't have much for him, either. That won't worry him a great deal, but I sure agree with you. There's more to it, and he's a strange character. I wasn't even sure he was completely serious, at least not until near the end. For a while I thought he might be testing me somehow, sort of working me over to see how I'd react. That's routine, Deacon Jones says.”

“Is there any chance he might still be playing some strange game with you?”

“Not anymore. I practically got down on my knees to him, and I think that's what he wanted, probably. But he turned me down flat, and he was pretty final about it. What I can't figure out, in spite of what he said, is why he changed his mind. He had plenty of time to think about me. My name was on his desk a month before my first interview with him.”

“You don't really believe he thinks you're too old?” Imperceptibly, Laura's arms tightened. Her head rolled forward, enough for a fluttered eyelash to tickle.

“He knows darned well I'm not too old, and so do you.” He drew her face to his, kissed her full on the mouth. Her lips parted, opened wide and drew him in, as she kissed him back.

Later, when he was nearly asleep, Rich heard her whisper, “I
know what the problem is, darling. He's afraid of you.” She tenderly kissed the back of his hand, held it to her cheek.

“Rich,” Deacon Jones said, “thanks for letting me bust in on you and your family at home like this. Don't let on I said this—you too, Laura—but I think I know what happened between Brighting and my big boss. Admiral Scott called him on the telephone that afternoon to talk about increasing the total number of nukey poohs. Scott's been big for this for a long time. He wants all submariners to be nuclear-trained as soon as possible. Eventually the same for all surface engineers, too. In a few years, he thinks, all our submarines will be nuclear, and so will most of our surface combatants. Brighting blew up, because when that happens he won't have control over who gets anointed, and he knows damn good and well that's exactly what Scott had in mind.” Jones, in charge of the assignment of submarine officers, was a phlegmatic, serious individual who fit the characteristics imputed by his nickname. As was well known, he had had his troubles administering his job and keeping Admiral Brighting happy too. More than once, in frustration, he had threatened to quit and go back to the farm of his birth. His unhappiness had to be great at this moment, Rich knew, for him to unburden himself to this extent.

“I should think Brighting would want the whole Navy to go nuclear, and the sooner the better. That would be a big personal triumph for him!” Rich said.

“You don't know Brighting, obviously. He's made a career of being opposed by the Navy. It's true that early in the game he had some tough times. Some of them were damn well deserved, too. But he's been king of the roost for years now, and he does it mainly through controlling the selection of those who get nuked and those who don't. Nothing else in the Navy has ever worked this way. Assignments are supposed to be the job of BuPers. They are, for everything else. He gets away with it because you can't have a nuke—you can't even be aboard—unless you're a nukey pooh. Also, he's a holy terror with the civilian contractors working for him, but that's not my worry.”

“What does this all have to do with me, Deac? Even if it's all true, it doesn't affect me. I'm not fighting any personnel battle. That's up to the people wearing stars. I'm just a four-striper.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Rich. This is what I'm trying to show you. You're already a captain. You could be an admiral and have your own stars in a couple of years, if the selection board is as smart as it's supposed to be. You're the senior person to apply for nukedom. Scott has been supporting your application for all he's worth. We all think it would be one hell of a great thing for you and the Navy.”

“So what, dammit!”

“So you must be dumber than I thought. Remind me to make a notation on your detail card. You've got a Congressional Medal of Honor. You're a big hotshot skipper of the war. When your name came up for Squadron Ten, Scott personally checked your record from one end to the other before he let us go ahead. So, you're the chief's number-one spear carrier in this little fracas. And what do you think Brighting did when all of a sudden Scott's call let him figure this out?”

“Crossed me off his list?”

“He drew a line through your name that very minute and had the list retyped. That's one of the things Scott was so furious about. You did Brighting a huge favor, by the way, when you tried to wheedle him into changing his mind. If you'd told me ahead of time, I'd have broken your arm to keep you from going over there.”

“How's that?”

Jones' tone of friendly exasperation grew more pronounced. There was a strange expression on his normally composed face. “You only gave Mr. Nukey Bumps his latest chance to show the whole U.S. Navy who its real boss is, that's all! You think your visit was a secret? I heard about it half an hour after he threw you out. On the carpet in Scott's office, by the way. That's why I thought I'd come over here on the QT. By tomorrow the whole Navy will know about it, and Scott is about ready to have you shot at sunrise!”

“It seems to me your chief could have left well enough alone, too, Deac. Calling up Brighting to talk about increasing nuclear quotas right then was not very smart. That's what did me in, and it also wrecked this little scheme that I was a patsy for. If he shoots anybody, he ought to shoot himself, not me!”

“Scott knows all that now, and maybe he will shoot himself at that. Don't blame him too much for using you for a patsy,
though. You just came along at the right time. And, he's not really mad at you. He's mad as hell at himself for blowing the deal the way he did, and at us for not warning him. I'm the guy who's going to be shot at sunrise, more than likely. The flit has sure hit the shan around here—er, excuse me, Laura—and anytime they want to ship me back to Iowa, I'm ready.”

Deacon Jones' information had been comforting, as was the fact that he had sought Rich out privately instead of using the telephone. But, Richardson decided as he reviewed the conversation afterward, Jones had told him nothing that could be of any value in furthering his hopes for “nukedom,” as Deacon had colloquially termed it.