Cold is the Sea (55 page)

Sensing the danger from the suddenly slanted footing and the water creeping ever farther over familiar environs, everyone in the camp began to run toward the only undamaged area, the aircraft landing strip. Nikolai Shumikin, despairingly recognizing the inevitable, could do no more than follow. The last man out of the ruined missile base, he stepped reluctantly off the sinking ice and the shattered remains of his command, stood on the edge of the runway, on the good ice.

His mind was still numb as to the magnitude of the disaster, but he knew that full appreciation would come in time. Everything was going straight to hell! And he would not be able to escape blame. Everything had gone wrong, beginning with the time that American missile submarine had arrived in the Arctic! He was furious with himself, furious with Grigory Ilyich, in a rage against his watch officer and the sonar watch-standers who should have heard the submarine returning. The fact that there might have been nothing to hear did not even enter his head. They should have alerted him!

He shaded his eyes as he looked into the low-lying sun, and with despair saw the hangar, with one plane inside, both cranes, the other aircraft which had been temporarily parked outside the hangar, the radio hut and his two big anti-aircraft guns, flanking their combined ammunition magazine, gently dropping out of sight, following the already vanished silos.

For a long time, Nikolai Konstantinov Shumikin stood looking at the scene of his disaster. That it was a personal as well as an
official one could not be doubted. And then he saw a strange periscope rising out of the once again smooth waters of the much enlarged polynya. It was club-headed, with a large glass window—two glass windows, in fact. And it kept rising, higher and higher, until the black foundations underneath also broke water, and then the entire hull of a submarine.

It was a strange submarine, one he had never seen before. And it seemed to surface in a strange way, somehow oddly tilted, with the highest exposed portion of the hull at the point farthest away from the periscope. No men were to be seen. No one came on deck, or into what he assumed must be the bridge area, near the base of the periscope, although he could hear some noises of concealed activity apparently from that vicinity.

The periscope itself, he could tell from the glass windows at the top, was in nearly constant motion, although frequently it steadied for long minutes during which he felt it was leveled exactly at him. He felt distinctly uneasy at such times, as though he were in personal danger, but there were men watching him from the runway, and he stood his ground.

After about an hour, air bubbled from around the hull of the strange submarine, and it slowly descended back into the water and disappeared.

19

“T
his is Joan Lastrada, Laura. I'm in New London for a few hours. May I come over?” Laura recognized the infrequently heard voice instantly.

A Navy sedan dropped her off and departed. Pouring coffee, Laura looked at her visitor with warmth. Joan was still slender, still had the heavy black hair coiffed with just the right nonchalance. The strong bones beneath her dark eyes accentuated the slightly concave cheeks. Her complexion was smooth, understated; perhaps a bare touch of makeup. Was that a gray hair over one temple? No matter. Laura, too, once in a while used some coloring. Women could appreciate the necessity for these things.

Joan's gray suit was exactly right to set off her hair and eyes. Laura could feel the strength in the long, tapering fingers when they shook hands. Joan shook hands firmly, almost like a man, she thought.

“It's so nice to see you, Joan,” Laura began as she offered the
cream and sugar. “Neither? No wonder you're so stylish! It's been almost a year since we've talked,” she went on tentatively. “I don't think I ever adequately expressed how very much I appreciate what you did. Rich mustn't ever find out, though, because you know how Navy men are about official business. He was very clear that I was never to bring the subject up with you, but he couldn't forbid you to call me. All the same, I couldn't even call back to find out if you'd been able to do anything. But I knew you must have been the one responsible for old Brighting's change of heart. It was great of you to do that, Joan.”

Joan waved aside Laura's apology. “Don't worry about that. All I did was make him see that Rich wasn't involved in Scott's plan for BuPers to take over selection of nuclear trainees.” She hesitated. Her eyes flickered, then steadied honestly on Laura's. “Besides, I guess you know I used to be very fond of Rich—long ago, during the war.”

“Yes, I know. . . . I know he thinks a great deal of you, too.” Now it was Laura's turn to try to convey, without saying the words, that, to her, Rich's wartime relationship with this still extremely attractive woman was no longer a threat to her marriage, but a bond between the two women, something she welcomed.

“That's awfully nice of you, Laura.” Was there the very slightest emphasis on the conventional words? “But I agree, we can't tell Rich anything about this. Even the strongest men—like Rich—would find that hard to take.”

Laura sat silently for a moment, sipping her coffee. Enough had been said. Probably she and Joan would not ever be intimate friends—perhaps that was in truth impossible, given the situation—but they understood each other. Joan's integrity would always match her own. She put down her cup. “What brings you to New London, Joan? You're still in Brighting's office, aren't you?”

“Yes, I'm still with him. But I came because I wanted to see you.”

“That's awfully nice for me. How long will you be here?”

“I flew up this morning on Navy business, and I have to leave in a little while. The car that brought me will come back to take me to the airport.”

“That's a fast trip.”

“I'm still in Naval Intelligence you know.”

“Still?” Laura's voice rose in surprise. “Rich said you were, during the war, but I didn't know you still were. I thought you were just a regular WAVE officer.”

“Well, I am. I'm in ONI—that's Naval Intelligence—and I'm assigned to Admiral Brighting's office. But I'm leaving next month.”

“Oh, really? Where are you going? I'll bet it's some exotic place!”

“Oh, I'll be staying in Washington. What I meant was that I'll be leaving the Service.” There was a glow in Joan's face and an anticipatory look, as if she expected and even welcomed the next question.

“Leaving the Service?” Laura was genuinely surprised. “Why leave it now?”

“Martin Brighting and I are going to be married!” Joan's face was radiant.

Impulsively, Laura leaped to her feet and embraced Joan. “How marvelous! How stupendous! What stunning news! Rich will be thrilled too! Oh, I'm so happy for both of you! We all pictured the admiral as remaining a confirmed bachelor after Marilyn Brighting's death. How wonderful that isn't so! How marvelous for both of you! Can we come to the wedding?”

“Well, no. Not actually. I mean, we're going to be married very quietly by ourselves, and then take off for a honeymoon in Jamaica.” There was a hint of pride in the smile on Joan's face as she added, “It will be Martin's first vacation from the Navy in years. He's promised not to mention business even once! But the next time you're in Washington, you and Rich must visit us!”

“We will! We would love to!” said Laura enthusiastically, and then stopped, bewildered, as she looked at Joan.

A transformation had come over her visitor. The look of happiness on Joan's expressive face had changed to one of deepest sorrow. There was the glint of moisture in the large eyes. “Why, what's the matter?” Laura asked.

“There's something else I have to tell you. I really had no right to come here and be so happy. It's terribly sad. You'll have to
help all you can. No, this has nothing to do with Rich,” she added quickly, as Laura stiffened with alarm.

“What is it, then?” Laura asked, almost in a whisper.

“Laura, this is completely unofficial. I ought not even to be here, according to all the rules, but Martin insisted on it and Admiral Donaldson agreed. But I can't tell you anything more. You'll know soon, but please, when you do, don't say anything about this visit. Don't ask me how I know this—it's part of the business I'm about to leave—but we know you've been having trouble with Peggy Leone. She's going to need your help, Laura. Lots of help, and soon. You've got to do what you can!”

“Joan, I can't. Peggy would never want my help. You have no idea of the things she's said to me!”

“I know what she's like. I could probably repeat nearly every word to you. She said a few untrue things about me, for example. And poor old Captain Blunt, too. We know she's behaved very badly. But she's going to need you. She'll need help very much. She's alienated nearly everyone around here, you more than anyone, I'll agree, but you're the wife of Keith's squadron commander. You have a duty to her.”

“Joan! You're telling me that something's happened to Keith! You can't mean—!”

“I can't tell you anything. I'm only saying you've got to help Peggy, no matter how you feel about her. She's always been terrified of the Navy. Did you know she's been going to a psychiatrist? We've talked to him. This morning. We knew he wouldn't discuss his patients, but he managed to convince us she should not be alone even for a minute, once this thing hits her!”

“You're saying Keith's dead! Joan! I can't believe it! How can it be? What happened?” Laura put her hand to her face in horror. Something was grabbing her intestines. Her flesh felt dry, her body rigid. She clutched at Joan with the other hand.

“I can't say anything more,” said Joan uncomfortably. “Whatever you're guessing is only a guess. And keep it all inside you. Don't show, and don't tell.” The look of inexpressible sadness was unmistakable. “You've got to be with Peggy when the news breaks. Admiral Treadwell will tell you when. Nobody else can handle it. Will you?”

“What dreadful news!” Laura felt as if her mind were flooded with emotion. “Of course I'll be there!”

The good-bye handshake turned into a fond, sad embrace, and Joan was out of the house and into the car, which had arrived unnoticed. When she was gone, Laura stood leaning against the door she had just closed. The enormity of what she had heard was shattering. Poor Keith! What could have happened? She visualized him at the bottom of the sea, entombed in the steel prison of his submarine, suffocating slowly and horribly. Rich had many times said that dying from lack of oxygen was not unpleasant. One merely went to sleep. But the thought was a frightening one, nevertheless. Why did it have to happen to Keith, Rich's best friend in the Navy? Then another idea seized her. Rich and Buck must have failed in their mission of rescue. But, at least, they would come home safe. Keith would not. His death, however it had happened, would soon be made public.

And what about Peggy? Laura's personal dislike of her had vanished. Joan had been exactly right. She was simply terrified of the Navy. Was that wrong? Especially when her fears had proved justified in the most devastating way? Like her or not, one had to admit she had been right to be afraid. The poor thing! How cruel! How dreadful for her! And how awful, too, for poor little Ruthie!

Laura would have to make plans. She would need help. Cindy would have to relieve her occasionally, and Nancy Dulany too. She would probably have to sleep in Peggy's house for a few nights. Provisions would have to be made for Jobie. At fourteen, that would not be hard; he was already showing his father's independence. Perhaps Peggy's telephone should be disconnected, or perhaps made to ring somewhere else, in Admiral Treadwell's office, where someone could be on duty to take messages. Food would have to be organized. Someone would have to make sure Ruthie was properly fed, taken to school, and fetched home again. Peggy must be allowed to cry. She would be hysterical. But she should be encouraged to do as many of the ordinary routine things as possible, as were within her strength, simply to keep her sanity. Poor Peggy! That was, of course, the essence of the problem. How much could she take? Even a perfectly normal woman would need help at a time like this!

No matter what happened, it would be imperative for Laura to keep a cool head. Peggy would be very hard to handle.

Laura pushed herself away from the door, went to the dining-room table. She took a piece of paper. She would make a list of things to do, and plan some discreet phone calls. She would know how to handle this.

She knew she would not fail.

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