Silent Running: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 2)

by Craig DiLouie

  Charlie said nothing. He scanned the black horizon with his binoculars. The air around him darkened.

  “That’s one big wave,” Gibson said.

  Charlie turned in time to see the wall of water slam into the boat. Sabertooth rolled at the impact. Freezing seawater flooded the bridge up to his chest. Floundering and half blind, he kicked the hatch closed with his foot.

  The water drained from the bridge with a roar. He braced his feet against the enormous force of it. Then he reopened the hatch to let fresh air into the boat and ensure a quick escape if they needed it.

  The exec coughed water out of his lungs. He gave Charlie a sideways glance and nodded. “We need experienced seamen, Charles.”

  This again, now? Seriously?

  Charlie said, “Okay.”

  “We also need men who can think on their feet in a crisis.”

  Lewis nodded again, and Charlie sensed he’d earned something like approval from the man. The closest thing to approval the exec was perhaps capable of.

  As sure as he’d become a part of Sabertooth over the patrol, he’d finally earned his place among the crew.

  The next wave crashed into the boat like an avalanche. Sabertooth went into a pronounced roll at the impact and Charlie thought, this is it, she’ll capsize, but she didn’t. The main induction banged shut to keep the engines from flooding out.

  He regained his footing and wiped his eyes. The bridge had filled with water again. Gibson cursed and spat.

  The exec was gone.

  Gibson cried, “Man overboard!”

  “Wait!” Charlie reached into the water as it drained from the bridge.

  He hauled the exec out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MISSION

  Sabertooth cruised submerged on a southwesterly course. She rose like an ungainly metal whale and broke the surface bow first. The storm had swept east the day before. Silhouetted in the light of a crescent moon, the submarine floated on a calm sea that was flat as glass. Water gushed from her scuppers. Lookouts scrambled to their stations.

  A black mass dominated the western horizon. The periscope had spotted it; the lookouts confirmed it. Landfall. The island of Mindanao, the crew’s mission destination. They’d reached the Philippines, now under the Emperor’s thumb.

  In the control room, Charlie said, “Sugar Dog, make a five-second search.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Radar was a valuable tool but had to be used sparingly. It was believed the Japanese could zero in on the pulses. And it wasn’t always reliable.

  The radarman reported, “Control, all clear.” The SD radar revealed clear skies. No enemy planes within radar range.

  “Shift to Sugar Jig,” Charlie ordered.

  “Radar shifted to Sugar Jig.”

  “Sugar Jig, make an automatic sweep on the PPI.”

  The SJ radar swept the surface.

  “Land contact, bearing from two-double-oh to three-five-five, range, six miles. Otherwise, all clear to 10,000 yards, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Very well.”

  He gave orders to open the main induction, start the engines, and charge the batteries. The main induction banged open. The diesels fired in sequence. The engines’ roar throbbed through the boat.

  “Helm, how does she head?”

  “Two-six-five, sir.”

  “Keep her so. Ahead, one-third.”

  “Ahead, one-third, aye, sir.”

  Bryant said, “A word, Harrison?”

  Charlie turned and saw the engineering officer and Liebold in the forward passageway. “All right. Miller, take the con.”

  The ensign grinned. “I would be delighted, sir.”

  “Maintain our heading. At five miles out from shore, heave to. I want two extra lookouts up there. We’re in the lion’s den now.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  They went to the wardroom and sat at the table. Isko poured them coffee. Charlie rubbed his eyes. His ears still rang ringing from the attack.

  Bryant lit a cigarette and waved the match out. “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re completing our mission.” What the hell did he think they were doing?

  Liebold said, “The captain hasn’t come out of his room in two days. The exec’s still in and out of consciousness. Too weak to get out of his rack. Doc says it’s a concussion. He may need hospital care.”

  Sailors had carried the exec below while the typhoon hammered the boat. Then the captain dived, no easy task in a storm like that. He had to time the dive perfectly when the boat was in a trough between the giant waves.

  Damaged, leaking, and trimmed heavy, Sabertooth had plowed back into the water. She spent the next day pitching and rolling in the restless sea, which made many of the crew seasick. At night, they surfaced again and began frantic repairs.

  After that particular feat of seamanship, Hunter gave Charlie control of the boat and withdrew to his stateroom. He hadn’t been seen since.

  “The Old Man’s had it,” Bryant said.

  “What do you mean?”

  The engineering officer looked sideways at Liebold, who said, “He drinks. Usually not much, I mean, not enough to affect him on the job.”

  Bryant said, “But sometimes a lot. Don’t sugar coat it, Jack.”

  “Yeah. He’s right. The captain drinks a lot when we blow an attack.”

  “Usually the exec covers for him, but the exec is out of the picture.”

  “Right. And it’s never lasted more than a day. It’s been two days, Charlie. The rendezvous with the guerillas is tomorrow. We’re getting worried.”

  Bryant added, “We’ve still got problems with the boat. The depth charging did a lot of damage. I’m still repairing leaks. I feel like the little Dutch boy.”

  Charlie said, “So what are you saying? We should scrub the mission?”

  The men glanced at each other. Charlie knew what they were thinking. They were thinking: We can’t do this with a greenhorn in command.

  “I haven’t heard anything that tells me we can’t complete the mission,” he said. “We’re remaining on station.”

  Bryant leaned back in his chair with a scowl, arms crossed.

  Liebold said, “Charlie—”

  Charlie raised his hand. “End of discussion.”

  The man sagged. “Aye.”

  Bryant glared at him. “I’m not going along with this. You’re going to risk our lives because you want your crack at command.”

  The remark stung, partly because the man was right; he did want it. But partly because he didn’t want it as well. He knew this wasn’t a game. Lives depended on his decisions. Conning the boat to the rendezvous was one thing. Offloading ninety tons of supplies and taking on refugees in Japanese waters was something else entirely. One misstep could get them all killed.

  Charlie growled, “Shut your yap and do your duty, Bryant. We have a mission, and we have the capability to complete it. So that’s what we’re going to do.”

  He almost added, “Dismissed,” but caught himself. He had the legal authority to carry on. He didn’t need to be heavy-handed about it.

  Still, the meeting was over. Bryant stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and stormed from the wardroom. Liebold offered an apologetic shrug and followed.

  Charlie finished his coffee, deep in thought about what Liebold and Bryant had said to him. This was no time for a pissing contest. He had to think about what was best for the boat and the mission. To an extent, the officers were right. Charlie had done his job. He’d carefully, very carefully, gotten the boat to the rendezvous coordinates. Now Sabertooth needed her captain.

  He went to Hunter’s stateroom and knocked on the doorframe. “Captain?”

  “Harrison? Come in, come in.”

  Charlie pulled aside the curtain and entered the room. The reading lamp shed a pool of light on the desk, illuminating a stack of books, journal, glass, and a half-full bottle of brandy.

  Hunter lay on his bunk in rumpled service
khakis, his arm draped over his eyes.

  “Sir? It’s 1230. We’re about five miles off the rendezvous point. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be ready to make the approach and confirm the—”

  “You been taking good care of my boat, Harrison?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course you have. Guy like you.” The man sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes and bearded face. “Guy like you gets breaks. Guy like Kane.”

  “Kane’s dead, sir.”

  The captain said, “There’s more than one way to die.”

  Charlie wasn’t any good at this kind of talk. The captain was being maudlin. He wished Rusty were here; he’d set the man straight.

  He cut to the chase: “We need you leading the boat, Captain.”

  “Funny thing, that nickname Kane gave you. Hara-kiri. It’s the honorable way out for a warrior who has failed. You’re not the one who failed, though. You did good. Sank the Mizukaze.”

  The captain stood and swayed on his feet. He grabbed the bottle and poured a finger of brandy into a glass.

  Bryant was right. The Old Man was sloshed. Sloshed, and possibly broken.

  “Captain Kane was a good man,” Charlie said. “Just like you. During my patrol with him, we took a shot at a heavy cruiser. One of the fish went erratic and alerted the Japs we were shooting. They clobbered us. We made repairs, found a battle group coming down the Slot, and couldn’t catch them. So the captain got bolder. We went to Rabaul. This beautiful convoy fell right in our laps. Then the attack periscope fogged up. The other scope jammed in train. So we surfaced.”

  Hunter tossed back his shot and grimaced. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The right chance doesn’t come along often. Kane chased after his. He waited for it. And when it came, he grabbed it with both hands, and he didn’t hold back.”

  “So you’re saying I’m still waiting for my chance.”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  “Every time we do an approach, I think about the sixty men under my command. Sixty men who’ll die if I fail …”

  He shook his head and poured another finger into the glass.

  Charlie said, “We could sure use you leading us, Captain.”

  The captain retreated to his bunk and stretched out with the glass resting on his stomach. “Get out of here, Harrison. Carry on. Go make contact with the guerillas. I’ll be along …”

  Charlie turned as he was leaving and added, “For what it’s worth, Captain, you’re as good a man as Kane was. The only difference is he got his chance.”

  Hunter said, “Some men get lots of chances. They get their chances, and they blow them. They blow every single one.”

  “But—”

  “You might do well to remember that, Harrison. Now get lost.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  COMMAND DECISIONS

  Charlie couldn’t wait for the captain to snap out of his funk. The mission orders were clear about the coordinates, date, and time of day. After a few hours of fretful sleep, he dived the boat and spent the morning poring over maps.

  These were once well-charted and safe American waters. Now they belonged to the Japanese. He couldn’t make a single mistake.

  He conned the boat to a point a mile from the coast and raised the observation scope. Rollers pounded a white beach. A dense wall of palm trees crowded the shore. Beyond, heavily forested hills rose under a thickly clouded sky. The morning sun poured through the cover in distinct beams.

  Kayupo Kling Beach.

  Beautiful, but he wasn’t here for sightseeing.

  We’re here, he thought. We did our part. Now where are you?

  There. He spotted two white sheets draped between palms. That was the signal. Tonight, at sunset, the guerillas would come out in their boats.

  Or they might not.

  Or they’d come, and they might not be guerillas.

  The whole thing might be a trap.

  The captain’s words haunted him. Some men get lots of chances. They get their chances, and they blow them.

  His first shot at command, and he could lose the boat.

  “Down scope,” he said.

  At sunset, Sabertooth circled a mile offshore with both periscopes aimed at the island. He spotted two fishing boats, too far away to be a worry. Otherwise, nothing happened.

  An hour rolled by. Then another. Charlie yawned.

  He said to Liebold, “Put a watch on these scopes. I’ll be in my rack. If you don’t see anything, wake me in four hours.”

  Lying on his bunk, he tossed and turned. He was starting to understand why the captain drank.

  It had all sounded so simple at Pearl. Cruise to Mindanao. Simple navigation. Locate the signal at the rendezvous coordinates. Simple work with the scopes.

  Surface and unload ninety tons of supplies onto a series of small boats while taking on a dozen refugees. Not as simple as it sounded. Not simple at all, in fact.

  Charlie hadn’t been in the submarines long, but even he knew how risky the operation was. The guerillas might be Japanese regulars and attempt to take the submarine by boarding.

  Even if it weren’t a trap, Sabertooth would be exposed in enemy waters. Easily bombed into the sea. Or, perhaps worse for him, he might be forced to scuttle and surrender.

  He’d spend the rest of the war in a POW camp. If he even got to do that. The Japanese considered submariners to be pirates. After torturing him, they might make him dig a grave, shoot him in the back of the head, and toss him in.

  They get their chances, and they blow them.

  Eventually, he slept, poorly.

  He started awake.

  Gibson stood in his doorway. “It’s 2200, Mr. Harrison.”

  Charlie rubbed his face. “Any sign of the guerillas?”

  The quartermaster shook his head. “Zip.”

  “All right, I’ll come.”

  He went to the control room, which was rigged for red. The men turned and eyed him expectantly. He could sense their judgment, their wonder. Where’s the captain? Why is the new guy commanding us? What’s he going to do when we surface a mile from shore and Japanese patrol boats come swarming at us while our ass is hanging out?

  Is he going to get us all killed?

  Charlie had no answers to give them. And beyond them, he knew others were watching. Important men. If the boat were captured or destroyed, he had no doubts about how the brass would judge him. So he’d play it safe. But if the guerillas didn’t show and he turned tail, would they pin it on him? Would he own the failure?

  Charles Lockwood was “Uncle Charlie” only until you failed. Then he became Admiral Lockwood. And Admiral Lockwood had no use for timid commanders. Neither did ComSubPac, Admiral English himself.

  Liebold and Bryant watched him from their stations, waiting for his decision. Charlie checked the time; eight hours had now passed. Daylight in four hours.

  “I’ll take the inflatable and go to the shore,” Charlie said. “Have a look.”

  Liebold frowned and shook his head. Bryant grinned, whether in admiration or derision, Charlie couldn’t be sure.

  “The smart move is to—” Liebold began and caught himself. The men in the control room were all listening.

  He, Bryant, and Charlie met at the plotting table, where they could confer quietly.

  “The smart move is to stay put. We’re safe enough here.”

  Charlie shook his head. “But we don’t know what’s happening on the shore.”

  Bryant said, “He’s onto something, Jack. If it’s a trap, well …” If Charlie were to be shot or captured, this was a sure-fire way to find out.

  “We should ask the captain,” Liebold said.

  “The captain’s indisposed,” Charlie reminded him.

  “The guerillas might have gotten held up. We can hold station for days. We’re in no rush.”

  “If it’s a trap, we may not last the night. They’ll come out and try to board us, or they’ll swamp this area with patrol boats.�
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  “Then send other men,” Liebold said. “You shouldn’t be going yourself. You’re the senior officer. You’re needed here.”

  “Come on, Jack. You know full well that for this kind of mission, I couldn’t ask another man to go in my place.”

  He couldn’t take command and, just a few days later, ask a member of the crew to take a risk he wasn’t willing to take himself.

  Liebold started another protest, but Charlie held up his hand. “Bryant, you’re senior. You’ll take command. Hold station. Be ready for us, but if you see Japanese ships, you know what to do.”

  “I know what to do,” Bryant said without a trace of a smile.

  “Christ, Charlie,” Liebold said. His body language suggested he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

  Charlie held out his hand, and Liebold shook it.

  “Thanks for everything, Jack.” He turned and said to the quartermaster, “Tell Machinist’s Mate John Braddock to meet me in the small-arms locker in ten minutes. Get the inflatable ready.”

  Gibson looked at him with wild eyes. “Aye, Mr. Harrison.”

  The sailors stared at him as he left the control room, their faces unreadable in the red light. Perhaps they thought he was brave. Maybe they thought him a fool.

  They probably saw him as both.

  He’d made his decision logically. Still, he understood he might very well be going to his death.

  Maybe Rusty had been right about him after all.

  The rendezvous location: Kayupo Kling Beach. December 18, 1942.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NIGHT RECON

  Charlie pulled a Thompson submachine gun from the small-arms locker. A part of him still hoped the captain would emerge from his stateroom and order him to stand down. This hope faded with each passing moment. His blood was up now. He wanted to do this.

  The Tommy gun felt heavy in his hands. He slapped a box magazine into the well and pulled the charging bolt on its side. Then he slung the gun over his shoulder.

  Braddock entered the compartment wearing a life jacket. “You wanted to see me, sir?”