“Please order the other ships to follow suit.” He waited until the order had been given and then walked over to the chart table and studied the plot.
“His strategy is obvious, don’t you think, Isoruku?” the Professor’s thin finger touched the chart. “See, here; he heads for the open sea. He hopes to find salt layers out there so he can hide under them and evade us or at worst, he will try to string out his defensive tactics until after dark when we will have a problem in maneuvering for closely coordinated attacks.
“He won’t expect our depth charges to harm him at his present depth because his own Navy’s depth charges are useless below four hundred feet, as ours used to be until we modified them.”
“We have about eight hours of daylight left,” the destroyer’s Captain said. “If we press him, make him evade at high speed, he will use up his storage batteries and that will force him to the surface.” He rubbed his chin. “We might even be able to smash him at seven hundred feet!”
“If we make perfect attacks,” the Professor said. “But the perfect attack can only be made when the target acts as he is supposed to act and this is not a man down there who will do the obvious. He is a fox!” His finger traced a line on the chart.
“When he reaches this point please send a message to Small Birds to deploy thus,” his finger made a curve on the chart. “When we have them deployed we will begin dropping charges from the Small Birds to turn him. I mean to drive him in a circle, like the American cowboy movies show cattle being driven! If we can keep him in this area where there are no salt layers we will have him!
“It is going to be a long day. Please lay out the plots and issue the orders to the Small Birds. And if you will, sir, ask the galley to send some food and hot drink to the crew. They have been on station for many hours and face many more hours of work.”
“For you as well, sir?”
“After the men have eaten we will eat,” the Professor said.
Mako crept doggedly along the course Joe Sirocco had laid out on the chart. The steady ringing of the noise of the pinging from the destroyer had become a major irritant. Men flinched as the sonar tone rang through the ship. Captain Mealey, taking advantage of the lull in the depth charge attacks, had ordered the galley to serve hot coffee and doughnuts and sweet rolls. As soon as each compartment had been served the water-tight doors were closed behind the mess cook and dogged down tight. Joe Sirocco munched a doughnut and sipped at a cup of coffee and looked at Aaron, who shook his blond head.
“All isothermal, sir. No layers yet.”
Mealey sipped at his boiling hot coffee. “Got to be some layers somewhere, damn it!” he growled. “I don’t want to string this thing out until way after dark, we’ll be out of battery before midnight!”
“Here he comes, sir!” Cohen said suddenly. “Three ships, all on an attack run! All three coming at once!”
The telephone talkers in each compartment relayed Cohen’s words and those men who had got out of bunks to drink their coffee climbed back in, gripping the side rails of the bunks with both hands. Ginty braced himself between the torpedo tubes and stared at Dusty Rhodes, who was standing in the center of the Torpedo Room, his hands holding on to a torpedo skid.
The sound of the destroyer’s screws began to echo through Mako’s hull and then the three ships passed overhead, the thunder of their screws reverberating throughout the submarine’s hull.
“Brace yourselves!” Rhodes said in a low voice.
The thunderous explosions of more than thirty depth charges going off in a rolling attack shook Mako heavily. In the Control Room Sirocco saw the ladder that led to the Conning Tower bulge outward as Mako’s hull squeezed inward under the shock of the heavy explosions.
“Damage reports!” Captain Mealey snapped and Sirocco spoke softly into his telephone. Then he held up his thumb and forefinger, making a small circle with the fingers.
“Nothing serious, Captain. Some minor leaks, some bruises and bumps. No bones broken. Chief Barber reports that the welds around the exhaust lines have shattered and he’s taking some water in the engine rooms but nothing serious.”
“Very well,” Mealey said.
The next attack came with the three enemy destroyers running in a line. Mako reeled under the depth charges of the first ship and then bucked and staggered as the next two ships rained down depth charges. There was no longer any cork insulation to shatter and fall down. Those few lights that had survived the previous attacks were now shattered. Mako’s crew went about the job of checking for leaks and damage in the dim lights of the emergency battle lanterns. The lack of bright lights added an eerie atmosphere to the fetid smell of fear that pervaded the Mako’s hull.
The attacks came without pause as the hours wore on. Time after time Cohen reported that one or two or all three destroyers were moving to the attack. Time after time Mako’s crew shivered under the crashing thunder of the explosions. At mid-afternoon there was a sudden halt in the attacks and the mess cooks hurried to each compartment with fresh coffee and the last of the doughnuts.
“What do you think they’re doing up there?” Sirocco asked.
“They’re probably emptying out their depth charges lockers for some more attacks,” Mealey grunted. He wiped his dripping face with a towel he had hung around his neck.
The atmosphere in Mako was now oppressive. The air conditioning and all ventilation had been shut down since the attack on the battleship. The temperature stood at 110 degrees with 100 percent humidity. The long hours submerged, the heavy work of reloading torpedoes with men straining and hauling and using huge quantities of oxygen had depleted the oxygen level of the air to the point where a match that was struck would fizzle and then go out.
Mako crept through the sea at two knots, depth 700 feet. Just past 1500 hours, three in the afternoon in land time, Cohen raised his dripping face.
“Screws bearing zero one five and three five zero, sir. Single screw ships, sir.” His eyes widened suddenly.
“They’re dropping charges out ahead of us! They’re quite a way out in front and they’re depth charging!”
The distant thunder of the depth charges could be heard in Mako. Captain Mealey looked down at the chart.
“Single screw ships,” he said to Sirocco. “Those are the rest of the escort, the ships Cohen lost earlier today. What the hell are they doing dropping charges way out ahead?” He rocked back on his heels, his face grim.
“Is that son of a bitch up there trying to fence me in? Is he trying to make me turn? I’ll bet that’s what he’s up to! The bastard!” He turned to Cohen.
“Give me bearings on the ships that have been attacking us, Nate. If you can, give me an estimated range.”
Cohen nodded his head. His deep-sunk eyes stared at the Control Room, not seeing the sweating, straining men on the bow and stern planes, not seeing Lieut. Pete Simms clinging to the Conning Tower ladder, gasping for air. Cohen’s whole being was concentrated on the welter of sounds in his earphones.
“The ship that has been pinging on us and is still pinging bears one seven zero, sir. There are three others up there, all bearing from one seven zero or two one zero sir, moving slowly. I don’t know about range, I don’t know how good my ears are after all this noise but from the decibel level I’d say under two thousand yards, sir.” He stopped, listening.
“Here they come, sir!”
The three destroyers moved to the attack once more, running just fast enough to get away from the depth charges rolling off their sterns. Mako shook and shuddered under the impact of the roaring explosions, its hull twisting in the torque of the explosive force of the depth charges. Ginty, braced solidly between the torpedo tubes in the Forward Room, watched a stream of sweat running down his chest fly off in a spray of drops as the depth charges shook the ship.
“How about that?” he said. “That son of a bitch is gonna save me using my sweat rag!”
The attacking now was continual. One ship would make a run and then w
heel out to one side as its sailors wrestled depth charges into position for the next run as the ship fell in behind the other attacking ships moving to the attack. The thunder of the explosions was continual, Mako’s only respite coming when the searching destroyer’s sonar was unable to find Mako in the explosive-wracked water. With the first “ping!” of re-established contact the attack would begin again.
Captain Mealey was braced, legs spread, hands gripping the edges of the gyro table, his eyes studying the plot sheet. A steady drip of perspiration fell from his chin into a crumpled towel Sirocco had placed on the gyro table. Periodically, Aaron would change the smoked card in the bathythermograph. As he did so Mealey’s eyes would look at the stylus as it traced its even curve. Then, seeing no evidence of a salt layer, Mealey’s head would drop down and his eyes would return to the plot.
At 1700 hours, three full hours from dark, Captain Mealey raised his head.
“I think I’ve had enough of this!” he said coldly. “By now he expects us to be the patsy, to take everything he hands out without hitting back! Well, I’m going to hit back!” He clutched the gyro table as a half-dozen depth charges shook Mako, the ship’s steel hull creaking and groaning in the turmoil.
“Right after those bastards make the next run I’m going up to periscope depth and get one of them! Give me the phone!”
“Now hear this, you telephone talkers. This is the Captain speaking.
“We’ve been taking it on the chin long enough! In three hours it will be dark. In three hours we might not have any battery left. So right after this next attack we’re going up to periscope depth and we’re going to sink one of those bastards who’ve been hitting us! And then we’ll come back down to this depth and continue our escape. I want all hands alert! We’ll open outer tube doors at one hundred feet! Everyone sharpen up!” He stopped as Cohen turned his head toward him.
“Here they come again, sir, all of them!”
“Here they come!” Mealey said into the telephone. “And then we’ll send one of them to hell!”
The attack was a murderous barrage of depth charges that tossed Mako from one side to the other. As the explosions roared through the ship Mealey grabbed the Conning Tower ladder.
“Blow Negative!
“Bring me to periscope depth! Plot, give me the picture, give me bearings!” He climbed into the Conning Tower where Bob Edge and Botts had been for hours, suffering the horrendous noise of the depth charges which made the Conning Tower vibrate and ring like the inside of a drum.
“Get on the TDC!” Mealey snapped. “Stand by the periscope!”
Mako planed upward, rolling violently in the after wash of the explosions. In the Forward and After Torpedo rooms weary men wrestled the tube outer doors open and the talkers reported that tubes Two and Three, Seven and Eight were ready. Sirocco repeated the information to the Conning Tower.
“Up periscope!!” Mealey snapped as the depth gauge showed 75 feet. “Give me sixty-five feet!”
He swung the periscope around, blinking as the lens broke water.
“Mark!”
“Bearing one eight zero!” Botts rapped out and Edge set the bearing into the TDC.
Mealey’s hand found the range knob and spun it.
“Range to the target one zero zero zero! Angle on the bow is zero nine zero port! Oh, I’ve got you, you bastard! Stand by aft! Stand by Seven!”
“Fire seven!
“Right full rudder ... flood negative ... close the outer tube doors ... my god this bastard’s coming right after us! Take me down! Hard dive! Hard dive!”
“Torpedo is running hot, straight and normal!” Cohen yelled. “Screws bearing one five zero speeding up and coming fast!”
The starboard bridge wing lookout on Eagle saw Mako’s periscope break water and his screaming warning brought the Professor and Eagle’s Captain rushing to the bridge wing. They both saw the long finger of bubbles reaching toward Eagle’s Feather Two.
“Eagle’s Feather Two turn hard right!” The destroyer Captain’s voice was a scream and the bridge radioman hesitated slightly before relaying the order.
“Set depth charges at one hundred feet!” the Professor said to the bridge talker, an older man and poised. “Quickly!” On Eagle’s fantail two gunners began to frantically reduce the tension on the diaphragm springs of the two depth charges at the end of the release rack.
Eagle was under the full drive of her engines, turning to where Mako’s periscope had shown briefly. A shattering roar filled the air and the Professor saw a huge gout of water rise beside Eagle’s Feather Two and then as the water subsided he saw the ship, broken in two, its bow rising high, the dull red anti-fouling paint showing in the clear air, its stern twisted off to one side and then the bow began to slide downward.
“Don’t lose him!” the Professor said softly and the destroyer’s Captain nodded grimly, his lips set. Eagle raced toward where Mako had shown. The Captain raised his hand and then brought it down in a sharp chopping motion. On Eagle’s stern the gunners pulled back on their release levers and two big depth charges set to explode at 100 feet rolled off the stern.
The booming roar of Mako’s torpedo hitting the enemy ship shook Mako and Joe Sirocco clicked his stop-watch and looked at it.
“That was a hit!” He yelled up at the Conning Tower. He spun and looked at the depth gauge needle as the roar of an enemy ship’s screws filled Mako. The needle showed 110 feet, moving steadily.
As the roar of the Fubuki’s screws filled the ship the crew looked at each other with naked fear in their eyes, turning instinctively toward the telephone talker to find out what was being said in the Control Room.
“Sound says he’s dropped!” the talkers said. The crew waited, some lying tensely in bunks, others braced defiantly, holding on to torpedo racks and rails in the engine rooms. They waited.
The two depth charges exploded as Mako passed 125 feet. The noise, the racking shock of the two explosions, were greater than anything Mako had experienced before.
“Agggh!” Ginty cried as his grip on the handle of Number One torpedo tube door was broken and he was thrown violently to the deck. Farther back in the compartment the man who had kidded with Dusty Rhodes about not having enough lead in his ass began to scream, a long ululating sound that went higher and higher in pitch until it seemed impossible that the human throat could make such a sound. Rhodes, spitting out the fragments of two broken teeth, fought his way down Mako’s bucking deck to the bunk and yanked the man out of the bunk and on to his feet.
The sailor’s face was blank, his eyes closed, his mouth wide open, his wailing scream exploding into the torpedo room. Rhodes carefully jabbed the man’s chin with his left hand, closing the man’s mouth and then crossed the right in a short, chopping blow. The man spun sideways into the arms of one of the reload crew.
“Stow the son of a bitch in a bunk and if he yells again smother him with a towel!” Rhodes growled.
“Damage report! Control wants a damage report, Chief!” The talker’s voice was trembling.
“No leaks that I can see,” Rhodes snapped. “Report just that! Tell ‘em I’ll give them a full report in one minute!”
Mako twisted downward, seeking the safety of the depths. Sirocco turned his face toward the Conning Tower hatch.
“Mr. Grilley reports that After Trim tank may be ruptured,” he said. “The grease fittings on the bulkhead back between the tubes have blown out. DeLucia is plugging them now.”
“Very well,” Mealey said. “Mr. Simms, take note of that; you may have to compensate with a flooded After Trim.” He dropped down the ladder to the Control Room.
“Seven hundred feet,” he said to Simms. “Get back on course zero zero zero. Now we’ll see what that bastard will do!”
In the After Torpedo Room DeLucia had dragged a bright orange canvas sack filled with tapered wooden plugs of varying sizes to the torpedo tubes. He stood to one side, gauging the course of the two streams of water that were jetting
into the room. Then he edged in between the banks of the torpedo tubes with his bag, a short-handled sledge tucked under one arm.
“We’re at four hundred feet and going down,” Grilley warned, his eyes on the pressure gauge. “Don’t get a hand in front of those streams of water! At this depth that water will cut like a knife!” DeLucia nodded and squatted under the two streams of water. He pulled a tapered oak plug from the bag.
Carefully, moving very slowly, he moved the point of the plug up the bulkhead until it was just below a jetting stream. Then in one smooth motion, grunting with the exertion, he pushed the point of a plug into the hole and held it there with one hand while he grabbed the sledge from between his knees. He rapped the plug hard with the sledge and hit it again, two solid blows. He got another plug out of the bag and Grilley heard him curse and saw the sledge moving in short arcs.
DeLucia backed out from between the torpedo tubes, the sledge tucked under one arm, the orange bag dragging behind him. As he moved a bright stream of arterial blood splashed on the deck plates.
“Let me see that!” Grilley said, and DeLucia held out his left hand. Blood was pouring from a hole in the palm of his hand, a hole that went completely through the hand.
“I slipped a little,” he said ruefully. “Son of a bitchin’ water is strong at that pressure!”
“We’ll get the Pharmacist Mate back here,” Grilley said. “That has to be taken care of.”
“Nah!” DeLucia said. “The Old Man ain’t gonna let anyone open and close all them water-tight doors for a scratch like this!” He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand and made a fist, closing the fingers tightly. “This will be all right for a while. That last charge musts busted the After Trim tank. You’d better tell the Old Man that it was sea pressure comin’ in through them blown grease fittings.”
Final Harbor (The Silent War Book 1) Page 22