Silent Hunter
Page 36
From the moment they turned through the gates of the academy and headed toward the launch area, Hal Snow had experienced a warm feeling. The buildings, the roads, the statues, and then from the water the old landmarks. Tolly Point drifted off to starboard, then the beautiful old homes gradually faded in the distance as they moved down the bay. Snow closed his eyes and listened to the soft ruffle of the wind in the mainsail.
“Here, you take over the driving for a while,” Lucy Reed whispered, gently placing Snow’s arm over the tiller. “The old captain’s asleep,” she added, nodding at her husband, “and it’s time to break out the stores.”
There was no opportunity to refuse. Lucy had transferred the responsibility with an ease that sent a thrill through him. There was no need for her to add any other words. It was simply implied that since she had something else to do, and Andy was dozing, that Snow was perfectly competent to control the situation—she had total confidence in him. As she moved down the ladder into the tiny forward cabin, she turned back and winked.
At first he experimented. He loosened the line to the main sheet and let the sail swing farther out until it began to luff. Then he hauled in until the wind was as perfect as it could get. Gradually, he shifted the rudder, turning first to port until the sheet again luffed and the We Eight began to flatten out. When he pushed the tiller in the opposite direction, the sail again filled and the little craft began to heel. God, it felt good! We Eight was just under thirty feet, but Hal Snow was experiencing a sensation that he was afraid might have died weeks before under the arctic ice. He felt in control again!
A champagne cork popped in the cabin and Andy Reed stirred. He glanced over at Snow, smiled comfortably, and stretched. “I’m going below to give the chef a hand. You can hold this course if you like . . . or come about and head for Kent Island, We’re game for whatever you want to do.” And with that, he ducked below to help Lucy.
Snow grinned to himself. You’ve got the conn, old man. No sense in following a rhumb line on such a beautiful day. “Coming about,” he shouted happily.
Lucy’s lunch was superb, the crackling cold champagne so good that they downed a second bottle. Neither of the Reeds touched the tiller for the remainder of the day as Snow tacked back and forth across Chesapeake Bay. And when he brought the little craft alongside the pier that evening, the landing was perfect.
That night. Snow was effusive, dredging up many of their old memories, regaling them with stories that had magnified over the years, recalling old jokes. And over coffee, he offered simply, “I’m going to leave the navy Monday morning. I hate to . . . but it’s time.” He was free again. He’d sensed it on that first tack, known it as they docked.
“No need to,” Reed said.
“I know that. It’s just time.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to call my kids. We have a lot of time to make up.”
“When you come back, there’s a job waiting here for you.” Reed’s stare was level and expressionless.
Snow hesitated. “Not a navy job . . .”
“Whenever you want.”
“I’ve always heard that three strikes and you’re out.” Snow paused, a flood of arctic memories momentarily overwhelming him. “I’m not interested in taking the third . . .” His voice drifted off.
Lucy Reed reached over to squeeze his hand. “There was never a second strike—you know that, don’t you?” She held his hand tightly, her eyes moving from his to her husband’s.
“She’s right, Hal,” Andy Reed nodded. “You pulled off the impossible up there. You won’t have a thing to do with the Washington types—but they’re still in awe of what you did.”
“Thanks . . . both of you, thanks,” he added hesitantly. “But I still can’t come back.”
“You don’t have to, Hal. But the door’s open as long as you need it.”
“I’ll remember that.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “But I think I’ll give the kids a call now. There’s a lot to do.”
Afterword
SOVIET TECHNOLOGY is achieving giant strides in submarine development. Over the past decade, they have introduced a dozen new designs and by 1990 it is predicted that future classes will attain the low noise levels of our current 688 Los Angeles class. Specifically designed for under-ice operations, their titanium hulls are going to withstand crush depths in excess of 1,000 meters, their engineering plants will be capable of speeds over fifty knots submerged, and the compartmentalization and double hulls will require more than one hit to sink them—that is if the torpedo can catch the target and if that occurs before imploding at such tremendous crush depths.
We have yet to achieve the necessary sophistication in materials or technology to send a ship of Imperator’s size to sea, but naval architects and engineers have experimented in designing such craft for oil/LNG transport. However, it is becoming clearer that the United States will eventually need a submarine with Imperator’s capabilities if we are to continue to maintain seapower in the true sense of the word.