“Sir,” Olsen said. “If I may, sir, an observation.”
“Go ahead,” Mealey said.
“At this speed we’re running away from the targets, sir. We’re on a course that will take us into their base course, but I don’t think they’re making more than fifteen knots, sir. We’re opening the range. Recommend we slow to ten knots on this course. Let the task force come closer to us. Intersect time should be a little under two hours, sir.”
“Very well,” Mealey said. “Make turns for ten knots. We’ll take another radar sweep when your plot shows the targets to be within fourteen thousand yards.” He turned to Mike Brannon.
“They’re coming to us, Mike. They’re coming right to us!”
The minutes crept by slowly as Eelfish headed away from the coast toward a spot on the dark sea where it would intersect its course with that of the task force. Overhead a pale quarter moon blinked through the low, scudding clouds that had blown in from the east. Mealey studied the sky.
“I hope it rains,” he said to Mike Brannon. “Rain would give us a big advantage.” He looked at the dial of his wrist watch and then began to study the horizon through his night binoculars.
“Bridge,” Olsen’s voice came over the speaker. “Radar requests permission to make a sweep. We should have the task force well within accurate radar range by now.”
“Permission granted,” Mealey answered.
“Contact bears two zero five, repeat two zero five. Range is one two zero zero zero yards. Repeat. Twelve thousand yards. Target course is one four one. Repeat. One four one. Target speed is one four knots. Repeat. Fourteen knots, Bridge.”
“Very well,” Mealey said. He turned to Jerry Gold. “We’ll maintain the topside watch for a little while. When we reach our attack position we’ll secure the lookouts and the bridge watch. Please notify the galley to serve coffee now.” He turned to Mike Brannon.
“Let’s go below and look at the plot.” Brannon followed him down the hatch to the Conning Tower where Perry Arbuckle was standing with Bill Brosmer, the Quartermaster.
“When do you give the downbeat for the music to begin, Captain?” Arbuckle said to Mealey.
“I’d say two hours, little less. Stand easy. If you want coffee get it now. Send the cups back below when you’re through. I don’t want anything adrift in this Conning Tower when we go into action.” He went down the ladder to the Control Room. Brosmer turned to Lieutenant Arbuckle.
“That old S.O.B. doesn’t forget anything, does he? Send the coffee cups below so nothing will be adrift.”
“He’s all Navy,” Arbuckle said in a low voice. “And that might not be a bad thing on this night.”
Standing in the small bridge space Jerry Gold put his binoculars to his eyes and began a 360-degree search of the horizon. Eelfish was running out to sea now, away from the bulk of the mountains on Mindoro. He could see flickering pinpoints of light in the lowlands. The lookouts had reported those lights earlier, and Captain Mealey had decided they were the lights of cooking fires. Someone over there on the land, Gold mused, was living in complete ignorance of the fact that in a matter of two hours or so a battle would be joined within miles of them. A battle in which men would die. Some in the searing blasts of torpedo explosions, others more slowly in the dark waters where they would drown or be torn to bits by sharks. Better you should be a dentist in Chicago, Gold, he said to himself. Copping feels off patients who hope you will do just that when they’re stretched out in the chair.
In the Control Room Captain Mealey studied the plot and the chart. He picked up a pencil.
“We’ll take position here, a little west of where we had originally planned. I want to hit them while they’re still close enough to that narrow gut between Mindoro and Luzon so they won’t think about reversing course and heading back the way they came. It would take damned good seamanship to try that at night while they’re under attack, and they should figure that there’s another submarine in back of them waiting for them to do something like that.” He looked at the chart.
“I reason that when we start shooting and then get in among the convoy the ships will break out of their formation. The instinct of men under attack is to move in another direction. In this case I think they’ll move forward, and they’ll also veer north and south. That should put them in line with Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub.”
Mike Brannon studied the chart. “Sir,” he said. “We are going to be west of where we had intended to be, and that puts Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub farther east of us than before. Do you think we should move them in a little, say two or three miles?”
Mealey looked at the chart a moment and then nodded his head. He turned to Jim Michaels.
“Are we close enough together for voice communication?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Mauler One and Mauler Two to shift position. Mr. Olsen will give you the exact coordinates.” He waited until Olsen had worked out the precise positions and given them to Michaels.
“How long until the music begins, John?” Mealey asked. Olsen worked at his plotting board.
“We’ll be on station in thirty minutes, sir. The task force should be on our port bow at that time, moving to cross ahead of our bow about ten minutes after we are on station.”
“Inform Mauler One and Mauler Two that the music will begin in forty minutes,” Mealey said to Michaels. “Tell them that once the music begins there will be dancing and we’ll ask them to the ball.” He leaned down and picked up the canvas bag that held the two steel helmets he had brought aboard. He gave one to Mike Brannon. He fitted the other on his head and buckled the chin strap. He went to the ladder and began to climb to the bridge, followed by Mike Brannon.
“Clear the bridge, Mr. Gold,” Mealey ordered. He waited until only he and Brannon stood in the bridge, and then he bent to the bridge transmitter.
“Sound General Quarters!”
Eelfish waited.
CHAPTER 16
Mike Brannon, standing on the port side of the bridge, turned to speak to Captain Mealey and saw that the older man was standing head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. He lifted his head and raised his binoculars to his eyes.
“Captain Brannon, take the After TBT, please. As soon as the radar gives us the disposition of the task force we can plan how we’ll go in among them.” He bent to the bridge speaker.
“Radar check, Control.”
“Bearing on the biggest target is three five five. Repeat. Three five five. Here is the disposition as we see it, sir.
“There are two smaller pips one thousand yards in front of the mass of ships, sir. We take those to be destroyers sweeping out ahead.
“One thousand yards astern of those two contacts there is a very large pip. Very large. We take that to be the aircraft carrier. Then we have two more ships abreast, one thousand yards astern of the large pip. Two more ships back of those two, range about seven hundred fifty yards aft of the first two.
“There are three other ships back of those five and they are maneuvering. Mr. Olsen assumes they are forming up after coming out of that narrow gut. Far back of this mass of ships there is one large pip. Mr. Olsen assumes this to be the cruiser.
“There is one small pip on the starboard after quarter of the convoy. We assume that to be a destroyer. Range to that destroyer is five zero zero zero yards. Repeat. Five thousand yards.
“Range to the largest ship in the task force is two zero zero zero yards. Repeat. Two thousand yards, sir. Bearing on that ship is three five seven. Repeat. Three five seven. On the far side of the task force there are several small pips maneuvering. Assume these to be destroyers, sir.”
“Open all torpedo-tube outer doors,” Mealey said. “Set depth all torpedoes four feet. Repeat. Four feet. Light off numbers three and four diesels. Make the following message to Maulers One and Two.
“Mealey is mauling!”
The word came up from below. All torpedo-tube outer doors open. Depth set all torpedoes four f
eet. Making turns for full speed.
“All ahead flank! Stand by to shoot at the largest target. We have him in plain sight. That’s a carrier, by God!”
Eelfish shuddered as Chief Ed Morris threw all the power generated by the four big diesel engines into the generators that drove the big electric motors. In the Forward Torpedo Room Steve Petreshock eased between the two banks of torpedo tubes, his hand hovering over the safety bar for Number One tube’s firing key.
“Olsen, start the problem on that big target,” Mealey rasped. John Olsen flicked the focus handle on the battle periscope and steadied the periscope on the target. Brosmer sang out the bearing to Arbuckle. John Wilkes Booth, the Chief Yeoman, settled himself on his stool next to Paul Blake, at the sonar, and prepared to take down in his notebook every word that was said.
“Request desired shooting range, Bridge,” Arbuckle called out.
“One thousand yards,” Mealey answered. “The escort back on the task force starboard beam still hasn’t seen us. Angle on the bow of the first target is zero six zero, starboard. Here we go!” He stood in the center of the small bridge, his fierce eyes glaring at the dark bulk of the aircraft carrier that was sharp on his port bow.
“Range to the first target is now eleven hundred yards, Bridge.” Michaels’s voice floated up to the bridge. In the Conning Tower Arbuckle cranked in the range on the TDC. He spoke softly into the battle telephone that hung around his neck. “Stand by forward ...”
“You have a shooting solution, Bridge,” Arbuckle sang out.
“Fire one!” Captain Mealey yelled. He felt the thumping jolt in his legs and feet as a fist of compressed air and water hurled the 3,000-pound torpedo in Number One tube down the length of the tube, its steam engines screaming into life as it passed through the tube. Mealey counted down from six to one
“Fire two!” He felt the second torpedo leave.
“Fire three! Begin the reload forward!”
“All torpedoes running hot, straight, and normal, Bridge,” Paul Blake called out from the Conning Tower.
A booming roar echoed across the surface of the water, and then another explosion shattered the night. Mealey saw two orange and red explosions against the dark bulk of the target. A siren began to wail in the night.
“Two hits!” Mealey yelled. “Two hits in the first target!”
Brannon’s voice came from the after end of the cigaret deck. “Escort on our port quarter has a bone in its teeth. He’s seen us!”
“Very well,” Mealey said. “Left fifteen degrees rudder.” Eelfish heeled over into the turn, its bow swinging away from the stricken aircraft carrier. Mealey glanced briefly at the target and saw a huge explosion of flame gush out of the carrier’s midsection.
“Meet your helm right there!” Mealey yelled. “Steady on that heading, Plot. Next target is the ship on my port hand. Angle on the bow is twenty port. Target is beginning a turn away. Make that angle on the bow thirty port. Give me a solution!” He heard Olsen’s voice calling out the bearing and Michaels giving the range.
“Solution!” Arbuckle yelled.
“Fire four!” Mealey counted down carefully, watching the ship out to starboard beginning to turn away from him.
“Fire five!”
“We’re getting company.” Michaels’s voice over the bridge speaker was calmer than it had been. “The escort vessels out ahead of the task force are now coming this way.”
“Fire six!” Mealey roared.
“Torpedoes running hot, straight, and normal,” Blake reported. On the cigaret deck aft of the bridge Mike Brannon crouched over the TBT, lining up the pointer on the TBT with a destroyer that was plunging toward them.
“Escort astern is coming up on us fast,” he yelled.
“Right ten degrees rudder,” Mealey ordered. He saw a sudden blossom of flame near the second target’s bow and heard the roar of the explosion. Another burst of flame in the midships section of the target lit up the sky.
“Two hits in the second target!” Mealey yelled. “Reverse your helm! Steady on this heading. All ahead flank! Maneuvering, give me every turn you can.”
He stood in the small bridge space, his hands gripping the teak rail, his seaman’s eyes judging the speed of the escort that was swinging into a wide turn around the bow of the sinking ship he had hit in the second attack. He looked at his second target. He could see hundreds of men leaping from the decks into the water. “Troop transport,” he said to himself. He raised his voice.
“Brannon! Set up on that escort when he’s broadside, before he makes his turn to come down on us. Conning Tower, give Captain Brannon some help!”
Eelfish raced down the side of the sinking troop transport as the escort vessel swung wide of the bow of the troop transport. Mealey heard Brannon’s voice giving the Conning Tower the angle on the bow of the destroyer, heard him yell,
“Fire eight!
“Fire nine! Begin reload aft!”
Mealey forced himself to look away from the action astern. He searched the dark sea ahead of him, looking for his next target. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of a torpedo exploding against a ship and heard Brannon’s exultant cry.
“Hit! The destroyer is down by the bow! He’s sinking!”
In the Forward Torpedo Room the incredibly intricate choreography of a reload had begun as soon as the first torpedo had been fired at the aircraft carrier. Petreshock whirled the big Y-wrench that was used to open and close the outer torpedo tube door and shutter in a spinning arc as he closed the outer door to Number One tube. As the door slammed shut he tossed the wrench to a member of the reload crew, who put it in an upper bunk. Petreshock opened the drain valves for the tube and twisted an air valve to put pressure into the tube to blow the water in the tube down into the WRT, the Water ‘Round Torpedo tank. He counted to himself, listening with one ear to the flow of orders the telephone talker was hearing and repeating aloud. He closed the air valve and vented off the pressure in the tube, and a reload member gave him a wrench. He slammed the wrench on the stud that turned the locking bayonet joint on the inner door and heaved on the wrench. The door came open with a jolt and a stream of water poured out into the room. Petreshock struggled through the water pouring out of the tube and ducked down as the reload crew, hauling mightily on a block and tackle, began to move the reload torpedo into the tube. As he crouched below the moving torpedo Petreshock opened an air valve to recharge the impulse firing tank for the tube. He raised a hand as the tail of the torpedo cleared the forward end of the roller stand. The reload crew stopped hauling and Petreshock threw off the block and tackle and began to push the torpedo the final few inches into the tube, easing it in until he felt the guide stud on top of the torpedo come up against the stop bolt in the tube. He yanked the brass propeller guard off the torpedo’s screws and tossed it up into a bunk, then closed the door and carefully adjusted the tail buffer to make sure the torpedo was held firmly in the tube. He opened the tube vent, stooped and closed the air valve to the impulse tanks, and began to open the outer tube door. In between the tube banks Jim Rice carefully engaged the gyro spindle, engaged the depth spindle and set the depth at four feet, and disengaged the depth spindle.
“Report Number One tube reloaded, depth set four feet. Gyro spindle engaged. Outer door open.” He ducked back between the tubes to avoid being hit by the Y-wrench Petreshock was spinning as he closed the outer door to the Number Two tube.
“Right ten degrees rudder,” Mealey roared. Eelfish was twisting and turning in the midst of the task force. Ahead of him Mealey could see the dark bulk of ships moving in different directions. From one of the ships rockets were being fired to explode far overhead, bathing the ocean in an eerie red light.
“Reload completed on Number Two tube. You have Number One and Two tubes forward ready to shoot.” Flanagan’s voice over the bridge speaker was calm.
“Next target bears zero eight zero. Meet your helm right there,” Mealey yelled. He looked around swiftly. A
stern he could see the bulk of the first target, lit now by a roaring column of flame that seemed to reach hundreds of feet into the air. On his port quarter the second target was down by the bow, sinking, its whistle bellowing hoarsely to indicate the ship’s plight. The destroyer Mike Brannon had hit was gone, nowhere in sight.
“I’ve got three fast ships coming at us from ahead, four from our starboard bow,” Michaels’s voice came over the speaker.
“Reload on Three and Four completed, Bridge. Reload on Seven and Eight completed.” Flanagan reported.
“Very well,” Mealey said. Ahead of him to starboard he saw the long outline of an oil tanker.
“Come right five degrees, Helm,” he yelled. “Next target is the ship bearing dead ahead and moving to our starboard bow.”
“Bearing is zero zero nine,” Olsen yelled from the battle periscope. “Range is nine hundred yards.”
“Angle on the bow is one one zero starboard,” Mealey called out.
“Solution!” Arbuckle yelled.
“Fire three!
“Fire four!” Mealey looked around quickly. He could see the closest of the four ships Michaels had reported coming at the Eelfish, a destroyer, its bow wave curling high and white in the moonlight. He turned and looked astern. In the light from the burning aircraft carrier he could see three ships coming at him, all destroyers. He turned back and saw a huge explosion of flame in the tanker.
“Hit!” he screamed. “Ten degrees right rudder. Pour on all the coal we’ve got, Maneuvering!
“Michaels. Call up Maulers One and Two. Invite them to the dance at all possible speed.” Eelfish was swinging to the right, running toward the burning tanker. Mealey looked at the closest destroyer, gauging the distance between the destroyer and the burning tanker.
“Meet your helm right there. Give me more speed, damn it!” he yelled down the hatch. “More speed or we’re going to be rammed!” He ducked instinctively as a shell from the onrushing destroyer screamed above the periscope shears.
Silent Sea (The Silent War Book 2) Page 21