“Thank you, Admiral.”
“And on your way out, ask Commander Oster to get COMSUBFORPAC in here just as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
COMSUBFORPAC, Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Geoffrey H. Keene, USN, a ruddy-faced, freckled man of forty-three, who looked much younger, was a professional officer, and thus accustomed to carrying out any order given with cheerful, willing obedience.
“Gerry, what boat, or boats, Gato class, have you got here ready for sea?”
“None this minute, Sir,” Admiral Keene said.
“But the Drum’s just about through with her sea trials. She’s off Kahoolawe Island right now, and she’s scheduled to go on patrol in three or four days, as soon as they correct what needs fixing.”
“There will be a mission for her,” CINCPAC said.
“Apparently, a people carrying mission.”
“Yes, Sir?” Admiral Keene said. His tone made it clear he wanted more information.
“If the Drum is all that’s available, it’ll have to be the Drum,” CINCPAC said.
“Admiral, may I suggest that the Narwhal will shortly be available? She’s about to leave Diego.”
“It’ll have to be the Drum, Admiral,” CINCPAC said.
“And if you had anything special planned for her, it will have to be put on the back burner.”
COMSUBFORPAC could not help but question the wisdom of using a multimillion-dollar naval vessel and its highly trained crew as a kind of seagoing taxicab. Transporting people somewhere was something that submariners did from time to time–but at the pleasure of the submariners, if and when that could be reasonably fitted into the normal duty of submariners:
That, first, last, and always, was the destruction of enemy men-of-war and the interdiction and destruction of enemy shipping.
But CINCPAC had addressed Keene as “Admiral,” rather than by his Christian name, a subtle reminder that he was giving an order.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” COMSUBFORPAC said.
CINCPAC handed him the Top Secret folder.
“If you can find the time, Gerry,” CINCPAC said, “it might be a good idea if you met this Mr. Chenowith at the airfield. Present my compliments, and as tactfully as possible, let him know that I would be grateful to learn what the hell this is all about.”
“Aye, aye, Sir, “Admiral Keene said.
[TWO]
Waikahalulu Bay, Kahoolawe Island Territory of the Hawaiian Islands
The Alenuihaha Channel (depths of at least 1,000 fathoms) runs between the Hawaiian Islands of Hawaii, Maui, and Kahoolawe.
There is a shelf approximately forty miles off the southern coast of Kahoolawe Island, where the depth changes abruptly from about 1,400 fathoms to 650. Then, five miles off the Kahoolawe shore, the depth changes again abruptly to approximately forty fathoms.
The final sea trial after refitting of the USS Drum–SS-228, a 311-foot-long submarine of the Gato class–required her to approach the Alenuihaha Channel from the open Pacific, on the surface, in the hours of darkness, navigating by celestial navigation.
She would remain on the surface, crossing the channel until she reached the shelf, whereupon she would submerge to maximum operating depth on a course that would bring her off Waikahalulu Bay. She would then rise to near periscope depth and maintain that depth and course in the forty-odd-fathom water until visual contact with their assigned target was established, by periscope, in daylight.
She missed Waikahalulu Bay by five miles. Her skipper, Lieutenant Commander Edwin R. Lennox, USN, a stocky, round-faced, sandy-haired officer who had three days before celebrated his thirtieth birthday, was disappointed, but not surprised. There was really no good way to read the currents of the Alenuihaha Channel or the offshore waters of the island.
When his periscope picked up the targets, without taking his eyes from the rubber eyepieces of the periscope. Commander Lennox softly ordered, “Battle stations, Mr. Rutherford. Gun crews to stand by.”
“Aye, aye. Sir,” Lieutenant William G. Rutherford, USNR, the Drum’s twenty seven-year-old executive officer, a tall, black-haired, skinny man, said. He pushed the heel of his hand against a round brass knob. A bell clanged throughout the submarine, and there was frenzied activity everywhere but around the periscope itself.
“Steer zero eight five,” Commander Lennox ordered.
“Coming to zero eight five, it is. Sir,” the helmsman said. And a moment later, “Sir, the course is zero eight five.”