Cold is the Sea (10 page)

This had not happened through any desire of Richardson's. It had been a subconscious wish for and acceptance of leadership on the part of everyone. But in responding to one of Dr. Danforth's anxious telephone calls before the power hookup was complete, Richardson had himself used his title as the quickest and simplest method of indicating his acceptance of responsibility. He was as guilty as the rest. More so. With the town of Arco and its power company involved, there was no way Brighting could fail to learn all the details almost immediately, wherever he was.

Rhodes, when he finally came to the telephone after being rousted from the duck blind in which he had barely settled for his first try at duck hunting in Idaho, was incredulous when he learned what Rich had done. “You know I'll have to tell the old man,” he said unhappily. “There's no way I can not tell him.
Arco's been trying to get us to agree to do this for years. They've even gone to the State Power Commission to try to force us. Now this will be all over the papers.”

It was a badly shaken Dusty Rhodes who greeted Richardson Monday morning. “He chewed me out all over the Bell Telephone System,” he said. “He already knew all about it. He must have spies everywhere. I didn't even get a chance to talk at all. The way he carried on you'd have thought I had done it myself, instead of being off in a duck blind. Even early on a Sunday morning, I've got no right to be in a duck blind. Said I'm in charge and should have been here. So now I've got to move into the quonset alongside yours and be on board whenever the reactor is critical. To hell with family life. We're critical for months at a time, and I'll just have to stay on board. And the Navy calls this shore duty!” Rhodes audibly expelled his breath. “Also, I've got to tell you you can't take the exam. It's okay for Keith and Buck, but not you. He won't even listen. Twice I tried to tell him how it was, and both times he said you were like the gunner of the
Claymer
, or something like that. What's this
Claymer
business? And what's it got to do with knocking you out of taking the operator's exam? That's all he'd say, except that he doesn't want to talk to you.”

“It's a famous story by Victor Hugo,” said Richardson, thinking of something else, almost absently answering the question. “A gun broke loose on a ship named
Claymore
during a storm. It rolled around on deck smashing things and killing people and nearly sinking the ship, which was carrying some big general back to France during the French Revolution. The gunner risked his life to secure the gun, and after he finally got it lashed so it couldn't move, the general gave him a medal and then had him shot. Some say the general was supposed to be Napoleon, but I'm not so sure.”

“What did he have the poor guy shot for?”

“The medal was for heroism in tying up the gun again. He was shot because he was responsible for it getting loose in the first place. I get the message all right, mainly that Brighting won't listen to my side of the story. But his analogy is mixed up. I didn't let any guns get loose!”

Rhodes looked curiously at Richardson. “You're awfully calm about it,” he said. “I thought you'd be mad as hell.”

Rich grimaced. “Well, I'm not happy about it,” he said. “That make you feel any better?” He had not been able totally to keep the bitterness out of his voice, even knowing that Dusty Rhodes had been a very unwilling bearer of bad news. He had expected something like this, had spent a good portion of the past day considering the manner of his defense during the telephone conversation with Brighting which he believed to be inevitable. The unfairness of the summary decision cut deep. He had been denied even the opportunity of saying a single word in his defense, as if he counted for nothing. The effort he and the others had made, the good accomplished, the life saved, the agonized decision to proceed in the emergency without permission which was, in the circumstance, unobtainable, all were being treated contemptuously. Fury suddenly boiled within him. Brighting had no right to do this to him!

But the inner rage could not come out. It would be unseemly. More, it would be stupid for him to let Brighting goad him into saying or doing something which could be construed as disrespectful. So far, he was morally certain of the right of his position and the support of the Navy. He must not forfeit this by losing control now, no matter what the provocation.

With Buck and Keith, however, both of whom announced they would also skip the exam, he could be less reserved. It was almost a relief to shout at them. “Certainly not!” he blazed. “You two damn fools get in there and take that exam! And you'd both better come out with damned near perfect marks, both of you!”

But then, as the morning wore on to noon—a can of soup warmed by the vending machine while he waited—and the afternoon turned into evening, it became too painful. The study program had all been directed to the end of taking the qualifying examination for reactor operator, one of several qualifications it was possible to attain. All three men had already done all the physical testing and watch-standing work, had passed all the practical factors required for qualification. Remaining was only the theoretical test, the examination. Mark One was already programmed for a following study group, this time prospective engineers instead of skippers. Even in Mark One there was nothing for him to do except observe some other students follow the same learning path, make the same mistakes, learn the same
basics. Reading for relaxation or trying to occupy himself in some other way did not work. He found a magazine which someone had surreptitiously brought in, threw it down after only a few minutes. The operating manuals were hopeless. His eyes glazed over the words.

As he paced restlessly about, conjuring up new errands, torturing himself with his inability to control his bitter emotion, wishing he were anywhere but where he was and yet not able to go away for more than a moment at any given time, Richardson could not help occasionally seeing Keith and Buck, sitting on opposite sides of the examination room, concentrating on the question sheet before them, scribbling madly on pads of ruled paper, drinking cup after cup of coffee. In this, at least, he could participate; getting coffee for his friends was one of the ways his life could be meaningful. Frequently one or the other, sometimes both at once, cast him a quick glance of gratitude for the coffee, of sympathy for the pain he was feeling, of worry for their inability to help assuage the anguish. But the demands of the test were primary. For the most part they kept their eyes on their papers, their pencils in ceaseless motion.

Several doors away, in the officer-in-charge's private office, the same which Rich had commandeered for a command post only thirty-six hours ago, an associated drama was taking place. Rhodes' telephone rang more often than usual, and most of the time it must have been Brighting.

At least, Rhodes' alacrity to answer, the somber sympathy of his secretary or the hurried search organized when Rhodes happened to be absent could spell no one but Admiral Brighting on the other end of the line. Once Rhodes spoke louder than usual, and Rich heard him say, “No, sir, he's not. He's not in there.” The negatives were emphatic. “He's down in the prototype somewhere. Do you want me to get him to the phone?”

Evidently Brighting did not, for no one came for Rich. It was not his intention to eavesdrop, but Rhodes might have realized he was only a few feet away and could not help overhearing. Maybe this was a hint. Perhaps Rhodes was more subtle than he thought. Anyway, he would take it as such, would force himself to find something of interest in the drills down in the prototype.

Keith found him in the reactor compartment, two hours later. “Well, we're finished,” he said. “Buck's winding up his last
question right now, so that's done. He'll be here in a couple minutes. Boy! That was some exam!”

“How did you do?”

“Oh, I'm sure I did pretty doggone well. It was fair enough—it just asked me everything I ever knew. That's why it took all day. They've already started to grade my paper, and we'll know pretty soon what Dusty's crew thinks of it. I've got a great case of writer's cramp, and a permanent dent in my finger where I held the pencils, and I'll bet Buck has, too! But what a lousy deal this is for you! I wish there were some way we could square this!”

“We can't help that,” said Richardson, speaking as normally as he could. “Don't forget I learned what I came out here for, nuke ticket or no. I'm just glad he didn't lay on you and Buck for helping. You're the guys who will really need the tickets on your records with your nuke boats.”

“Ships, you mean,” said Keith, sensing that Richardson would like to change the subject. “Some of us have been calling them ‘ships' ever since the
Triton
went in commission—about time, too. She's as big as a cruiser. I suppose we'll be heading home tomorrow. Dusty's already cut our orders, I think, and I'm anxious to get back to Peggy and the
Cushing
, both.”

“Spoken like a true sailor,” Rich began, glad for the chance to take up a new topic. “I've got interest in New London, too. . . .”

“I don't know which needs me the most,
Manta
or Cindy,” said Williams' voice behind them, “but I know which one I need most, and she's no damned submarine!”

“You young bucks are all the same,” growled Richardson with mock disdain. “Can't keep away from women!”

“You just now said something about New London yourself, Skipper,” said Buck, mischievously. “Is there anyone there in particular . . .?”

Someone was approaching rapidly on the other side of the reactor housing. Rhodes. “Rich,” he said, “Brighting's changed his mind! Can you take the exam right away?”

“You mean right this minute? You bet! What's happened?”

“Damned if I know,” said Rhodes. “He suddenly called up again, and out of the clear blue he said to give you the test immediately. Now. Then he hung up. It's now or never, the way he said it. He's not even willing for you to wait till tomorrow morning. Can you start right now?”

There was neither disrespect nor lese majesty in the blows Keith and Buck were suddenly raining on his back, and their delighted exclamations. Dusty Rhodes joined them after a moment and in a somewhat more inhibited fashion, and within minutes Rich found himself seated in the same examination room lately occupied by his friends, fortified by a cup of black coffee and staring at his first question.

“There's no time limit, but you have to do it all at one sitting,” said Rhodes. “Just work till you finish, and then lay your papers on my desk. I'll get them in the morning. I couldn't give you the same test as the others, though. Brighting's orders. It's a little tougher, so it won't be lying on my desk very long, I don't think. This is the one for reactor supervisor, which we normally use to qualify top-grade technicians who've been out here at least a year. I'm afraid you'll be working pretty late.”

After Rhodes had left, Keith said quietly, “If this exam is tougher than ours, it's going to be a long night for you. Buck and I will go watch-and-watch on you, so there'll be one of us around for moral support and coffee. We've got plenty of quarters for the soup machines, too; so all you have to do is yell when you need something.”

The examination taken by his two friends had contained thirty questions, they had said, and it was with some dismay that Rich found forty-two in his. Dusty's sure not going to find all these finished and on his desk when he gets there tomorrow morning, that's one thing certain, he thought. It took Keith and Buck nine hours to do theirs, so they averaged ten questions every three hours. At the same speed this one will take more than twelve hours. He put his wristwatch on the table in front of him, picked up the first of a boxful of sharpened pencils and began.

“Sketch and describe the control rod configuration in Mark I,” the question read. “Show the relationship between control rod geometry and the fuel element geometry. Explain the effect on nuclear flux. Draw a three-dimensional sketch of the flux density at various control rod positions, describing the theoretical considerations pertaining to each. . . .”

What could have caused Brighting to reverse himself? Or had he been hazing him the entire time? This special test was certainly far more difficult than the one for which he had prepared. And he had been forced to begin it at the end of an
already long and emotionally exhausting day. Maybe this, too, was part of the hazing.

No matter. Whatever the cause, or causes, he had been given his chance. There was no time limit; so he could work as long as necessary, or as long as his brain could function. He would budget twenty minutes per question, three questions per hour. It was now just seven o'clock. With luck, he might be dropping the completed examination on Dusty Rhodes' desk sometime in the late morning, about fifteen hours from now.

6

I
t was nearly noon of the next day when Richardson carried into Rhodes' office ninety-two sheets of ruled legal-size paper, closely written with pencil and ball-point pen. “Here it is, Dusty,” he said. His mind was still awhirl. Sometime during the all-night grind there had come on him some inner strength, an increased alertness, a mental second wind. He had been sixteen hours at his desk, except for necessary trips to the head, had used up all the pencils provided—and faithfully sharpened—by Keith and Buck, and had drunk many cups of coffee, also brought by his two friends. True to their word, they had split up the night so that one of them was always there. Shortly after midnight a large mug filled with hot soup had appeared, and at eight, wonder of wonders, a plate of scrambled eggs.