Conventional submarines make more speed on the surface than they can below it, but nuclear subs go faster submerged. Now, displacing four thousand tons of Atlantic Ocean, we were making better than twenty-five knots in the general direction of the Arctic. It was the literal end of the world: at this season the edge of the polar ice cap was as far south as it ever gets — locking Russia to the North Pole. To add to the fun, winter brings permanent night to the land of ice.
Apart from a bridge tournament that continued in the library, and the film show at 14.00 hours and 21.00 hours each day, there was little for us to do for the first three days. Even Schlegel simmered down enough to spend hours at a time reading
We had our own operators in the electronics rooms. When we surfaced they did the usual tests: tuning into the Northern Fleet a transmitters at Murmansk and the big Baltic Fleet radio at Baltiysk — on the Frisches Haff. The submarine base at Kaliningrad — what used to be Konigsberg — and the C.-in-C. Baltic Naval Air Force, have heavy radio traffic. If London's reception is poor, surfaced subs in transit monitor for them.
There was nothing special on the data collection log except intercepts between a couple of conventional subs steaming a parallel course north with us. They were East Germans, from the submarine school at Sassnitz, taking the boats up in the direction of Poliarnyi. We read them on the sonar and ranged them. A nuclear power plant enables all the electronic equipment to give a performance superior to anything in a conventional boat. The Conning Officer pleaded to do mock attacks; on them but the Captain wouldn't even discuss it. The captains of these data collection subs are given the full treatment at New London before they take command. The idea of the Russians capturing one of them was cinclant's constant nightmare. That's why I was surprised that they'd chosen such a sub to do Toliver's rendezvous for Remoziva.
The Norwegian Basin is a deep area of the Norwegian Sea that lies between Norway iand Greenland. Even on the rim of the Basin there are still a couple of thousand metres of water. But before we were out of the northern end of the Basin, the sonar picked up the first of the drift-ice. Growlers, they call the grey chunks that float off the pack. They don't remain flat side up, as they were when they were part of the floe. They tip over and look exactly like a submarine or a trawler. And if they are big enough, a gust of wind can catch them. Then they will sail off, leaving a wake behind them so that you start counting the seconds before a surface-to-surface hits you in the fanny.
We were having breakfast when the first growler was sighted. That morning there was cinnamon toast. Faintly, from the juke box in the crew's quarters, I could hear Neil Diamond singing 'Cracklin' Rosie'.
The Captain says it's a long way south,' said Schlegel.
'A north wind will bring them down a lot farther than this,' said Ferdy. He turned to me. 'What do you think he'll do?'
'Who?' asked Schlegel. He didn't like to be left out of things.
'The skipper,' I said. 'He'll go deep.'
'Periscope depth,' said Ferdy.
'A quid,' I said.
'You're on,' said Ferdy.
'Why do you think he'll go deep?' said Schlegel.
'He's a new kid. He's full of the marvels of science, but he'll want to convince himself that the sonar is perfect before we get into the rough stuff.'
'And I've got a pound that says you're wrong,' said Schlegel.
That's how I lost two quid. Mind you, Ferdy swore that Schlegel must have heard the Captain say what he intended to do beforehand. But hell, Schlegel isn't short of a quid.
He took us up to periscope level. He was a new kid — I was right about that — so why didn't I guess he'd, be interested in seeing what the Arctic looked like.
It was an either/or situation. He could either take us down and rely on the machinery, or keep a sharp watch for ice on the surface. Ice is no softer than steel when you bump into it. Even a chunk no bigger than Ferdy could wreck the periscope vacuums.
'That's unkind,' said Ferdy.
'No bigger than a Shetland pony,' I offered.
'Shetland pony, I'll accept,' said Ferdy, and giggled. 'Do you want another serving of cinnamon toast?' He got to his feet to get it.
'And bacon,' I said.
'You guys,' said Schlegel. 'That's the third helping of cinnamon toast! You get no exercise, you don't need all this chow.'
Suddenly there was a thump. Crockery smashed in the dining-room and a dozen pairs of boots fell out of the rack in front of me and shot across the deck towards Ferdy's armchair.
'My God! What's that?' said Ferdy.
The deck tilted. The forward motion stopped, as the screws went into reverse and the ship heeled over. I hung onto the bulkhead as I clambered forward to the Control Room. We went into a violent up-angle.
'Hold it,' said Schlegel when I got there. Already the Captain was at the sonar, hanging on to the operator to stop himself sliding across the floor.
'Contact fifty yards dead ahead,' said the Conning Officer. He'd thrown her into the tightest turn, she was capable of and now we were beginning to straighten slowly.
'What is it?' said the skipper. He was a baby-faced Commander with tailored khakis and soft brown leather high boots. He rubbed his eyes. There were no shadows, no shade, no escape from the fluorescent lights that glared in the glass dials.
'That goddamn Kraut sub,' said the Conning Officer.
'Are you sure?' He looked not at the Conning Officer but to his Exec.
'We've been watching her,' said the Exec. 'She's been acting up… crossed our bow twice… then she dived ahead of us.'
They were both watching the sonar screen. The shape moved just a flicker. It was still, and then slowly it turned. You could have cut the tension with a knife.
'Ten minds with but. a single thought,' said the skipper. Just the tiniest hint of a smile was on the corner of his lips but a bead of sweat on his forehead undid the cool he showed. He was right about this man's mind. I was waiting for her bow tubes to come round to us, and not liking
Suddenly there was bedlam in the Control Room. The air was filled with raucous noises: flutes up and down the scale, and a rasping noise from the P.A. system. I looked at the console. The radar screen was a snowstorm that dashed vertically and diagonally in a mad rhythm.
The Captain took the P.A. microphone and, raising his voice to make it heard above the interference, said, 'This is the Captain. Stay loose, everybody. It's just their E.C.M.'
The noise increased to a frenzy as the German submarine's counter measures jammed the electronics. Then it stopped and the instruments swung back to their rightful positions, the screen darkened and the P.A. speakers went silent.
'She's heading south — fast.'
'Bastards!' said the Exec.
The Captain walked over to the screen and patted the operator on the back. 'Not too many more like that, Al.'
The boy smiled. 'We'll come back the scenic route, sir.'
'Do that for me. My old lady will never forgive you if you do something silly now,' said the skipper. He ran the back of his hand across his brow.
The Exec took the con again. I felt the edge of vibration as the screws began to turn and a ripple of freshly disturbed water ran along the hull like a cautionary linger,
'Steer, Oh, three, five-er.'
We were on the way again.
