The Chief was tucked into his bunk over main engine number two. He was fast asleep a foul-smelling pipe clutched in his gnarled palm. Hardy shook him awake. Cassidy opened one eye, saw who it was, made a face, and closed the eye again.
“Cassidy!” Hardy hissed in his ear.
“Go away.” Hardy shook him again. The eye opened, and Cassidy growled. “Wake me when it’s World War Three.”
He turned over and pulled the covers over his head. Hardy stepped back, confused, unsure what to do, who to tell.
Brownhaver turned up the radio so it drowned out the whine of the two diesels, and Hardy heard Giroux shifting stations again—garbled static, then a faraway transmission caught for a moment, long enough for him to determine exactly what it was. Christmas music—a choir singing “Silent Night.” Momentarily relieved, Hardy sank back against the engine stand.
Then the final irony. The voices on the radio—the sweet sacred tones:
Silent night,
Holy night.
All is calm; all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child—
The voices were Japanese, singing in English!
Then another voice cut in, the r’s and l’s of his speech hopelessly transposed: “Melly Chlistmas, Yanks! It’s the rast one you ever see!”
Threats over the radio had never scared Hardy, not even in 1944. So this one didn’t frighten him now. But Brownhaver’s response scared him out of his wits. The old oiler looked up at the intercom speaker and let out a Bronx cheer that drowned out the engines, the radio, and the chorus of “Fuck you’s!” that came in from the crew’s quarters.
Hardy lunged off the bulkhead and blasted through the engine room, swung through the hatch to the crew’s quarters, paused to take in the defiant laughing faces, then raced forward.
He had to find Frank.
He burst into the control room, and Stigwood saw his wild look “Captain’s on the bridge...”
Hardy shot up the ladder and through the con to the bridge. He whirled and grabbed Frank’s arm. “Frank... my God, there’s something going on here. The crew—”
“What the hell is eating you now?”
Hardy was surprised at Frank’s unpleasantness, but he went on. “The crew. They’re acting funny. They were listening to the radio, and we got this Japanese broadcast and it was like it didn’t even matter to them—they were—”
“Hardy.” Frank groaned in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”
“They were acting... the way we used to... thirty years ago.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Frank snapped, “I’ve got enough on my mind without you adding to it!”
Hardy dropped Frank’s arm, stunned. It was like listening to Byrnes all over again. Was Frank picking up where Byrnes had left off?
It was almost 2100, and the sky had grown terribly dark. If the convoy ever showed, they were going to have, a devil of a time spotting it. Have to use infrared on the scopes, Hardy was thinking, letting himself forget the crew for a moment. He had to—they were faced with the imminent appearance of a target—
Scopes’s voice came over the speaker, calm and controlled:
“Radar to bridge. Captain... we have radar contact, bearing zero-one-one degrees true, zero-eight-one relative. Range, eighty-five hundred yards.”
“Captain—smoke on the horizon,” a lookout called softly.
Frank stood stiffly, frozen to the spot. He didn’t respond. Hardy came around him, stared at his face. It had become colorless and beaded with sweat. Hardy shook him angrily. “Come on, Frank—you’ve got your goddamned convoy!”
Slowly Frank came to his senses and turned, raising his binoculars. He focused on a roll of black smoke in the distance, dimly visible in the sparse moonlight.
“Be smart for once,” Hardy said. “Let’s get out of here. Don’t tempt it.”
Hardy turned and went for the hatch; he was stopped by a cold voice.
“Not so fast.”
Hardy looked up at the tight face. But Frank never even got the chance to give his order. They were both thrown off-balance as the submarine picked up speed with a wrenching jerk.
And turned to confront the approaching target
CHAPTER 17
December 3
The helmsman felt a sudden tug on the wheel. He fought to haul it back and found that he couldn’t. It kept pulling hard starboard. Abruptly it popped out of his grasp and steadied itself. “Son of a bitch!” he yelped, kid stepped back.
“This is the Captain. What’s going on down there?” Frank’s voice came over the battle phone.
Dorriss flew to the compass and checked their heading. The sub was coming about to course 030.
“Got a problem, sir,” he called up to the bridge.
The senior controllerman in the maneuvering room looked up sharply as the motor-order telegraph rang up ALL AHEAD FULL without a command relayed by the talker.
“I didn’t hear an order,” said the junior.
“Go wake Hopalong.”
On the bridge, Hardy was peering at the first column of black smoke through the vanes of the TBT, the Target Bearing Transmitter. “There’s more than one,” he said.
Radar called up, “Second radar contact, sir. Bearing twelve degrees true, zero-eight-two relative. Range, eighty-three hundred yards. Both contacts possible Mam tankers.”
Frank stared off at the horizon and saw more columns of black smoke, one behind another. The convoy was on a southeast heading, spread out flank to flank and staggered. Where were the escorts?
“Captain, this is the conning officer.” It was Dorriss, trying to restrain his excitement. “We’ve changed course; we’re on a heading to intercept the radar contacts, sir.”
They could feel the engines revving up to top speed. Hardy looked back at the stern vanes: They were churning up a wake as long as a football field, froth-white and glistening in the sparse moonlight. The sub was sure to be spotted. They hit a hard trough; the bow shot up out of the water and crashed down the steep side of the wave. Spray shot up over the forward deck. Every rivet strained in vibration as the Candlefish built up surface speed.
Hardy jumped to the phone. “Engine room—what speed are you making down there?”
Cassidy dashed to the maneuvering room in time to see the levers manipulating themselves, then hurried back to his station. He arrived in time for Hardy’s call. He checked the indicators, and his eyes shot open. “Bridge, this is Cassidy. I make it eighteen knots.”
In control, Roybell whirled to the pit log and watched it climb: 18... 19... 19½...
“We’re gonna break the fuckin’ speed records!” he yelled up to the bridge.
Hardy turned to see what Frank had decided. But Frank was standing rooted to the spot, staring at the targets hull-down on the horizon, shielding his eyes from the spray. They were making headway in a worsening sea. In a few moments the contacts would creep into open view—and so would the Candlefish.
“Frank! What are you gonna do?”
Frank didn’t answer. Hardy was suddenly frightened that it might all fall to him. And then the klaxon went off—three resounding blasts.
The lookouts nearly jumped out of their skins.
In the conning tower, the helmsman swore again as the wheel jumped out of his hand. And Dorriss stared up at the bridge and muttered a question: “Dive?”
In the control room, Stigwood instinctively ducked a shoulder as he felt a lever at his side move. When he looked up he saw the diving-plane levers moving free of any guiding hands. He grabbed them and tried to hold them in position.
“Holy shit!” he heard one of the auxiliarymen mutter, and looked around to see other instruments and dials acting independently of any control. Roybell pointed at the Christmas tree as red lights became green, one after another—
Dorriss yelled up the bridge well: “Captain—we’re submerging!”
On the bridge, Hardy wasted no more time waiting for Frank. “Lookout
s below! Clear the bridge!” As the bows went under, he grabbed Ed Frank and shoved him to the hatch.
Frank stumbled and looked up at Hardy in the moonlight. Everything was going wrong. He was supposed to be in control. Instead, he felt a desperate uncertainty.
Frank dropped below and Hardy followed, pulling the lanyard after him. He reached up to dog the hatch—the wheel spun itself.
The lookouts jumped off the control room ladder and relieved Stigwood and Roybell, who were trying to hold the diving planes. One of the lookouts stared in surprise: “Hey! Let it go—don’t you want to go down?”
“Hell no!” yelled Stigwood. “Who hit the diving alarm?”
Roybell looked up at the Christmas tree and called out, “Green board!”
“Jesus!” muttered Stigwood as he saw the main induction valves close.
Frank and Hardy ducked out of the way as the attack scope slid up unassisted. The scope made a slow sweep around the conning tower. Frank moved with it, not knowing whether to grab and take over or just let it... He jumped. Behind him the TDC motors were starting to grind away in the little compartment. The scope had settled on a target. An unheard voice was relaying information to an invisible TDC operator—and the machine was responding.
Frank suddenly found himself clutching the handles of the scope. He was conscious only of the sensation, not sure what he would do next. A voice called- from below, “Periscope depth, Captain. Shit, she’s leveling off. Would you believe it?”
Frank put his eyes to the scope and peered at the infrared image. It was up to 1500x power. The black smoke he had seen before had become a group of Maru tankers—maybe a dozen of them—and now he could see the destroyer escorts coming up on the flanks, plowing through heavy swells.
“It’s the convoy,” he muttered quietly.
Hardy watched him grimly. His eyes moved around the conning tower, waiting for word from the loudspeaker. It came. Vogel’s voice, quivering with fright:
“Captain, this is forward torpedo. We’re all loaded, tubes one through six. Do you want me to—” He couldn’t finish. He choked aloud. And down in the forward torpedo room, Clampett stood hot and sweaty by tube number one, his ear almost on top of the massive brass door. That was how he happened to hear the small click of the arming device switching on. He imagined he heard the gyro and depth mechanisms setting themselves on cue from the Torpedo Data Computer. He hoped he imagined it.
From the side bays a pair of restraining chains rattled irritably. A torpedo stored in the aft end of the center bays dropped onto the skid, freed itself of the chains, and slid all the way down to the loading rack.
Vogel grabbed the battle telephone and buzzed the winning tower.
“What the hell is going on here!” he screamed.
Frank ignored him. He was staring into the scope glass and admiring the perfect lineup on the lead tanker when he heard Hardy’s urgent voice in his ear, whispering, “Steady...”
Clampett slipped and fell into the below-deck loading platform and landed with his head up against the door of tube number six. He saw Vogel race toward the torpedo tubes from the battle phone and stare at the dials and gauges. Then there was the unmistakable whoosh of compressed air as four impulse tanks charged up simultaneously. Another set of snaps as the safety interlocks were tripped.
Frank pressed his forehead grimly into the rubber facepiece of the scope and mouthed the words without uttering a sound. Stand by forward tubes. Fire one and two!
Clampett thought he heard a voice echoing down the forward torpedo room, Fire one and two! He did hear the pfush of escaping air and water and the thump as the two fish left their tubes. The boat shuddered unmistakably. Vogel stumbled back and yelled a protest.
Frank kept his face glued to the periscope, his mouth working silently, urging the torpedoes on. The twin white trails snaked out from the bow and inclined on the correction angle toward the distant targets. The scope jerked around, and his hands went with it. It reset itself, his fingers turning unwillingly on the handles as they deepened the magnification. He glanced at Hardy. The Professor was watching the TDC, following the new information cranking into it.
There were two more loud thumps! The boat shook again.
Another pair of white trails—two more fish off toward the convoy.
The scope handles folded without warning. Frank jumped back. The scope slid down into the well.
The helmsman grunted and then complained, “She’s going left full rudder, sir!”
Frank stared at the greased tube of the periscope shaft. Hardy moved behind him and leaned over the hatchwell.
“Turn up the listening gear!”
“Aye, aye.”
In the sonar cubicle, Nadel twisted up the level knob and pressed his headset tighter. His eyes worked rapidly back and forth as he listened to the rush of faraway screws, the high-speed propellers of the four torpedoes. Nadel was a veteran of twelve years aboard submarines, twelve years as a qualified sonar operator. He let the words come out, shattering the stillness: “Torpedoes running hot, straight, and normal, Skipper.”
No one answered. Not even Frank. Hardy shifted position to be closer to the overhead speaker. Frank stood by the periscope, his eyes closing, concentrating. In the forward engine room, Cassidy strained to hear over the sound of the motors.
A pair of distant thunks! Nadel looked up. Then everyone reacted to the rumble of twin explosions—followed by an eruption of hissing that drowned out the first blast completely.
The tanker must have gone up in a single burst of volcanic ferocity.
Nadel strained to hear the second set of torpedoes. After an eternity, there was another twin pair of thunks, followed by a frenzied detonation, a savage underwater turbulence.
Nadel ripped off his headset and stared at the officers. “Christ Almighty—four fucking hits!”
In the conning tower, Frank turned a dazed look on Jack Hardy and asked, “What next?”
“Go deep. Find a thermal layer. You’re about to be depth-charged.”
The sub had already changed course, ninety degrees to port, so Frank ordered a hard dive to two hundred feet and all ahead full.
The boat responded to the crew.
The helmsman clutched his wheel tightly and refused Frank’s offer to have him relieved. “I’ve got her back, sir. It’s okay now, I’ve got her back.”
Nadel called up to the conning tower, “High-speed screws approaching, starboard ninety degrees relative. Possible... hell, definite destroyer!”
Hardy suggested silent running.
Frank rebutted, “Let’s make speed for a few minutes. We can always—”
Hardy grabbed him fiercely. “Do it my way, damn-it!”
They heard Nadel calling: “She’s coming fast! I make her about twenty-eight knots!”
Frank pulled free and ordered, “All engines stop! Rig for silent running!”
The talker, Colby, passed the word on the battle telephone. In a moment the sub was shut down and holding at 250 feet.
“Picking up splashes,” muttered Nadel. Frank came down the ladder quickly and stood by him. “Depth charges coming down, sir.”
They heard the first explosion over the speaker. First the destroyer’s propellers approaching, then a click as the charge armed, then a body-jarring concussion as the blast wave reached the sub and rolled her to starboard, then the rush of water filling the empty space where the burst had gone off.
There was no damage on the first charge.
On the second blast the sounds came closer together. Some of the older hands looked up anxiously; they knew the destroyer was closing in.
In the control room, Frank clutched the plotting table and stared straight ahead. Hardy came tumbling down the ladder as the third blast went off somewhere south of them—closer yet. Light bulbs shattered; a big chunk of paint popped off the after bulkhead. One of pie auxiliarymen let out a yell and grabbed his neck.
“You okay?” barked Stigwood.
&nb
sp; “Yeah. Whiplash.”
“So get the license number,” growled Roybell.
A car smackup—that was precisely the feeling of the fourth blast It was so close that all the sounds blended into one horrible bang that seemed to lift the boat vertically by the stern.
Hardy jumped to the battle, telephone and called: “Aft torpedo—report damage!”
“No damage here, sir. All sec—”
The fifth blast was just off the starboard beam. They felt it hardest in the control room. Frank was thrown against Roybell. The planesmen fell on their instruments, and the submarine began to lose depth control. Stigwood jumped to take their place, but one of the planesmen got to his feet and said quietly, “Lemme at it, sir.”
His powerful arms moved in and eased the lever back into place. The only complaint came from the cook, who announced that dinner had just been served—to the deck.
“It’s a lucky thing I swabbed it, then!” bellowed Dankworth over the line from his battle station.
The laughter that shook the boat was drowned out by the sixth blast, the worst of all. Off the port quarter, it rumbled through the forward torpedo room. Vogel thought he heard a chain snap. He pulled all his men to the tubes and ordered the watertight door shut. Then he explored for damage.
The next blast lifted the main induction valve and knocked out the lights in the control room. Nadel screeched something about water in his shoes. When they switched on the emergency lights, Hardy saw several bolts loose on the deck, but couldn’t see where the water was coming from. Frank ordered the hatches shut, the compartment secured. Hardy stood up straight and concentrated until it came to him: “The flood valve!”
Stigwood checked it and found the leak. Within two minutes it was fixed.
The crew thought they were safe now; the destroyer had made its pass, and that should have been the end of it. They were sweltering in the heat building up from the lack of air conditioning, and everyone wanted to get back to normal.
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