The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

by Clive Cussler

  One final note on a very strange story related to Akron. Not long after she was launched, the dirigible was scheduled to fly over a football game in Huntington, West Virginia. The date was October 10,1931. As thousands watched, a huge zeppelin cruised over the Ohio River and approached the stadium at only three hundred feet. Then, to the spectators’ horror, it suddenly crumpled and crashed to the ground. Several men were seen to escape in parachutes. After a thorough search, however, rescuers were stunned to find no sign of the Akron. No victims or wreckage could be found. Later investigation revealed that the flight by the navy dirigible over the stadium had been canceled. Not only had Akron not crashed in full view of a horde of sworn witnesses, but she had been over a hundred miles away at the time, and no other lighter-than-air craft were reported missing.

  The eerie apparition has never been explained.

  PART THIRTEEN

  PT-109

  I

  PT-109 1943

  It was another day of tropical heat and humidity, the type of smothering air that brings on a festering malaise of listlessness and diminished expectations. Even the fact that the crew of PT 109 was due a night in port was doing little to add enthusiasm to what had become an endless war against sweat and insects. The crew was battle-weary and dulled by exhaustion.

  They dreamed of home fires and cool breezes.

  “Maybe we can scrounge up some bread,” said Raymond Albert.

  Albert was from Akron, Ohio, twenty years old and always hungry.

  “To make some Spam sandwiches?” radioman John Maguire said dubiously.

  “No more Spam,” Albert said. “Perhaps we can shoot a few fish and have fish sandwiches.”

  Just then the sounds of an approaching shore launch filtered into the cove where PT-109 was moored. Seated behind the bosun’s mate was a slim, sandy-haired man who usually sported a broad smile. This afternoon, however, no smile was visible.

  “Maybe Kennedy’s brought some fresh rations” Maguire said hopefully.

  “If he had fresh food,” Albert said, “he’d look happy. He doesn’t look happy.”

  * * *

  PT-109 looked used and abused, but it was not the result of a long life. The trim eighty-foot vessel had first met water in July 1942, just over a year before, in the polluted waters near her factory in Bayonne, New Jersey. Constructed of plywood by ELCO, the Electric Boat Company, she had first been assigned to the PT Boat Training Center in Melville, Rhode Island, before traveling through the Panama Canal on a transport ship. Eventually reaching Noumea in the South Pacific, she had been towed to the Solomon Islands and joined the fighting near Guadalcanal. Powered by three twelve-cylinder Packard engines and sporting a total of four torpedo tubes, she was finished in a dark-green paint scheme that allowed her to hide under a canopy of foliage when not on patrol.

  After training at Melville, John F. Kennedy assumed command in April of 1943.

  * * *

  The base for PT-109 was named Todd City in honor of Leon E. Todd, the first PT-boat crewman based at Lumberi to die. The island where Lumberi was located was named Rendova. To the east of Rendova was the Solomon Sea; to the west, New Georgia Island. To the north lay Gizo Island and the Japanese base at Gizo Town, which fronted Blackett Strait. West of Gizo was the tall, tree-covered mountain named Kolombangara that formed the opposite edge of the strait. Rendova was almost uninhabited until the navy base was established, and the jungles nearby were still wild. Brightly colored parrots flitted from one coconut palm to another, while lizards climbed atop the rotting coconuts at their bases. Flies and winged beetles took to the air. When the sun was setting, bats and night birds could be seen taking Hight. The waters near Rendova were warm and teeming with life. Coral reefs poked up through the crystal-clear water, and tropical fish abounded.

  It could be considered paradise, save for the war raging nearby.

  * * *

  Lieutenant (Jg) John Fitzgerald Kennedy climbed from the shore launch, clutching a folder holding orders and operational information. A handsome man at twenty-six years old, he had been raised with privilege. After a childhood in Massachusetts, he had attended boarding school at Choate, followed by graduation from Harvard University. Son of the former ambassador to the Court of St. James, Joseph Kennedy, he had little in common with the men who served under him.

  Still, his crew had found their well-heeled skipper both friendly and approachable.

  A stem taskmaster when that was warranted, he also showed leniency with regulations he found arbitrary or unsound. And while he was tasked with maintaining at least a reasonable sense of navy decorum, he was more concerned with matters that pertained to crew readiness and operations. There was one other thing that endeared him to his men — there was no job he would not do himself. When cargo needed to be loaded, he helped. When the boat needed scraping or painting, he reached for a tool.

  Those who had served under other PT-boat skippers rated Kennedy a favorite.

  * * *

  “Gather ‘round,” Kennedy said as he climbed the gangplank. “I have our orders.”

  Ensign Leonard Thorn from Sandusky, Ohio, the second in command, shouted down to the sailors in their bunks. Thorn was a large man with light hair and a blond beard. Built like a football player, he had an eternally positive attitude that flowed forth like waves of warmth. Once the crew filtered abovedecks and stood milling on the stern, he turned to Kennedy.

  “Men are assembled, sir.”

  Kennedy glanced around and nodded.

  “We’ve been ordered to go out tonight,” Kennedy said, staring at his men.

  “Damn,” someone said under his breath.

  Grumbling could be heard as the men scattered, but all in all they took the news surprisingly well. There was a war in progress, and war demanded unusual measures. Personal desires gave way to sacrifice, weariness to preparation, fear to duty. They had a job to do — and they’d do it.

  Still, not a single man could envision the horror they were about to face.

  * * *

  “Wind it up,” Lieutenant Kennedy said, a few minutes before half past four the afternoon of August 1.

  A rumble filled the air as the first of the trio of Packard engines was started. Down in the engine room, Motor Machinist First Class Gerald Zinser waited for the word to engage the drive.

  Behind the helm, Lieutenant Kennedy revved the Packard, then adjusted it back to an idle. Satisfied with the sound, he called down for the drive to be engaged. Then he carefully steered PT-109 away from shore. Slowly the boat made way up the channel. The sun was low in the sky, and the light through the haze cast a pale orange glow over the heights of Rendova Peak.

  Seaman Second Class Raymond Albert was on the stem deck. He could see sand crabs scurry from the water’s edge as the noisy PT boat idled past. Overhead a small flock of green parrots flitted past, changing directions in midair before heading across Lumberi to find refuge in the tall palms. The wake angled toward shore and washed against the mangrove roots lining the rim of the water.

  Ensign George Ross was a friend of Kennedy’s who had hitched a ride on PT-109 for the night. Formerly the executive officer of PT-166, a vessel sunk by friendly fire on July 20, Ross was without a boat and wanted to take part in the action. Kennedy offered to let him operate the aged thirty-seven-millimeter army antitank gun that PT-109 had been tasked with testing. The gun was crudely lashed with planks onto the foredeck, and Ross was staring at the placement and wondering if it would remain on board after it was fired. There was little Ross could do about it now, so he raised his eyes and stared off the bow.

  Fifty yards ahead, several bottlenose dolphins leapt in the air, looking for all the world like a flowing arc of wet gray paint. Staring to port, Ross watched the water a hundred yards ahead boil as a school of baitfish danced across the top of the water. To starboard, Ross thought he caught the glimpse of a shark’s fin piercing the surface, but when he looked more carefully, he could see nothing.

 
* * *

  “Ensign Thom,” Kennedy shouted above the noise of the engines.

  “Sir,” Thom said, approaching from the stairs leading belowdecks.

  “Go below and tell Zinser that engine three feels sluggish.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thom said as he went belowdecks.

  * * *

  “Skipper reports number three feels sluggish,” Thom shouted over the din.

  Zinser was wiping his hands with a rag. He pointed at a round glass bowl attached to an engine.

  “Seems to be okay now,” Zinser said. “There was some gunk in the fuel.”

  “I’ll let him know,” Thom said, as he started to leave.

  “Mr. Thom?” Zinser said.

  Thom turned around and smiled at Zinser. “Yes, Zinser?”

  “We’re going to see action tonight, aren’t we?”

  The enlisted men respected Thom. One reason was because he was as open and honest with the crew as the rules allowed. “Word is the Express is running. We are going to try to sink a few.”

  Zinser nodded. “What’s the chance we get tomorrow night off?”

  “Hard to say,” Thom said. “I guess that depends on tonight.

  Thom had never spoken truer works, but neither he nor Zinser knew that yet.

  * * *

  Thom went to the helm station and touched Kennedy’s shoulder. “Zinny had some bad fuel.”

  “Yeah,” Kennedy said, “she’s smoothed out now.”

  Thom stared at the sky. The last flicker of light was washing down the side of the distant peak. In the Solomon Islands, it grows dark quickly. One moment there is waning sunlight, and within half an hour the first stars can be seen. It was as if a switch had been flipped off.

  “It’ll be clear tonight, sir,” Thom noted.

  “All the better for hunting,” Kennedy said easily.

  ON THE JAPANESE destroyer Amagiri, there was a level of tension that came from knowing they were being stalked. Somewhere in the night were the pesky American mosquito boats. The fast plywood attack crafts came quickly and disappeared just as fast. This was a strange and new type of marine warfare. The Japanese sailors were not trained for this. Historical rules dictated that ships fired on other ships when they were in sight. Sneaking and hiding in the dark was a little unnerving.

  Truth be told, the PT boats had not caused much damage — their torpedoes were notoriously inaccurate, and to use their deck guns, they needed to be close enough to the ships of the Express to be in harm’s way themselves. Still, they were out there in the blackness, came quickly without warning, and sped away as if on the wings of eagles.

  Gunner Hikeo Nisimura adjusted the chin strap on his helmet and stared to port. From his vantage point in the bow gun, he had an unusually broad view of the areas Amagiri steamed past. This evening, the top of the peak on Kolombangara Island was shrouded in clouds. As he watched, the last remnants of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, and the peak began to grow purple from top to bottom, as if a giant had poured on a ladle of plum sauce.

  And then, although the temperature was nearly seventy degrees, Nisimura felt a chill.

  * * *

  In Amagiri’s pilothouse, Commander Kohei Hanami stared at the chart, then ordered the speed increased to thirty-five knots. Hanami was both a stem taskmaster and one who believed in rigid schedules. In the holds of his command were 912 soldiers and nearly a hundred tons of supplies that were bound for Munda Airfield, where the Japanese army was fighting a losing battle against the American marines. Amagiri’s part in this plan was to arrive at the base at Vila on Kolombangara Island, off-load the soldiers and supplies, then steam back to her base before daylight.

  ENSIGN Ross WALKED back from the bow to the helm. The flotilla was cruising north through Ferguson Passage. To starboard, barely visible in the black of night, was the outline of Vonavona Island. Ross stood for a moment, hands on his hips, and smelled the air. Salt and seawater, mildew and fungus. From over the water on land came the scent of night-blooming jasmine and limes mixing with the musty smell of mangrove roots at low tide. He sniffed again.

  A smell of home.

  The scent of baked beans wafted through a hatch. Then the smell of meat being fried in lard. Beans and Spam was the order of the night. Ross just hoped the cook had some powdered lemonade to add to their chlorinated water for flavor.

  Reaching Kennedy behind the helm, he smiled. “Smells like dinner’s almost ready, Jack.”

  Kennedy adjusted his orange kapok life vest. “I can hardly wait, Henry,” he said, smiling.

  “I checked out the thirty-seven millimeter,” Ross said. “She’s ready for firing.”

  “Mamey’s in the forward turret?” Kennedy asked.

  “Yes,” Ross said.

  “He’s a good Massachusetts man,” Kennedy said, “from Chicopee.”

  “I talked to him,” Ross said. “He mentioned he’s new to your crew.”

  “Yes,” Kennedy said. “Starkey, Marney, and Zinser down in the engine room — all new to 109.”

  “How do you feel about them?” Ross asked.

  “All good men,” Kennedy noted. “Ready to fight.”

  “That’s good,” Ross said, “because I have a feeling they’ll soon have a chance.”

  Kennedy nodded and stared into the black night. “I do, too, Henry,” he said easily. “I do, too.”

  The time was half past 9 P.M.

  * * *

  There were a total of fifteen PT boats on patrol, as the Japanese flotilla consisting of the destroyers Amagiri, Arashi, Hagikaze, and Shigure steamed south. The boats worked in small groups, with PT-109 patrolling with PT-157, PT-159, and PT-162 of Division B.

  Radar was a recent addition to the PT boats, and only a few of the vessels had been equipped. The radar sets were finicky, unreliable, and subject to interpretation by the operator. Still, they were better than nothing — and when they did work, they added a margin of safety and success to what were for the most part random search-and-destroy missions.

  On PT-159, the operator stared at the glowing green screen intently. A second later, he shouted to the captain. “Radar contact, four possible barges, three miles distant, along Kolombangara.”

  The skipper climbed down to look at the radar screen, then back up to stare into the blackness. After repeating the maneuver a few more times, he ordered the deck guns set to fire low. With the crude radar, he was still certain the blips were barges.

  In fact, they were the four Japanese destroyers.

  PT-159 raced close to fire and was met with fire from the heavy guns of the destroyers. Now knowing his target, the skipper pushed the buttons on the dashboard to launch a pair of torpedoes. Unfortunately, the skipper of PT-159 chose not to break radio silence to inform the other boats of the flotilla passing. The torpedoes missed and the flotilla steamed south without harm.

  * * *

  While the waters around Kolombangara Island were filled with Japanese destroyers and barges, along with American PT boats and heavy cruisers to the north, there was a different type of war being fought.

  It was a solitary and introspective affair of waiting, watching, and reporting.

  High atop Kolombangara Island, in a crude camp consisting of a bamboo hut, was a brave Australian armed with a telescope, binoculars, radio, and little else. Lieutenant Arthur Reginald “Reg” Evans was a member of the Australian Coast-watcher Service. The service had been formed in World War I to help in patrolling Australia’s vast coastline. The Australian Navy hit upon the idea of enlisting the help of local fishermen, harbormasters, and postmen to watch the coast and report any suspicious activity by telegraph. The idea proved successful and was reintroduced and expanded as World War II came along. Submarines, aircraft, and small boats transferred the coastwatchers to small islands in the South Pacific to provide eyes on the ground. They reported ship and plane movements, recruited local natives to help the effort against the Japanese, and provided weather reports for the Allied forces.
The job was lonely, dirty, and dangerous.

  The Japanese knew of the coastwatchers, and they hunted them down with dogs.

  Reg Evans sipped a cup of tea and stared down at the black water. He had no way of knowing he would be instrumental in rescuing the man who would one day be elected President of the United States.

  * * *

  Amagiri arrived off Vila just as August 1 turned into August 2. Commander Hanami ordered his ship anchored, then waited as a fleet of barges and landing craft approached and swarmed around his hull. Soldiers assembled on deck, then began climbing down landing nets into the rectangular crafts in an orderly line. To the other side, sailors began to unload cases and crates from the hull, then filled stem nets that were hoisted up off Amagiri’s deck and down to the barges. Hanami paced the decks, willing the off-loading to go faster. The quicker he and the other ships of the flotilla finished, the less chance they had of being dead in the water when the sun came up.

  Twenty minutes passed.

  “The soldiers are all off,” a junior officer said finally, “and the last of the supplies are being handed down now.”

  “Secure the landing nets and order the anchor hoisted,” Hanami ordered. “I want to be back in our slip at Rabaul before first light.”

  The officer saluted and made his way forward, as Hanami walked toward the pilothouse.