“Range, mark.”
“Thirteen hundred yards.”
“Angle on the bow, starboard six five.”
After a few long seconds listening to McCarty spin the dials on the TDC, the lieutenant finally reported. “Checks with generated solution, Captain.”
Keane smiled with satisfaction. The freighter had not changed course or speed since the last observation, nearly an hour ago, when only her masts had been visible. The Wolffish had spent most of the last hour two hundred feet beneath the surface, closing with the convoy’s projected track. The relatively calmer waters of the deep had allowed the submarine to get more speed from her electric motors, and had eliminated the possibility of broaching and alerting the enemy to her presence. Now, this most recent observation proved that the enemy ships had not deviated from their base course. In fact, it proved they were not even zig-zagging, and that seemed a bit odd.
It was standard practice for most surface ships, when crossing waters potentially infested by enemy submarines, to perform random course and speed changes to throw off a torpedo firing solution. The fact that the ships above were not using this precaution was alarming to Keane, but not entirely unexplainable. It was possible the enemy captains believed the weather too foul to support a submarine attack, or they might simply be trying to conserve fuel. Either way, Keane chose to dismiss it and not look a gift horse in the mouth. It was a perfect set-up. From this angle and this distance, he could practically choose which frame on the freighter he wanted his first torpedo to hit.
In high-power magnification, he could see the Japanese sailors on her decks. Parka-clad lookouts peered over the perches atop her masts. Another cluster on her main deck appeared to be lashing a stack of crates that had jarred loose in the rough sea state. They had no idea they were being watched. Like an alligator observing a passing herd of wildebeests, the Wolffish hovered just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to pounce on her prey.
There was no time to waste. Every second of periscope exposure increased the risk of detection.
“Make tubes one and three ready for firing in all respects.”
Keane envisioned the torpedomen in the forward-most compartment of the submarine.
They would be turning valves, flooding the tubes, and making their final checks on the system that would shoot the last two torpedoes left in the Wolffish’s forward room. In a matter of moments, the three-thousand-pound, twenty-foot-long weapons would leap from their tubes, with a shove of compressed air to speed them on their way. Keane silently prayed the often-faulty Mark 14 torpedoes would run true. He would have preferred using Mark 18s, which were electrically driven and emitted no bubbles, thus making it practically impossible for a targeted vessel to detect them. But, unfortunately, the Wolffish had expended all of her Mark 18s in the early weeks of the patrol. The Mark 14 was a much faster weapon, but it used an internal combustion engine for propulsion that left a visible line of bubbles on the surface leading straight back to the submarine for any depth-charge equipped escort to monopolize on.
“Forward torpedo room reports, tubes one and three are ready, Captain,” Mills said, after receiving the status in his headset. “Outer doors are open.”
“Very well.”
“Solution light, Captain,” McCarty reported, indicating that the TDC’s angle solver was producing the correct gyro angle. The angle was being electrically transmitted to the torpedoes in their tubes and was constantly updating based on the freighter’s course and speed. When Keane gave the order to fire, and the torpedoes were ejected from their tubes, their internal gyroscopes would turn them to the precise course necessary to intercept the freighter.
“Request an update on the escort, Captain,” Ficarelli said suddenly, a measure of frustration in his voice.
Keane instantly recognized the tone, and knew the reason for it. With pencil, compass, and parallel ruler, Ficarelli had been maintaining the tactical plot showing the Wolffish’s position relative to the enemy ships. So far, his plot only showed the position of the freighter, since Keane had not yet performed an observation on the escort. Keane reproached himself inwardly, knowing that he should have already done the observation, without any prodding from his XO. Was he getting the same bug that the crew had, cutting corners to get the whole thing over and done with?
“Observation on the escort,” Keane said. He rotated the scope to place the enemy frigate squarely in the field of view. The small warship was bedecked with a light sprinkling of naval guns and carried depth charge racks on her stern, but these were periodically obscured by the high swells, so Keane chose to steady the reticle on the escort’s high exhaust stack. “Bearing, mark!”
“Three four seven,” Mills called out.
“I put her five hundred yards beyond the track of the freighter, XO,” Keane said without taking his face from the eyepiece. “She’s hanging off the freighter’s port bow, on the same course and speed.”
“Aye, sir,” Ficarelli replied thankfully, as he began updating his plot accordingly.
It was somewhat odd that the escort was not echo-ranging, Keane thought. If the cargo aboard that freighter was so important, then why had it been given such a light escort? Of course, there could be many explanations for it. Japan was feeling the strain on their supply lines. The lack of goods was affecting the replenishment of her armies and the refitting of her ships. Perhaps this escort was the only one the Imperial Navy could spare for the job. Whatever the reason, the freighter was a sitting duck. Even if the Wolffish fired now, at a longer range than Keane would have liked, the enemy ship would have a tough time turning fast enough in these seas to evade two Mark 14 torpedoes running at forty-six knots. The escort was too far away to be of any consequence.
“Down scope!” Keane said, slapping the handles up and letting the tube slide back down into the deep well in the floor. “Set torpedo depth to sixteen feet. We don’t want these seas to throw them off course. What’s the torpedo run now?”
“Eleven hundred yards, Captain,” McCarty reported.
“We’ve come this far. I don’t want to miss now. We’ll wait and fire once we’re inside of a thousand.” The close range would hopefully compensate for any deviation in course brought on by the tossing seas. “We’ll fire both fish in salvo, Mister McCarty. Use a half degree spread.”
As Keane waited, listening to McCarty count down the distance to the firing point, his eyes came to rest on Ficarelli, and a thought suddenly came to mind.
“Care to have a look, XO?” he said with a grin. “We’ve got a few seconds to spare.”
The words had hardly left Keane’s mouth before the eager Ficarelli was beside him calling, “Up scope!”
After a quick 360-degree sweep, Ficarelli steadied the periscope on the enemy ships, rotating the handle to increase the magnification.
“There it is, Tony,” Keane said, watching his executive officer’s face. “Our all-important objective, the Kenan Maru, in all its glory, soon to be heading for Davy Jones locker.” Keane paused, and then added. “Too bad, we don’t have any more fish in the forward tubes. It’d be nice to bag the Jap escort as well. Who knows, maybe we’ll have time to swing the boat around and take a shot at her with that last torpedo in the aft room – if she doesn’t force us to go deep first.”
As Keane spoke, he noticed that Ficarelli was twisting his mouth to the side as if he saw something that puzzled him.
“That’s very odd,” Ficarelli said, looking fixedly through the lens.
“What is it?” Keane asked with some apprehension.
“That freighter. Those bands on her stack. They look freshly painted, almost too fresh, when you consider how rusty her hull is.”
Keane took the periscope from Ficarelli and increased the magnification on the freighter’s single smoke stack. Ficarelli was right. The two red bands – the same red bands the tasking order had informed them to look out for – were shiny and smooth when compared to the rest of the ship, as if they had only been painted in the l
ast few days, or even hours.
Keane felt a sudden chill creep over him.
“Bring me the recognition index, XO.”
Ficarelli was already at his side, holding open the thick manual to the page showing the Kenan Maru, marked by two paper clips. The page listed details and contained a few sketches of the freighter, their supposed target. Keane had studied it closely over the past twenty-four hours and felt that he knew the ship’s distinguishing characteristics by heart. But perhaps he had not studied it as carefully as he should have. The ship that plowed the seas a thousand yards ahead of the Wolffish’s bows looked very similar, but now, as he ran the lens along her lines, checking her every feature against every specification in the manual, he suddenly felt like a fool.
“Torpedo run inside one thousand yards, sir,” McCarty reported excitedly. But when Keane did not respond, and simply continued staring at the freighter, the junior officer repeated the report with apprehension. “We’re inside one thousand, Captain. Sir?”
Several more seconds passed before Keane finally nodded for Mills to lower the periscope. The frustration must have been clear on his face.
“Not her, sir?” Ficarelli asked bleakly, though his tone indicated he knew the answer.
As every man in the room stared at their captain, Keane’s own responsibilities weighed heavily on his mind. That was a Japanese ship up there, a legitimate target, and the Wolffish was in an excellent position to sink her. No one at ComSubPac would blame him for taking the shot. No one would ever blame him for firing his last torpedoes and safely returning to base.
But that ship up there was not his target, and there really was only one option.
“Shut outer doors on all tubes. Helm, all ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course south. Diving officer, make your depth two hundred feet. Secure from battlestations.”
In spite of the uncertain replies from those in the control room and the helmsman, the orders were carried out. The deck angled downward and tilted to the left as the Wolffish once again sank into the darkness of the deep.
“What’s going on, sir?” McCarty ventured to ask, voicing the question that was clearly on all of their lips.
“That’s the wrong ship up there,” Keane replied. “She’s a freighter all right, but she’s the wrong damn one. The Japs painted her to look like the one we’re after. It’s a damned close resemblance, but there’s no doubt about it – she’s not the Kenan Maru. The davits are all wrong. The cranes are too far apart. But they did a damn fine job on those red stripes. That’s all my eyes saw. Damn it! What a rookie mistake!” He tossed the recognition manual onto the chart table out of frustration, the pages fluttering shut.
“Maybe the intel report was wrong about the ship’s name, Captain,” Ficarelli ventured. “Maybe the red stripes are all that matters. That ship might be our target after all.”
Keane shook his head, unwilling to convince himself of something he knew not to be true. After cursing several times, and after realizing that everyone else was staring at him with confused looks, Keane got control of his anger and moved over to the chart desk.
“This group must have been travelling in company with the Kenan Maru and her convoy, and then the two parted ways. It’s a stretch, but it might just have been part of their plan. These ships were the bait. They head north, straight for Japan, no zigzag, an easy target and irresistible to an American submarine on the prowl, while the other group went…”
“The South China Sea route!” Ficarelli finished his sentence. The dividers in his hand traced up the east coast of Mindanao and came to rest where a narrow passage separated it from Leyte, the next island to the north. “They went west, then. They’re heading for Surigao Strait!”
Keane nodded. “If I were a Japanese captain, and I had orders to get a vital cargo back to the homeland, that’s the way I’d go. It’s longer, but much safer.”
“The Kenan Maru must be hugging the coast,” Ficarelli considered. “She’ll be moving slowly in these seas, probably no more than eight knots, and she’ll be zig-zagging, most likely.” He jotted down a quick calculation in pencil on the plotting paper. “Assuming she left the same time this group did, and all of my other assumptions are valid, she should reach Surigao in about twelve hours, Captain.”
“And that’s where we’ll be waiting for them, XO,” He jabbed his finger hard on the chart paper. “Plot a high-speed surface run for Surigao Strait. As soon as these decoys are over the horizon, we’ll see how fast our boat can sprint in high seas.” He turned to the other men in the room. “Better break out your heavy weather gear again, boys.” The attempt at rousing the men’s spirits was met with lackluster responses and long faces. They were not happy about his decision not to attack.
“Take over, XO. I’m going below.”
Keane ignored the stares of anger as he descended the ladder to the control room, where he was met by even more. It was not until he reached his stateroom and pulled the curtain shut, that he finally let out a long sigh, closed his eyes, and prayed he had just made the right decision.
He knew how they felt. Hell, he felt it, too. Hadn’t this ship and crew done enough? Haven’t they been through enough? Performing a submerged attack on the open seas was one thing. Attacking ships within an enemy-controlled, narrow strait was something else entirely. Surigao Strait was heavily patrolled, with minefields in abundance, and was within reach of several enemy airfields that would certainly send their planes aloft the moment the weather let up. But the strait was also the best spot to catch the Kenan Maru. Was it worth risking the lives of ninety men? Was any mission worth that?
Boats were rolling off the docks back in the States. Soon, there would be more boats in the Pacific than there are patrol zones. The brass now had more resources at their disposal than they had ever had before, enough resources to send ships to do things they never would have dreamed of doing in the early days, when every last submarine was needed to hold the line against the unstoppable Japanese advance.
This was a good crew. Not a single one of them would shirk his duties – Keane knew that – but they could smell victory in the air. They didn’t want to see their lives thrown away on some frivolous concoction of the senior staff when ultimate victory was so close. Who could blame them?
But then, that was not their decision. It was not his decision. The war was not over until the last bullet had been fired. Until then, orders were orders. And orders must be carried out.
Keane lit a cigarette and took a long, full dragon the burning embers, before reaching for the 1MC microphone on the bulkhead.
If his men were to head back in harm’s way, they at least deserved to be told where they were going and why. They deserved the straight scoop, straight from their captain’s mouth, not from scuttlebutt. But, what should he tell them? A few words of encouragement, a challenge, an appeal to their pride, or perhaps all of the above? He only needed to get through to the senior men, his veterans. They would take care of the rest. Get the chiefs and leading petty officers behind him, and the others would follow.
CHAPTER XIX
Trott leaned against the pressure hull beside Greenberg’s bunk, listening to the speculation spreading throughout the after torpedo room. Crewmen moved about the compartment, stowing the damage control gear that had been broken out for battlestations. Many of them were visibly upset and some spoke harshly about Keane. Trott had heard the captain’s name mentioned several times accompanied by a profane remark.
From the downward angle on the deck, Trott could tell that the submarine was going deep. He assumed the long-anticipated attack on the ships above had been called off, but aside from that simple deduction, he was as much in the dark as the blank-eyed Greenberg who still stared at the overhead with no sign of brain activity. Trott was starting to grow accustomed to not knowing what the hell was going on.
“Excuse me, sir,” a man said behind him. “Got to get by you.”
Trott turned to see that it was Clark, carrying a
bulky, flame-retardant suit over one shoulder. Trott eyed him warily as he stood aside, but the sailor simply smiled back politely.
“Thank you, sir,” Clark said, hefting the suit and a bag of tools into a locker above Greenberg’s cot. After closing the locker, he paused and turned to face Trott. “Sorry about the other day, sir. The XO gave me a talking to. Set me straight, sir.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Trott stammered. “I didn’t understand all of the circumstances about…about your friend’s death. If I had, I wouldn’t have –”
“It’s alright, sir. No harm done. You were just doing your job.” Clark gestured at Greenberg. “I got no right blaming him for my buddy’s death. Nobody told Martinez to play hero. He did that all on his own. This guy had nothing to do with it. Not his fault, sir.”
An overwhelming sense of guilt flooded Trott’s thoughts. He regretted ever having reported Clark’s behavior to the captain. The truth of the matter was clear in his mind. Clark’s friend, Martinez, might not have had to jump in the water at all, if Greenberg had at least made some attempt to save the pilot.
At that moment, the 1MC speaker in the overhead came to life.
“This is the captain,” Keane’s tinny voice echoed throughout the after torpedo room and the adjoining compartment, and all hands stopped what they were doing to listen. “By now, you have all probably heard that we just ducked a perfectly good target, and I want to take this opportunity to clear the air about a few things. I know a lot of you are thinking, why didn’t the old man go ahead and sink her? Why don’t we just chalk up the tonnage and call it a patrol? Those kind of thoughts are natural, but we didn’t come here to score tonnage, gentlemen. We came here to do a job, and we haven’t done it yet. Now I know it stinks. I know you’ve had your fill of this patrol, and you’d like nothing better than to get back to Midway and spend some time on the beach looking at Gooney birds? And I know some of you think this patrol is somehow cursed with bad luck, and the sooner we get home, the sooner we can start over again. But that’s a load of bullshit. Now, of all the boats out there, ComSubPac has chosen us to go after a target – a real target – because we’re the ones that can do it. That’s what ComSubPac thinks, anyway. ComSubPac knows what we’re facing. They know we’ve only got three fish aboard. They know we’re running low on fuel and food. That tells me this target is extremely important, whatever it’s carrying. We’ve had a tough patrol. For some of you this has been the worst patrol in recent memory, and you’d like nothing more than to put it behind you. But you can’t think that way anymore. Forget Midway, forget Hawaii, forget shore leave. Forget your families back home. When you signed up for sub service you volunteered for something above and beyond, and that’s what our country, ComSubPac, and I expect from you. Forget everything but this mission, and your dedication to see it through. The next time this sub pulls into Pearl Harbor, I want to know we did our part. I want to know we went in when other boats couldn’t, and so that other boats wouldn’t have to. I don’t know. Maybe if we stop that cargo from reaching Japan, it’ll save a lot of American lives. But let’s let the admirals worry about the what and the why. All we need to worry about is sinking that ship.” Keane paused. “Now, I’ve heard the name Jonah thrown around this boat, and I want it to stop. We’re all in this together. It doesn’t matter what happened before. This is a fleet submarine, gentlemen. She was made for war. She was made to take the fight to the enemy, not limp back to port with a bunch of superstitious ninnies.”
Dive Beneath the Sun Page 17