ice, still heavy ice.
At half past five Commander Swanson walked across to the ice-machine and peered over Benson’s shoulder. He said: ‘What’s the average thickness of that stuff above?’
‘Twelve to fifteen feet,’ Benson said. His voice was low and tired. ‘Nearer fifteen, I would say.’
Swanson picked up a phone. ‘Lieutenant Mills? Captain here. What is the state of readiness of those torpedoes you’re working on? … Four? … Readyto go? … Good. Stand by to load. I’m giving this search another thirty minutes, then it’s up to you. Yes, that is correct. We shall attempt to blow a hole through the ice.’ He replaced the phone.
Hansen said thoughtfully: ‘Fifteen feet of ice is a helluva lot of ice. And that ice will have a tamping effect and will direct 90 per cent of the explosive force down the way. You think we
can
blow a hole through fifteen feet of ice, Captain?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Swanson admitted. ‘How can anyone know until we try it?’
‘Nobody ever tried to do this before?’ I asked.
‘No. Not in the U.S. Navy, anyway. The Russians may have tried it, I wouldn’t know. They don’t,’ he added dryly, ‘keep us very well informed on those matters.’
‘Aren’t the underwater shock waves liable to damage the
Dolphin?’
I asked. I didn’t care for the idea at all, and that was a fact.
‘If they do, the Electric Boat Company can expect a pretty strong letter of complaint. We shall explode the warhead electronically about 1,000 yards after it leaves the ship — it has to travel eight hundred yards anyway before a safety device unlocks and permits the warhead to be armed. We shall be bows-on to the detonation and with a hull designed to withstand the pressures this one is, the shock effects should be negligible.’
‘Very heavy ice,’ Benson intoned. ‘Thirty feet, forty feet, fifty feet. Very, very heavy ice.’
‘Just too bad if your torpedo ended up undera pile like the stuff above us just now,’ I said. ‘I doubt if it would even chip off the bottom layer.’
‘We’ll take care that doesn’t happen. We’ll just find a suitably large layer of ice of normal thickness, kind of back off a thousand yards and then let go.’
‘Thin ice!’ Benson’s voice wasn’t a shout, it was a bellow. ‘Thin ice. No, by God, clear water! Clear water! Lovely clear, clear water!’
My immediate reaction was that either the ice-machine or Benson’s brain had blown a fuse. But the officer at the diving panel had no such doubts for I had to grab and hang on hard as the
Dolphin
heeled over violently to port and came curving round, engines slowing, in a tight circle to bring her back to the spot where Benson had called out. Swanson watched the plot, spoke quietly and the big bronze propellers reversed and bit into the water to bring the
Dolphin
to a stop.
‘How’s it looking now, Doc?’ Swanson called out.
‘Clear, clear water,’ Benson said reverently. ‘I got a good picture of it. It’s pretty narrow, but wide enough to hold us. It’s long, with a sharp left-hand dog-leg, for it followed us round through the first forty-five degrees of our curve.’
‘One fifty feet,’ Swanson said.
The pumps hummed. The
Dolphin
drifted gently upwards like an airship rising from the ground. Briefly, water flooded back into the tanks. The
Dolphin
hung motionless.
‘Up periscope,’ Swanson said.
The periscope hissed up slowly into the raised position. Swanson glanced briefly through the eyepiece, then beckoned me. ‘Take a look,’ he beamed. ‘As lovely a sight as you’ll ever see.’
I took a look. If you’d made a picture of what could be seen above and framed it you couldn’t have sold the result even if you added Picasso’s name to it: but I could see what he meant. Solid black masses on either side with a scarcely lighter strip of dark jungle green running between them on a line with the fore-and-aft direction of the ship. An open lead in the polar pack.
Three
At half past five Commander Swanson walked across to the ice-machine and peered over Benson’s shoulder. He said: ‘What’s the average thickness of that stuff above?’
‘Twelve to fifteen feet,’ Benson said. His voice was low and tired. ‘Nearer fifteen, I would say.’
Swanson picked up a phone. ‘Lieutenant Mills? Captain here. What is the state of readiness of those torpedoes you’re working on? … Four? … Readyto go? … Good. Stand by to load. I’m giving this search another thirty minutes, then it’s up to you. Yes, that is correct. We shall attempt to blow a hole through the ice.’ He replaced the phone.
Hansen said thoughtfully: ‘Fifteen feet of ice is a helluva lot of ice. And that ice will have a tamping effect and will direct 90 per cent of the explosive force down the way. You think we
can
blow a hole through fifteen feet of ice, Captain?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Swanson admitted. ‘How can anyone know until we try it?’
‘Nobody ever tried to do this before?’ I asked.
‘No. Not in the U.S. Navy, anyway. The Russians may have tried it, I wouldn’t know. They don’t,’ he added dryly, ‘keep us very well informed on those matters.’
‘Aren’t the underwater shock waves liable to damage the
Dolphin?’
I asked. I didn’t care for the idea at all, and that was a fact.
‘If they do, the Electric Boat Company can expect a pretty strong letter of complaint. We shall explode the warhead electronically about 1,000 yards after it leaves the ship — it has to travel eight hundred yards anyway before a safety device unlocks and permits the warhead to be armed. We shall be bows-on to the detonation and with a hull designed to withstand the pressures this one is, the shock effects should be negligible.’
‘Very heavy ice,’ Benson intoned. ‘Thirty feet, forty feet, fifty feet. Very, very heavy ice.’
‘Just too bad if your torpedo ended up undera pile like the stuff above us just now,’ I said. ‘I doubt if it would even chip off the bottom layer.’
‘We’ll take care that doesn’t happen. We’ll just find a suitably large layer of ice of normal thickness, kind of back off a thousand yards and then let go.’
‘Thin ice!’ Benson’s voice wasn’t a shout, it was a bellow. ‘Thin ice. No, by God, clear water! Clear water! Lovely clear, clear water!’
My immediate reaction was that either the ice-machine or Benson’s brain had blown a fuse. But the officer at the diving panel had no such doubts for I had to grab and hang on hard as the
Dolphin
heeled over violently to port and came curving round, engines slowing, in a tight circle to bring her back to the spot where Benson had called out. Swanson watched the plot, spoke quietly and the big bronze propellers reversed and bit into the water to bring the
Dolphin
to a stop.
‘How’s it looking now, Doc?’ Swanson called out.
‘Clear, clear water,’ Benson said reverently. ‘I got a good picture of it. It’s pretty narrow, but wide enough to hold us. It’s long, with a sharp left-hand dog-leg, for it followed us round through the first forty-five degrees of our curve.’
‘One fifty feet,’ Swanson said.
The pumps hummed. The
Dolphin
drifted gently upwards like an airship rising from the ground. Briefly, water flooded back into the tanks. The
Dolphin
hung motionless.
‘Up periscope,’ Swanson said.
The periscope hissed up slowly into the raised position. Swanson glanced briefly through the eyepiece, then beckoned me. ‘Take a look,’ he beamed. ‘As lovely a sight as you’ll ever see.’
I took a look. If you’d made a picture of what could be seen above and framed it you couldn’t have sold the result even if you added Picasso’s name to it: but I could see what he meant. Solid black masses on either side with a scarcely lighter strip of dark jungle green running between them on a line with the fore-and-aft direction of the ship. An open lead in the polar pack.
Three
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