Terror on the Alert

ROBERT W. MACKAY

Terror on the Alert is dedicated to the long line of intrepid Canadian submariners and their allies in submarine forces around the world.

CONTENTS

• • •

1 WELCOME ABOARD

2 UNDER WAY

3 ONE LAST CHANCE

4 A COLLISION AT SEA

5 THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

6 REVELATION

7 ACTION STATIONS

8 SURFACE ACTION

9 FACE AFT AND SALUTE

10 DESPERATION

11 SAILOR DOWN

12 THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

EPILOGUE

AFTERWORD I: The Royal Navy’s A-Class Submarines

AFTERWORD II: The Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis

SUGGESTED READING

AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

HMCS Alert

1

WELCOME ABOARD

October 7–10, 1962

The steel door slammed shut behind him. Ted looked at the white-painted metal deckhead only a couple of inches above him, the circular bulkhead that defined the small compartment. He had been here before, in the bottom level of a tower across the harbour from Portsmouth, England. He and five other submariners plus the safety instructor, all dressed in swimsuits and life jackets, gathered under a hatch set into the deckhead.

The instructor, a petty officer, spoke. You’ve all been through the easy part, and it’s old hat for most of you, so I expect perfect performance. Of course, anything less and you’ll be in hospital or worse.

Earlier in the day Ted and the rest of the men had escaped from shallower depths without incident. Looking forward to the exhilaration of this final rush to the surface, Ted waited his turn.

The man ahead of him fidgeted. Nervous, Ted thought.

Sir! Pay attention here. The petty officer stared at the man for a moment. Now, he summarized in staccato sentences: the physical properties of water at a depth of a hundred feet . . . three times atmospheric pressure . . . nearly fifty pounds per square inch . . . crush your lungs if suddenly exposed to it.

Ted knew the drill. In a bottomed submarine, with the weight of the water above, it would be impossible for potential escapees to open the hatch unless the internal pressure was equalized by flooding the compartment. First, though, a reinforced canvas tube would be released to dangle from the overhead escape hatch, forming a vertical column with the hatch at the upper end. Without it, all the air in the chamber would burst out through the hatch when it was opened, trapping the men in the flooded compartment. Once the intake valve was opened and there was enough water in the compartment to equalize the pressure, the column would stop the remaining bubble of air from rushing out through the opened hatch. The escapees would, in turn, duck under and into the flooded column, kick up through the hatch, and rise to the surface, propelled by the buoyancy in their life jackets.

Clear your ears, said the petty officer, a muscular, thirty-year-old man with a short haircut that would provoke stares on Carnaby Street, action central for the swinging sixties. Let me know if you have any problems. He had released the column, which hung down from around the hatch. Flooding now.

He cranked a handwheel and water whooshed into the compartment.

Ted felt the pressure in his ears increase. Grabbing his nose, he pinched it shut and blew, mouth closed, to force air in through his Eustachian tubes. The water rose up to their knees, their waists, slowing to a stop at mid-chest level. Yawning, cracking their jaws, or holding their noses and blowing, the other men in the chamber cleared their ears.

One last reminder. Due to the pressure, your lungs now have three times the normal amount of air in them, which will expand as you rise through the water. If you hold your breath, your lungs will burst and you will die. The PO glowered at them. Nobody dies on my watch. Make your mouth round, as if you had a pencil in it. Blow constantly on the way up. If any of the safety men in the tank don’t see a steady stream of bubbles coming out, they’ll bloody well hold you there until they do.

Waving forward the first man in line, the petty officer watched intently as the escapee ducked under the surface of the water and disappeared. Ted could see the column move as the man rose through it. He’d be confined by the canvas, pushing at the hatch cover, buoyed upward against it by his life jacket. Bothered by the image for some reason, Ted shook his head. He was next. A nod from the PO, a quick breath, and Ted ducked under the surface of the water, the blurry outline of the circular bottom of the column ahead of him. He grasped it, kicked his feet, and was inside, the positive buoyancy of his life jacket moving him upward, confined in the trunk and hatch, aware that there was no going back and a hundred feet of water pressed down from above. Routine, he thought. No problem.

Then he was clearing the hatch, his head into the wider, brighter tank. A sudden terrible urge to breathe in gripped him, making his lungs buck and squirm; a hand descended on each shoulder. Let me go! He looked into the goggled face of a diver who held him motionless just as he remembered—blow, or you’ll die right here. It was all Ted could do to fight off the urge to kick at the diver and wriggle free. Gaining enough control to make a tight O with his lips, he blew a stream of bubbles at the diver, who let go of his shoulders and gave a thumbs-up.

Ted rose through the water, slowly at first, the painted depths on the side of the escape tank sinking beneath him. Ninety feet, eighty, and his rise to the surface speeded up, propelled by his life jacket. Blowing steadily, he glided past another safety diver, conscious of the stream of air escaping from his mouth. Faster and faster he rose, relief flooding his mind, the remaining air in his lungs expanding as the pressure decreased, more and more air pouring from his chest, as he blasted to the surface. His head and shoulders burst into the daylight and he gave a thumbs-up to the safety officer.

Clambering from the tank to stand with his mates for the prescribed time, to ensure there were no lasting effects from their brief time under pressure, Ted Hawkins, submariner, scratched his head. A momentary panic? What was all that about?

Released after the required observation time, Ted dried off, changed into his blues, and made his way to his office in HMS Dolphin, his terror in the escape tank forgotten. He had work to do.

• • •

Later that day, Ted headed home under a blue sky, humming the opening words of a popular song, Done, Done, Done, his spirits lifting. He tapped his fingers on the wheel of the Morris Minor he and Anne-Marie had bought after her arrival in England three years before. At the local off-licence in Gosport, he joined a short queue to buy an expensive bottle of French wine. Folding himself back into the small car, he drove the last few miles to their rented cottage near the centre of Lee-on-Solent, parked in the driveway, and let himself in the front door.

A good many times Anne-Marie had insisted he remove his uniform on the back porch and hang it in the fresh air, the unmistakable submarine odours a source of amusement, and, he admitted to himself, a source of pride. This week, though, he had not set foot on board one of Her Majesty’s submarines, occupying himself with the escape chamber requalification and other shore-bound duties. He was a submariner, and a damn good one. He knew Anne-Marie was having problems with the lifestyle of a navy wife. He wanted her to be happy, but he was not about to leave the navy or the submarine service. And somehow he had to connect with the old Anne-Marie.

She had become silent and withdrawn, not at all her normal outgoing self, then had flown home to Canada for a visit with her family. She had been back in England for ten days, and on the intervening weekend they had gone away for a change of scene, with disastrous results. The hoped-for clearing of the air was yet to happen.

He found her in the kitchen, a book set aside, folded laundry heaped on a chair. The room had generous windows that gave onto a small backyard, a patch of lawn that was maintained by the rental agency.

Ready for a break, sweetheart? Ted had the wine behind his back, and he produced it with a flourish. Ta-da! Not a great month in the vineyards of Bordeaux but a good one.

She made a face at the cliché. I don’t know why you spend money on that, when we already have wine in the house.

Thought I’d surprise you. It’s supposed to be pretty good. Ted hunted in a drawer for a corkscrew, then retrieved glasses from a cupboard. Having poured a generous portion for each of them, he placed them on the table close to Anne-Marie and bent to give her a brief embrace. She turned toward him to exchange an awkward kiss.

Ted picked up his glass with his left hand, favouring his right forearm, with its residual stiffness. Well, cheers, Anne-Marie, he said, wishing that he could penetrate her pensive mood.

How long will we be in England?

The blunt question felt like a slap. She was just back from a visit to Victoria—surely she knew he could be on loan to the Royal Navy for another year at least? He reminded himself that the life of a navy wife in a foreign country could be lonely, even with the small cadre of other Canadian women, married to submariners, who provided company and support. A few months before, Anne-Marie had unsuccessfully looked for work, even part-time, to keep herself busy.

I don’t see it being less than a year. I don’t know. Maybe we should see about an earlier move home? Ted remembered another conversation. You didn’t want to have children until we were back in Canada with your folks around. We could start now.

Children! I don’t want to talk about children. It’s not the right time.

Anne-Marie’s face was set, her dark eyes avoiding his.

How are you feeling? she asked.

Feeling? I’m fine. What do you mean?

Since the accident, Ted. You still aren’t yourself.

Christ, Anne-Marie, I just requalified in the escape tower. I had a physical. I’m fine.

Anne-Marie stood to pull leftovers from the refrigerator for their supper. Ted changed into jeans and a T-shirt, returning to the kitchen to swallow the last of the wine in his glass and lay cutlery on the table. He glanced at the local newspaper as Anne-Marie set down plates of cold roast beef and warmed-up vegetables.

Ted wanted to break the silence. That was a fun party the other night.

Up to a point. Anne-Marie put her fork down. I was annoyed by your friend Anton.

Rijker is not my friend and never has been. I’ve known him since we were both cadets at Royal Roads, but thankfully we haven’t sailed together since. We both volunteered for submarine training—then I broke my damn leg and needed the follow-up surgery. Up to then we were head-to-head, always competing.

You never said. I assumed you were pals.

We’d still be competing for the same job, or promotion, or what have you, but I’ve been a year behind him ever since.

That party. I was very cross.

Really, said Ted, trying to lighten the conversation. I can’t blame him for flirting with you.

"You know what, Ted? That makes me angry at you." She was pale, her lips compressed.

At me? Why? He reached for her hand, which was lying on the table. She pulled it away.

Because you’re my husband, and I thought Anton was a friend, or at least a colleague. Her eyes snapped at him. He wasn’t flirting, Ted. He tried to pin me into a conversation when you were away getting more drinks. He thought I’d agree to meet him somewhere without you.

Ted could only stare.

He frightens me, Ted. He’s so intense. I told him to get lost, and I thought he was going to hit me. And you—you didn’t believe me when I told you about it. You laughed it off!

She was right. Ted remembered now that at the party, Anne-Marie had whispered something about Rijker to him, trying not to make a scene. And he had brushed it off.

Well, it’s past us now, thank heaven. We’ll stay away from him. Just stick close to me whenever he’s around, and it’ll all be forgotten.

Not by me it won’t. You can forget it if you want to. But it makes me wonder what I’m doing here, and if I really matter to you.

God, Anne-Marie, of course you matter to me!

Alright, I’ll grant you that. But I seriously wonder if I was cut out to be a navy wife.

She said no more on the subject. Ted did the dishes while Anne-Marie read, and that night they slept fitfully on their respective sides of the bed. Ted wasn’t sure how to deal with Anne-Marie’s concerns, and he rehashed the last time he had crossed swords with Anton Rijker.

• • •

Exams were over for the academic year, and the graduating cadets of Canadian Services College Royal Roads were joyfully pounding at each other, well-padded boxing gloves thumping into leather face protectors in the school’s boxing ring. Physical Training Instructor Jenkins was in the ring, ensuring there were no low blows and no serious damage done in each brief three-round bout.

Only one pair had yet to face off, and now they waited their turn. Ted Hawkins and Anton Rijker didn’t like each other. Every facet of their training was, it seemed, another occasion for them to battle it out. They were both bright and alternated near the top of every class, leapfrogging each other as cadet captains.

Sitting side by side on a bench, Ted and Rijker already had the gloves on and were watching the previous pair cuff each other in their third round. Jenkins called Time, and the two boys in the ring hugged each other, laughing.

Rijker spoke in a low voice. Did you say anything?

Ted knew right away what he was talking about. Their last exam, history, had been a three-hour marathon. Following dismissal, the class had marched to the gym. Rijker was changing into workout gear when a folded piece of paper covered in tiny handwriting had fallen from his pocket. A cheat sheet, Ted thought. He stared at Rijker, who had crumpled the paper, looking everywhere but at Ted.

No. I didn’t, but I should have.

The cadets were on an honour system. Rijker had no doubt destroyed the document in short order. After three years of controlled enmity, Ted had figured nothing would be changed by accusing Rijker of cheating. On top of that, even given the honour system, there was an unwritten code between cadets whereby they would deal with each other without involving superior officers.

Hawkins, Rijker, let’s go, the instructor called.

Seething all over again at Rijker for putting him in a difficult position, Ted climbed through the ropes to touch gloves with him. Jenkins signalled start, and the two young men came together in a flurry of punches. Rijker bore in on him, trying to clinch, and Jenkins pushed them apart, shaking his head. Boys, boys. Get those gloves up. Protect yourselves.

Ted feinted, moving his legs, calming himself. He jabbed with his left, did it again and again. Rijker backpedalled, dodging, protecting his face with both hands. Ted had more reach than Rijker. Anton was stockier, with heavy muscles in a tough frame. He could do a lot of damage if he got inside. Ted kept him at bay for the rest of the round.

Okay, have at it. Jenkins clicked his stopwatch. Round two, and both fighters managed to land blows. Ted felt a couple of hard thumps to his midsection, and Rijker came in, grappling with his left and swinging hard with his right.

Too bad you didn’t squeal, he muttered, his words barely understandable through his mouthpiece. I beat you on that exam, in case you forgot.

Rijker got in a low shot before Ted could push him away. Ted was breathing hard, anger welling up as the round ended. One more to go.

Last round. Keep your bleedin’ guards up. I want to see some boxing for a change, not a brawl, said Jenkins, waving them toward the centre of the ring.

Ted fought to stay under control. If he lost it and got careless, Rijker would kill him with his heavy punches. Moving fast, he pressed his adversary. Rijker’s face, what could be seen of it through the protective mask, was red and splotchy, and Ted didn’t doubt his was the same.

A series of jabs from Ted were well defended, no harm done. Ted wondered if he could get Rijker to commit himself, to lash out and expose his jaw. He deliberately stepped back, lowering his guard as he did so, and Rijker followed, looking alert. Ted had to backpedal fast, gloves high in front of his face, to stop Rijker from landing a heavy blow.

Yes, Rijker, you son of a bitch, Ted thought, and re-established the pattern, jabbing, jabbing, then backing up, guard down. One more time . . . jab, jab, jab, back up. Rijker took the bait, punching hard with his left, lunging forward, cocking his right for a haymaker. Ted sidestepped to his right and swung as hard as he could, a resounding roundhouse to the exposed side of Rijker’s head. He staggered, knees buckling, and Ted hit him with a hard left full on the padded jaw. Rijker went down, collapsing to a sitting position, both hands on the floor, dazed.

Jenkins waved Ted away and knelt by Rijker.

Chest heaving, Ted caught his breath, bent over with his gloved palms on his knees. Rijker was still sitting, Jenkins unlacing his gloves. Over Jenkins’s shoulder Rijker stared at Ted, eyes narrow. Someone took off his head protector. Rijker’s face was red, nose swollen. Ted saw his lips curl in an unreadable grimace, his eyes unwavering.

• • •

An ominous grey sky made for a dark morning two days later as Ted walked from his office toward the floats where a clutch of submarines lay alongside. A pair of bell-bottomed sailors saluted as they passed him. Spare crew third hand in the Royal Navy’s First Submarine Squadron, Ted had put any worries about his panic in the escape tank out of his mind, though he had to admit his mood matched the sky. From the head of the jetty, he could look down on the submarines, their malevolent shapes calm in the waters of the creek, crews busy below or away on leave or courses.

SUBRONONE, RN nomenclature for the First Submarine Squadron, was based at HMS Dolphin, the shore establishment where Ted had his office. His duties were not arduous. As third hand, he could be called upon at short notice to replace someone in a submarine as the third most senior seaman officer on board, after the captain and executive officer. In the meantime he organized classes, supervised the rest of the spare crew at their tasks, and kept out of the way of RN brass as much as possible, as would any sensible junior officer. Originally assigned to the RN for training purposes, and now on loan from the Canadian navy, Ted was fully integrated into the world of British submarines.

After looking out over the mixed bag of submarines, he made his way to his office to organize his thoughts for a lecture to trainees about the many intricacies of boats, as the Brits called their submersibles.

It had already been a long day. He had woken up feeling exhausted. Anne-Marie either slept the sleep of the righteous or was faking it, and he didn’t know which he preferred. He threw together a quick breakfast and coffee, then headed for Dolphin.

On impulse he had stopped en route to sit behind the wheel of the Morris facing the stony beach of the Solent. Low cloud almost obscured the dark line of the Isle of Wight, barely visible in the weak early-morning light. From the tinny radio a BBC commentator was going on about how the West was losing the space race and then somehow segued into the