Opposite the control platform, on the other side of the passageway leading forward from the control room, was a second partitioned-off room. There was no indication what this might be and I wasn’t given time to wonder. Hansen hurried down the passage, stopped at the first door on his left, and knocked. The door opened and Commander Swanson appeared.
“Ah, there you are. Sorry you’ve been kept waiting, Dr. Carpenter. We’re sailing at six thirty, John”–this to Hansen. “You can have everything set up by then?”
“Depends how quickly the loading of the torpedoes goes, Captain.”
“We’re taking only six aboard.”
Hansen lifted an eyebrow but made no comment. He said, “Loading them into the tubes?”
“In the racks. They have to be worked on.”
“No spares?”
“No spares.”
Hansen nodded and left. Swanson led me into his cabin and closed the door behind him.
Commander Swanson’s cabin was bigger than a telephone booth, I’ll say that for it, but not all that much bigger to shout about. A built-in bunk, a folding washbasin, a small writing desk and chair, a folding camp stool, a locker, some calibrated repeater-instrument dials above the bunk, and that was it. If you’d tried to perform the twist in there, you’d have fractured yourself in a dozen places without ever moving your feet from the center of the floor.
“Dr. Carpenter,” Swanson said, “I’d like you to meet Admiral Garvie, Commander U. S. Nato naval forces.”
Admiral Garvie put down the glass he was holding in his hand, rose from the only chair, and stretched out his hand. As he stood with his feet together, the far from negligible clearance between his knees made it easy to understand the latter part of his “Andy Bandy” nickname: like Hansen, he’d have been at home on the range. He was a tall, florid-faced man with white hair, white eyebrows and a twinkle in the blue eyes below; he had that certain indefinable something about him common to all senior naval officers the world over, irrespective of race or nationality.
“Glad to meet you, Dr. Carpenter. Sorry for the–urn– lukewarm reception you received, but Commander Swanson was perfectly within his rights- in acting as he did. His men have looked after you?”
“They permitted me to buy them a cup of coffee in the canteen.”
He smiled. “Opportunists all, those nuclear men. I feel that the good name of American hospitality is in danger. Whisky, Dr. Carpenter?”
“I thought American naval ships were dry, sir.”
“So they are, my boy, so they are. Except for a little medicinal alcohol, of course. My personal supply.” He produced a hip flask about the size of a canteen and reached for a convenient shot glass. “Before venturing into the remoter fastnesses of the Highlands of Scotland, the prudent man takes the necessary precautions. I have to make an apology to you, Dr. Carpenter. I saw your Admiral Hewson in London last night and had intended to be here this morning to persuade Commander Swanson here to take you aboard. But I was delayed.”
“Persuade, sir?”
“Persuade.” He sighed. “Our nuclear-submarine captains, Dr. Carpenter, are a touchy and difficult bunch. From the proprietary attitude they adopt toward their submarines you’d think that each one of them was a majority shareholder in the Electric Boat Company of Groton, where most of those boats are built.” He raised his glass. “Success to the commander and yourself. I hope you manage to find those poor devils. But I don’t give you one chance in a thousand.”
“I think we’ll find them, sir. Or Commander Swanson will.”
“What makes you so sure?” he asked slowly. “Hunch?”
“You could call it that.”
He laid down his glass and his eyes were no longer twinkling. “Admiral Hewson was most evasive about you, I must say. Who are you, Carpenter? _What_ are you?”
“Surely he told you, Admiral? Just a doctor attached to the Navy to carry out–”
“A naval doctor?”
“Well, not exactly. I–”
“A civilian?”
I nodded, and the admiral and Swanson exchanged looks that they were at no pains at all to conceal from me. If they were happy at the prospect of having aboard America’s latest and most secret submarine a man who was not only a foreigner but a civilian to boot, they were hiding it well. Admiral Garvie said: “Well, go on.”
“That’s all. I carry out environmental health studies for the services. How men react to extremes of environmental conditions, such as in the Arctic or the tropics, how they react to conditions of weightlessness in simulated space flight or to extremes of pressure when having to escape from submarines. Mainly–”
“Submarines.” Admiral Garvie pounced on the word. “You have been to sea in submarines, Dr. Carpenter? Really sailed in them, I mean?”
“I had to. We found that simulated tank escapes were no substitute for the real thing.”
The admiral and Swanson looked unhappier than ever. A foreigner–bad. A foreign civilian–worse. But a foreign civilian with at least a working knowledge of submarines– terrible. I didn’t have to be beaten over the head to see their point of view. I would have felt just as unhappy in their shoes.
“What’s your interest in Drift Ice Station Zebra, Dr. Carpenter?” Admiral Garvie asked bluntly. –
“The Admiralty asked me to go there, sir.”
“So I gather, so I gather,” Garvie said wearily. “Admiral Hewson made that quite plain to me already. Why you, Carpenter?”
“I have some knowledge of the Arctic, sir. I’m supposed to be an expert on the medical treatment of men subjected to prolonged exposure, frostbite and gangrene. I might be able to save lives or limbs that your own doctor aboard might not.”
“I could have half a dozen such experts here in a few hours,” Garvie said evenly. “Regular officers of the U. S. Navy, at that. That’s not enough, Carpenter.”
This was becoming difficult. I tried again. I said, “I know Drift Station Zebra. I helped select the site. I helped establish the camp. The commandant, a Major Halliwell, has been my closest friend for many years.” The last was only half the truth, but I felt that this was neither the time nor the place for overelaboration.
“Well, well,” Garvie said thoughtfully. “And you still claim you’re just an ordinary doctor?”
“My duties are flexible, sir.”
“I’ll say they are. Well, then, Carpenter, if you’re just a common garden-variety sawbones, how do you explain this?” He picked up a signal form from the table and handed it to me. “This has just arrived in reply to Commander Swanson’s radioed query to Washington about you.”
I looked at the signal. It read: “Dr. Neil Carpenter bona fide beyond question. He may be taken into your fullest, repeat, fullest confidence. He is to be extended every facility and all aid short of actually endangering the safety of your submarine and the lives of your crew.” It was signed by the Chief of Naval Operations.
“Very civil of the Chief of Naval Operations, I must say.” I handed back the telegram. “With a character reference like this, what are you worrying about? That ought to satisfy anyone.”
“It doesn’t satisfy me,” Garvie said heavily. “The ultimate responsibility for the safety of the _Dolphin_ is mine. This message more or less gives you carte blanche to behave as you like, to ask Commander Swanson to act in ways that might be contrary to his better judgment. I can’t have that.”
“Does it matter what you can or can’t have? You have your orders. Why don’t you obey them?”
He didn’t hit me. He didn’t even bat an eyelid. He wasn’t activated by pique about the fact that he wasn’t privy to the reason for the seeming mystery of my presence there; he was genuinely concerned about the safety of the submarine. He said: “If I think it more important that the _Dolphin_ should remain on an active war footing rather than go haring off on a wildgoose chase to the Arctic, or if I think you constitute a danger to the submarine, I can countermand the C.N.O.’s orders. I’m the Commander-in-Chief on the spot. And I’m not satisfied.”
This was damnably awkward. He meant every word he said, and he didn’t look the type who would give a hoot for the consequences if he believed himself to be in the right. I looked at both men, looked at them slowly and speculatively, the unmistakable gaze, I hoped, of a man who was weighing others in the balance; what I was really doing was thinking up a suitable story that would satisfy both. After I had given enough time to my weighing-up—-and my thinking–I dropped my voice a few decibels and said: “Is that door sound-proof?”
“More or less,” Swanson said. He’d lowered his own voice to match mine.
“I won’t insult either of you by swearing you to secrecy or any such rubbish,” I said quietly. “I want to put on record the fact that what I am about to tell you I am telling you under duress, under Admiral Garvie’s threat to refuse me transport if I don’t comply with his wishes.”