Cold is the Sea (9 page)

Richardson grinned. “Did you tell him my ears are a lot better now, thank you?” he said. “The old man must have been a little tensed up himself.”

Rhodes slowly smiled back. “Maybe you're right, Rich. Anyway, it does me good to yell back at him sometimes. After he hangs up the phone, that is. But seriously, what more does he expect of us? We went over the whole plant four months ago, just before you came. Every weld was radiographed. So was every pipe more than an inch in diameter. Those are his standing instructions, and we did it very carefully. But that steam leak wasn't at a weld, and the pipe is less than an inch in diameter. It was a faulty piece of half-inch pipe, and it finally just gave out. Could have happened anytime!”

“I know,” nodded Richardson, “and you know how he's always harped on manufacturer's quality control. That crummy piece of pipe just plain rotted out. It should never have got through the vendor's inspection. It might even be made of the wrong material. You're going to send the piece we cut out back to Washington, aren't you?”

“It's gone already. He just now told me to send it, and I had the pleasure of telling him it's already on the truck and gone. A little piece of pipe in a big lead box. That was before he began to chew me out.” Rhodes' grin now matched Richardson's. “I see what you mean. The old man was just warming up, I guess. I'd hate to be president of that pipe company, about now!”

Privately, Richardson had been mentally preparing himself for the telephone call from Brighting, who, reputedly, had spies everywhere in his organization, and throughout the Navy as well. Inevitably, the wizened admiral would discover Richardson's role in the emergency, and no matter how Rich's participation was described, it would be interpreted as a violation of his instructions. There would be one of those sudden summons to the telephone, the even-toned voice demanding an explanation to which its owner would not listen, the receiver crashing down, some sort of retribution exacted. Rich found himself thinking through the short speech he would be permitted. The admiral might not listen, but he could not avoid hearing. Perhaps a telling point could be forced into his consciousness.

But nothing happened for three days. Daily routine went back
to normal. The emergency was relegated to its place in the machinery history book, reflected only in the procedure changes necessitated by the cut in the demineralizer bypass line. When the call came, Rich could feel his nervous system gearing up for the quick conflict—and was totally unprepared for the direction Brighting took.

“Richardson”—Rich thought he detected menace in the expressionless voice, afterward could never be sure—“do you know what the NEPA project is?”

“Why, yes, it stands for Nuclear Energy for Propulsion of Aircraft. . .”

“Is that all you know? I thought you had an inquiring mind.” This, at least, was according to form. Rich had had ample training in how to handle it.

“I've not had any time to think of anything except Mark One since I came here.”

“You're a Captain in the Navy. You're supposed to have initiative. Do I have to hold your coat for you, too, besides telling you how to do your duty?”

“No, sir.” Anger bubbling to the surface.

“Rhodes will set it up for you. You and your friends go over to see it. Maybe you'll learn something.” The telephone went dead.

“Why did he send us there?” asked Buck. The question had been hanging during the whole of the return trip. The drive to the Air Force site had been a welcome interlude, even though the hours involved would cost further curtailment of sleep from their schedules. It was the first time outside the compound for any of them since their arrival. “What did he send us for?” Buck repeated. “There's nothing those guys could show us. They don't have a reactor, or even a design for one that's light enough for an airplane. They'll never get their thing going. It's a waste of time!”

“Maybe that's what we were supposed to find out,” said Keith.

“They've done a lot of theoretical study and made a mockup of a lightweight reactor,” said Rich, thoughtfully, “and even that's too heavy for an airplane. They can't compare with Mark One, which is like a part of a whole operating submarine. I think you're right, Keith. He wanted us to see the difference.”

“And see what a great person he is!” exclaimed Buck.

“It's more than that,” began Richardson. “Maybe he was trying to do something for us. . . .” But then he could not find ready words to articulate the unformed thought, left it uncompleted as they rode across the desert toward the looming windowless cube which housed Mark One.

5

“W
ell, Rich,” said Keith, “we're nearly at the end of our stint here. Tomorrow is Monday, and we're as ready as we'll ever be for that exam. I'll be glad to get back home, even if I do have to start calling you ‘Commodore.' I think Peggy is a little tired of doing everything herself, back in Groton.”

“Cindy too,” Buck said. “She's trying to keep a stiff upper lip, though. I've been writing her that it's the same as when I'm at sea, except that then she'll not get this many postcards. All the same, this is the longest cruise I've been on since we've been married, and it'll be good to get back.”

The three submariners were wearily trudging the hundred yards to their quonset hut sleeping quarters, oblivious to the sparkling early morning darkness, the canopy of brilliant, unblinking stars over the entire sky and the nearly full moon gleaming high in the west.

“A lot of ships have been underway a lot longer than this,” began Rich, “but I feel the same. First, though, I hope all three of us hit that exam really hard. We need to show Brighting. . . .”
His companions knew well what Richardson felt it was necessary to show Admiral Brighting. It had never been far from any of their thoughts. In this instance, however, they were to receive no new iteration of it.

There were hurrying footsteps behind them, a recently arrived trainee. “Rich!” he called, slightly out of breath. “Rich! —Captain! There's a telephone call in Dusty's office for the senior man on the site. That's you, sir! He said it's urgent! It's some kind of emergency in Arco!”

The voice in Dusty Rhodes' desk telephone spoke hurriedly, its deep masculine timbre obviously unaccustomed to pleading. “Captain Richardson? I'm Doctor Danforth at Arco Municipal Hospital,” it said. “We've had a power failure. There's an operation going on. It's an emergency operation, and the patient will die if we can't get some help!”

“I'm not in charge here, Doctor. I'm only a student,” said Rich. He felt he should go on, not leave the doctor with only this negative information, but his thought was interrupted.

“I know you're not, but you're a Navy Captain, and you're the senior person around. I was a Navy medical officer during the war, so I understand what you're saying, and I know Admiral Brighting has forbidden what I'm about to ask. I've already tried to call Commander Rhodes in Idaho Falls, but I can't reach him, and I can't reach Admiral Brighting, either. We don't need much power—this is a small town and a small hospital—but the woman will die if we can't get some electric power fed to us right away! There's no time to spare!” The doctor's resonant voice rose as he spoke. “Our emergency generator has been broken down for a month. We've had new parts on order, but they've not come. Now the whole town's gone black. She was already in the operating room, and she's in shock, and all we have are flashlights! Even this telephone is running off the phone company's emergency batteries!”

“What do you need?”

“Electricity. Right now! There's a line from our power company into your place for emergency power in case you need it. Now the emergency is the other way. If you'll close the switch and put on your generators, your power will flow to us. Everybody is sound asleep in Arco, and the power company has already open-circuited all its lines except the one to us. So all the
juice you can pump into that line will come right to the hospital. It was an emergency when the patient came in here. Now it's life or death! We have three surgeons in town, and all three of them are with her in the operating room this minute. If the lights and power come on soon we may be able to save her. Otherwise, she's gone!”

The doctor's voice bespoke a condition of frantic urgency, of a critical concatenation of circumstance in which, suddenly and shockingly, unforeseen technological failure had brought human efforts to a standstill. This could not be a fake. The unworthy thought flashed into Richardson's mind, was cast aside. The speaker's distress was too genuine. In tiny Arco, he probably knew the patient well. It was not only a professional but a personal thing.

Richardson could feel a quickening of attention, the heightened awareness of imminent action, and, down underneath, the unmistakable scent of danger. It was a different sort of danger, but otherwise it was all so much like a few days ago, with the steam leak, or many years ago, with the enemy lifeboats in sight. Rich paused only long enough to get the doctor's telephone number.

“Keith!” he barked. “Find the shore power switch. You can trace the line in from where it enters our compound. Figure out how to transform our four hundred and forty volts into whatever they need in Arco. Maybe the Arco power company can step it down. If not, maybe we can give it to them direct from the hundred and twenty volts AC end of our motor-generator sets. Take half of our electricians on watch to help you!”

“Got it, Skipper,” said Keith. He had been standing beside him during the whole of the telephone conversation.

“Buck, we've got to do this fast. Keith can't do it all from that end. You take the rest of the electricians and start from the turbo-generator sets. Find out what's the best way to pump power into that shore line, and meet Keith halfway!”

“Right!” Like Keith, Buck dashed away.

“Dan”—to the new trainee who had called them back from their hut—“you get on another phone and try to find Dusty. Maybe he's gone somewhere for the weekend. Keep trying until you get him. He's got to be somewhere near here, even if it
is Sunday morning. Someone must know how to get in touch with him!”

The task of finding and communicating with Admiral Brighting, in Rhodes' absence, Richardson had allocated to himself. But in this he was unsuccessful. There was no answer at Brighting's Washington apartment; several hours would elapse before even the Sunday duty officer would be at his office. True to form, there was no executive officer or second-in-command, nor home telephone numbers of any of those in Washington who might be expected to have some useful information as to where Brighting was. Between efforts somehow to get in touch with him, Richardson lost himself in the welter of reports, impediments, suggestions and countersuggestions, interspersed with increasingly urgent calls from Dr. Danforth.

Three moments—two decisions and an instant of warm satisfaction—stood out. Wiring had to be improvised to bring the output from the turbo-generator sets around to the transformer; this took several hurried conferences with Keith and Buck, and their electricians, to determine the circuit. Then there was the decision to close the emergency power switch and build the paralleled generator sets to full power, so that current could begin to flow into the Arco line. As Rich gave the order, it was suddenly with much the same sense of commitment he remembered from combat long ago. This was the point after which there could be no turning back.

The instant of satisfaction occurred when he told Dr. Danforth there was now power on the line, and heard the gratitude in the doctor's voice reporting that the operating room lights were functioning at last, the operation was proceeding normally, and the patient's life would be saved.

“Everything's fine now at the hospital,” Richardson reported to the nucleus of his working group. He was in the process of describing Danforth's final call as Keith and Buck entered Rhodes' office.

After all the others had left, Keith and Buck put into words the shadow lying in the back of his mind, the one flaw in the success. “Boss,” Keith said in a low tone, “did you ever get in touch with Brighting?”

During the months in Idaho, Richardson had many times
pondered the clear dictum in the standing instructions for the site that under no circumstances whatever was power to be provided off-site. It might be brought in, in emergency, but never sent the other way. Dusty Rhodes' explanation had been un-illuminating: “Far as anyone knows, he figures there'll be a temptation to count on us as an area resource if we ever do anything like that. Then sometime when we might want to go down for overhaul or a drill or something, we might not be able to without their okay. It would cut into his complete control of this place.”

A life-or-death emergency clearly lay outside the scope or intent of Admiral Brighting's instructions. Could he have been reached, he most certainly would have authorized provision of emergency assistance to the Arco hospital. Rich had done only what Brighting himself would have done, he mused uncomfortably, realizing the while that, unquestionably, he had disobeyed not only the written standing orders of the training site but also the personal order about leaving his rank and title outside the chain link fence enclosing the complex. He had done this twice recently, in fact. But Rhodes' telephoned report of the repair of the steam leak under the hot reactor had not mentioned Richardson's part in marshaling the repair effort. Likewise, no one (he hoped) had told Brighting yet that those present that night, at least the Navy people—and tonight as well—had automatically reverted to old training and addressed him as “Captain.”