Cold is the Sea (2 page)

Three years in the Pentagon, in the office concerned with Navy Programs and Plans, were about enough for any naval officer who would rather be at sea. Three years preparing specifications for the forces required to meet constantly changing national commitments, of endless weeks practically living in his office, responding desperately to the sudden demands of a Secretary of Defense whose habit, about 4:30 in the afternoon, was to say, “Have it on my desk at eight o'clock tomorrow morning,” had given Rich a jaundiced view of Washington political officialdom and its inconsiderate demands on its minions. More than once he had worked all night because it would have been disloyal to the Navy not to, all the while wondering if the document being prepared at such personal sacrifice would actually be read by anyone, least of all by the minor official in someone's office up the line who had been the real source of the urgency keeping him there.

But all this was over now, had been for ten days, and there was nothing for Rich to do but catch up on personal business, lend a hand if his successor asked, in general try to occupy himself usefully—for the first time in his Pentagon career he was able to leave the office at the so-called “regular” hour—and wait. He was noticing, perhaps for the twentieth occasion during his three
years in this particular cubicle but only now with genuine interest, that when it rained a regular river of water cascaded down the cement facing his window—when female footsteps approached his desk. Without looking, he knew it was the secretary he shared with another captain and two commanders, not to mention Jim Barnes, now, as well.

The rain did not continue down the outside wall of the building, however. Instead, much of it suddenly disappeared into the concrete through a hidden flaw in the structure. Doubtless some wretch on the floor below, perhaps an Army colonel also “program planning” for his own Service, was wondering what he had done to deserve this. If he didn't have enough sense to come up a flight and inspect the wall above his office, as Rich, however fortuitously, was doing at that very moment, he deserved to be flooded out once in a while.

“Captain, here's something from BuPers. . . .” Rich turned, his dampened opposite number in the U.S. Army forgotten, seized the bulky envelope.

“Thanks, Marie,” he said, extracting a thick sheaf of paper from the envelope she had already slit open. It was immediately evident there was but a single typed sheet, with numerous copies clipped to it.

“From: Chief BuPers,” the paper said—it was not a letter but one of those forms of official gibberish by which unnamed bureaucrats protect their jobs by confusing everyone else—“To: Captain Edward G. Richardson, USN. Subj: Orders. Herdet Prorep ComSubRon Ten Porich USS Proteus Delrep 10 . . .” There was more gibberish and a series of numbers that meant something to someone in the Bureau of Personnel, but for the moment he needed no more.

“Are those your orders?” Marie asked. “We know you've been waiting for them, but we'll be terribly sorry to lose you . . .” Her polite words trailed off. Everyone in the office had been painfully aware of Richardson's restlessness the past few days, and the reason.

“Yes, at last,” said Richardson, unconsciously rising as though he might begin acting on them immediately. “I'm getting SubRon Ten in New London.”

“Congratulations, Captain. That's the squadron you were hoping for, isn't it?” Marie, after many years in the Pentagon,
had seen countless naval officers come and go. Orders to sea, she well knew, were highly prized. Usually they were received weeks, sometimes months, before they were to be carried out, and there was always a reason behind any break in this routine. If no explanation was offered, it was tactful not to mention that one had noticed.

“Thanks, Marie. Yes, it is,” Richardson said again, almost absently, toying with the paper. “But they've left something out, I think.” He read the tersely worded document again, frowning. “I never could figure out this verbal shorthand. There was supposed to be something in here about nuclear training prior to reporting.” He turned to look out the window, turned back to Marie, dismissed her with another word of thanks. He sat again at his desk, reached for the telephone. “Deacon,” he said, “Rich Richardson. My orders to SubRon Ten finally landed here. It's been bad enough having to wait like this, and I know you've been doing your best to clear them through the bureau. But I've just noticed they don't say anything about that nuclear power training we were talking about. I've had my interview with Admiral Brighting, and that was all agreed. At least, that's what he said. Leaving it out was a mistake, I hope.”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded slightly troubled. “It wasn't a mistake, Rich. I'm really sorry. I thought it was all set, too. But you know old man Brighting. There's just no figuring him out. The list for nuclear power he sent over last week didn't have you on it. We thought there might have been a mistake over there and called them up, but they wouldn't change.”

“But dammit, man, is that why you've had me chewing my fingernails these last few days? Why didn't you tell me right away, instead of just sending over these orders after all this waiting around? When I went over there for my interview, he told me he was putting me on the list for the next class—that was the whole point of the exercise! The nuclear subs are all being assigned to Squadron Ten. I made the pitch that the squadron commander should also have a nuke ticket, and he agreed!”

Deacon Jones' voice lowered perceptibly, its unease emphasized. “Rich, I know how you feel, and you know all I can do is try to run this submarine assignment desk according to what is handed me. All I can tell you—and this better stay off the record,
please—is that there was some kind of a flap up in the front office last week between the chief and Vice Admiral Brighting. It was all on the telephone, and we're not sure who slammed down the phone first, but I'm pretty sure it was over the nukey pooh list. Yesterday I got the word to send over your orders as is. Scott was so mad we could feel the walls shaking all the way down to my end of the wing here.”

“What sort of a flap, Deac? Are you telling me there was a week-long flap over me in the front office between Vice Admiral Scott and Vice Admiral Brighting, and no one even told me about it?” There was a rasp in Rich's voice as he threw heavy emphasis on the titles of two of the most important officers in the Navy. “What sort of flap? Why did that take me out of nuclear training?”

“All I can say is if they didn't tell you it's because they don't want you to know. It went on more than a week, and I sure don't know what it was about. I didn't even find out this much until a couple of days ago. You know none of us can figure out how Brighting makes up his mind about the folks on that list when he puts it out. We even have to do undercover work to find out when one is about due, and I agree, it's no way to run a navy. Anyway, there's one bit of dope you'll be glad about. Your old exec, Keith Leone, is getting the blue crew in
William B
.
Cushing
. And another one of your old JOs, Buck Williams, is getting the
Manta
in your squadron. Both of them have orders to the next nuke school, and when they finish they'll be reporting to you in New London. Once in a while we try to do something right. That please you?”

“It's the greatest news I've heard for a year,” Rich said fervently, then hung up the phone. But it was nevertheless a deeply troubled Richardson who shortly thereafter maneuvered his ancient automobile out of the Pentagon parking lot and, for once, beat the afternoon rush-hour traffic. The rain was abating at his rented house in South Arlington; Jobie would be delighted to bring out the newly purchased baseball gloves a little earlier than usual, and afterward he would have a word with Laura.

“Well, you just have to go and see Admiral Brighting,” said Laura. “Whatever he has against you, he owes it to you to tell you, and I think he will. Then you'll know what to do.” It was
after dinner. Conscientious young Joe, known as “Jobie” because his middle initial was B, had gone to his room to study for his eighth-grade exams. Rich and Laura had made short work of the dishes and were now relaxing in the living room. Lately Rich had treasured this opportunity to look over the evening paper. It gave him a sense of returning to the real world, after a long absence. Not tonight, however. During the fifteen years of their marriage he had frequently taken his problems home to Laura, and he had learned to value the thoughtful insight she so often was able to bring to them.

“Brighting is a peculiar man, dear,” Rich said. “You don't get to see him just by setting up an appointment the usual way. My interview with him in March was a set piece; all officers proposed for assignment to nuclear subs have to be accepted by him and go through his nuclear training instruction. He insists on interviewing every one of them personally, and he only takes about half the candidates.”

“I know all that,” Laura said. “The Navy's been talking about that for years. He's always been against protocol, I mean, the normal way of doing things, and he likes the unusual, especially if it's contrary to the system. You ought to telephone him direct, without going through any superior office or bureau—don't even tell them—and just ask if you can come and see him. If you do it on the phone yourself, instead of first having a secretary put the call through, I think he'll say to come on over. But he'll be expecting you, though, to try to get him to change his mind.”

“He can't blame me for that!”

“Of course, darling. But he'll be ready to turn you down unless you can get him to listen to your side with an open mind. Do you know anybody in his shop who might tell him there's another side to the story beforehand?”

Rich did know somebody. He had been surprised to see her passing the admiral's office as he entered for his interview. He had not seen her since the war, had no idea she had become a Navy WAVE officer, not the foggiest notion in the world that she had been a member of Brighting's staff for several years already. “Joan!” he had muttered, when she suddenly appeared. Their hands had touched, a handshake. It was impersonal, a friendly warmth only, but even so, as there had been something unforgettable before, there was a strange awareness now. A
conscious effort had been needed to put the awakened memories out of his mind, and he had not succeeded well.

“No,” he said, answering Laura's question with the lie direct. He rationalized it by thinking he had no idea what Joan's status was in Admiral Brighting's group. But he was vaguely conscious of another motive, its essence glimmering at the fringe of conscious awareness.

Joan had been out of his life since the war. He had made a decision then; so had she. It had been the right decision, difficult at the time because so abrupt and final, but for him it had not been hard to live with. Perhaps this was partly because the Navy moved one around so much anyway. That had been all right for him, but sometimes he had wondered about her. She had always seemed so self-contained, so undemanding. There had always been a private quality about her, some secret invulnerability. During the period of their intimacy she had somehow avoided telling him much about her background, what she had been doing before he knew her, what she was doing at the time. Then the war ended, and they parted. He would have liked to maintain some sort of contact with her, despite his approaching marriage to Laura—as one did with good friends in the Navy—but he could not think of anything but the wrong reasons for doing so. By consequence, he never had really tried. Neither had she.

Like so much that had happened during those strenuous, halcyon years, Joan, too, had receded into the never-never land. He knew her well enough to realize that was the way she wanted it. She had given him his freedom, and claimed the same for herself. Now, fifteen years later, she was back. But was she? Did he dare ask her to reenter his life, even in a small way?

2

D
espite Laura's misgivings about the lack of an intermediary, her suggestion had been a good one. For all Rich knew, Admiral Brighting had been expecting the request for a second interview. His offices were located in a separate, guarded, brick-and-concrete structure behind the “Main Navy” building dating from World War I. Now the sharp-featured, hawk-nosed, wizened little admiral peered across his book-and-paper-cluttered desk at Richardson. His eyes were mild, expressionless, slightly faded. He had been reading, but no glasses were in evidence. As previously, he was dressed in civilian shirt, tie and trousers. His jacket was hanging nearby. Two months ago, Richardson had come in uniform for his first interview, but today he had decided to match the admiral's habitual attire. No one, however, had invited him to remove his jacket. The room was warm. The ancient air-conditioning unit in the window behind Brighting was whirring, blowing an ineffectual amount of humid, slightly cooled air toward him.

“Hello, Richardson. What do you want to see me about?” It
was hardly an auspicious beginning. Admiral Brighting spoke in a monotone, barely loudly enough for Rich to hear him. He had the reputation of wasting no time in conversation, and in this he was running true to form. His eyes returned to the loose-leaf binder filled with pink flimsies from which he had been reading.

Richardson had carefully thought over how he would broach the subject of his visit, had decided to try as well as he could to fit the admiral's mood, whatever it might be; but he was already totally disarmed. His straight-backed wooden chair was as uncomfortable as it had been the first time, and he had long known the story about its front legs having been slightly shortened. Probably this was not true, but nevertheless it held him at an odd angle, and there seemed a tendency to slip forward. Determinedly, he planted both feet in front of him.