Silent Sea (The Silent War Book 2)

by Harry Homewood

  “About four fifty, five hundred miles farther.”

  Gold closed his eyes, thinking. “No sweat, sir. Provided we don’t do any more of that four-engine-make-turns-for-maxspeed stuff. I heard once that Flying Fish, early in the war, had to come home burning lube oil instead of diesel because they ran out of diesel oil. Rather not do that. Gets kind of hairy when you have to start thinking about running the engine-room bilges through the fuel strainers.”

  Lieutenant Gold had the periscope watch as the Eelfish slogged its way southward down the west coast of Borneo. He squinted through the lens and picked up the pencil-thin masts of ships almost dead ahead on the horizon, a little before two o’clock in the afternoon watch. Mike Brannon came to the Conning Tower and searched the horizon ahead of the Eelfish.

  “You must have eyes like an eagle,” Brannon grumbled. “I can’t see anything out there. You sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gold said. “May I?” Brannon stepped to one side and Gold took another bearing through the periscope. He stepped back. Brannon looked and saw two tiny lines sticking up above the horizon.

  “Damn it, you’re right,” he said. “Sound General Quarters.” Gold punched the button, and the clanging of the alarm sent the crew of Eelfish racing to their Battle Stations. Two minutes later Olsen called up the hatch.

  “We’re due west of a place called Kota Kinabula, sir. Chart shows thirty-one fathoms of water, sir.”

  “We can risk a fathometer reading. They’re still a long, long way away. Gold has got eyes like I never saw.” He heard the muted ping of the fathometer’s sonar beam lancing down through the water to hit the bottom and return.

  “Twenty-eight fathoms under the keel, sir,” Olsen called up the hatch. “Are they close enough to get a bearing, sir?”

  “Not yet,” Brannon said. “Another three minutes.” He stood, waiting, his plump face impassive. He bent toward the hatch to the Control Room.

  “John, if I remember the chart, there’s deep water to the west, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, sir. Plenty of deep water, real deep. We’re a few miles east of the edge of the deep water, sir.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. “We’ll take a look, now.”

  “I’ve got two destroyers, moving pretty fast,” Brannon said. “Back of them there’s a pretty big ship, looks like a tanker. There’s some smoke back of that ship. Might be another tin can back there.” He moved the periscope a trifle.

  “Mark!”

  “Bearing is three four zero,” Brosmer said, and Arbuckle cranked the information into the TDC.

  “Range is five thousand yards to the first destroyer,” Brannon said. He watched the ships coming closer.

  “Can you give me another bearing and range?” Olsen asked.

  Brannon complied, and Olsen called up the hatch.

  “They’re making fifteen knots, sir. Closing at the rate of about four hundred fifty yards a minute. Suggest we come left to course one zero zero, sir. If you want to, you can let the tin cans pass and take the tanker, sir.”

  “Come left to course one zero zero,” Brannon ordered. “I’ll take the tanker, John. He’s a good big one. He bears ... Mark! Range is now four nine zero zero yards on the tanker. Forty-nine hundred yards.”

  “We’ll have a solution in six minutes, sir,” Arbuckle said, “assuming a shooting range of under two thousand yards.”

  “I think we can live with that,” Brannon said. “As long as his helpers don’t bother us we’ll shoot a spread of three at the tanker.”

  “Recommend you make turns for two-thirds speed, sir,” Olsen sang out. “He’s going a little faster than we figured.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. He put his eye to the lens of the periscope.

  “Mark! Lead destroyer bears zero four one. Range to the lead destroyer is two eight zero zero. Down periscope.” He looked at his wrist watch and waited, watching the second hand on the watch hitch around the dial twice.

  “Up periscope. Stand by. Here he comes. Nice big, fat oil tanker. I’ll give you a bearing on the second destroyer. ... Mark! Bearing on that closest destroyer is three five zero. Range is seventeen hundred yards.” He swung the periscope a few degrees to the right.

  “Here’s our boy ... stand by for a shooting run . Mark!” Brosmer snapped out the bearing.

  “Range is fourteen hundred yards ... angle on the bow is zero six zero port ...”

  “Solution, sir!” Arbuckle said.

  “Stand by forward ...” Brannon’s shoulder muscles were bunching beneath his thin khaki shirt as he watched the heavy tanker move toward him.

  “Fire one!” He counted down from six to one.

  “Fire two!”

  “Fire three!” He swung the periscope, looking at the closest destroyer. He swung the periscope back and saw a gush of flame at the tanker’s midsection, and then the whole of the ship was sheathed in spouting columns of flame.

  “Good God! He’s on fire from stem to stern! Right full rudder.” He strained at the periscope, turning it as the Eelfish turned, watching the destroyers.

  “Fast screws bearing one eight zero, sir,” Paul Blake called out.

  “Close torpedo-tube outer doors,” Brannon snapped. “Take me down to one hundred and fifty feet. Watch the damned depth. We haven’t got that much water under us.”

  He stood in the Conning Tower listening to the distant drumming of the destroyers grow louder, the sound penetrating the hull of the submarine.

  “They’re coming too fast to hear anything, John,” he called down the hatch. “Give me a fathometer reading. One ping only.”

  He waited, and then he heard John Olsen say, “Five fathoms under the keel, sir.” He chewed his lower lip with his upper teeth for a minute.

  “I’ve got a third set of fast screws, sir,” Blake said. “Bears zero four zero, sir.” Brannon nodded and looked at the compass repeater.

  “Rudder amidships. Rig for depth charge. Rig for silent running. Make turns for dead slow. Plot, give me a position and a heading to deep water.”

  “Course to deep water would be two six zero, sir, that’s the closest one. Edge of the shelf is four miles away.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. At one-third speed it would take the Eelfish almost two hours to reach deep water. At dead slow, a lot longer. He jerked his head up as a sharp noise rang through the Conning Tower.

  “He’s pinging on us sir.” Blake’s voice was almost apologetic. Brannon nodded and went down the ladder to the Control Room. He looked at the plot.

  “We’re going to pay for that tanker,” he said softly. “Not enough water here, damn it. But the target was too good to pass up. So now we pay.”

  “For that and I guess for everything that happened in Leyte Gulf,” Olsen said in a mournful voice. Both men’s eyes turned upward to the Conning Tower hatch as Paul Blake’s voice sounded.

  “Two sets of fast screws bearing two seven zero and two eight zero and picking up speed, sir. This sounds like an attack run!

  “Very well,” Brannon said. The thunder of the destroyer screws grew louder, and then the people in the Eelfish heard the sharp, distinctive crack of depth-charge exploder mechanisms going off, to be followed by the thunderous explosions of the depth charges. The Eelfish reeled sideways to port and then rolled back to starboard as light bulbs and gauge glasses throughout the ship broke. Four more depth charges went off, and the submarine twisted, its hull groaning in the vortex of water.

  “Forward Engine Room’s taking water through broken welds on the outboard exhaust lines, sir,” the telephone talker said. “The Chief back there says it isn’t serious. Yet.”

  “Here they come again,” Blake called out, and the thunder of the destroyer screws up above filled the inside of the Eelfish. A half-dozen depth charges went off in crashing explosions, shaking the Eelfish heavily.

  “Watch your depth, damn it!” Jerry Gold’s harsh order brought Brannon’s head around. The depth gauge needles showed 200 feet as John
LaMark wrestled his big brass wheel around in an effort to bring up the submarine’s bow.

  “Couldn’t help it,” the Gunner’s Mate gasped. “Damned depth charge must have gone off right above the bow. Drove her nose right down.”

  “Damage reports,” Brannon ordered. The telephone talker raised his head and looked at Captain Brannon.

  “Forward Room reports a real bad leak around the capstan gear, sir. Petreshock says he’s trying to stop it, but they’re takin’ some water. Forward Engine Room reports the leak around the exhaust lines isn’t doing too much. No other damage reports, sir.

  “Keep me advised of that leak in the Forward Room,” Brannon said. “Jerry, keep in mind they’re taking water up there.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Gold said.

  “I’ve got twin screws bearing zero one zero and running across our bow, Control,” Blake called out. “I’ve got two sets of screws aft bearing one seven zero and one nine two. Target up ahead is pinging.” Brannon nodded. He didn’t need to be told the destroyer up ahead was pinging. The loud ringing noise echoed through the Eelfish in a constant, nagging vibration.

  “Screws aft picking up speed,” Blake called out. “This is an attack run, Control!”

  The two destroyers raced toward the spot on the ocean beneath which they knew Eelfish was hiding. As they approached the area the gunners on the squat fantails released one depth charge after another, and the Y-guns amidships boomed as they threw depth charges out to the side to tumble through the air and then sink downward until they reached the depth where the sea pressure would overcome the spring tension cranked against the diaphragms of the exploders and fire the depth charges.

  The Eelfish was smashed downward by the first two depth charges. There was a loud crunching noise that reverberated throughout the ship, and Brannon heard Jerry Gold curse. He whirled and saw the long black needle of one depth gauge standing at 220 feet. Another half-dozen charges went off with a tremendous roar, and cork from the hull insulation rained down over the people in the Control Room. Jerry Gold cried out in agony and Brannon saw him hopping on one leg, his face distorted with pain.

  “Damned ladder like to broke my shin!” Gold moaned. Brannon looked and saw that the Conning Tower ladder was swaying, its bottom rivets snapped by the sudden bulging inward of the Eelfish’s hull.

  “Forward Room is reporting we hit something, Captain,” the telephone talker said.

  “Our bow is stuck in the damned bottom! That’s what we hit!” Brannon snapped. “All stop! Get me a damage report as quick as you can.” He looked at the depth gauge. It now read 230 feet.

  “Forward Room reports water still coming in around the capstan shaft. They’ve got a foot of water in front of the tubes. After Battery reports leaks around the sea valves for blowing the heads to sea. They’re working on that. Both Engine Rooms report all exhaust welds are busted and taking some water.”

  Brannon lifted the soggy towel that hung around his neck and wiped his face. He stared at the plot.

  “So damned near to deep water,” he muttered. He looked over at the Machinist’s Mate on the blow manifolds.

  “Next time they make a run and drop on us,” he said, “I want you to hit the after main ballast tanks with a high-pressure blow, hold it for ten seconds, and then hit bow buoyancy with high-pressure air for five seconds.” He turned to Chief Flanagan. “Keep your eye on me as we blow. When I drop my hand I want all-astern rung up, all-astern full. Tell maneuvering to stand by to shut down power the minute I signal you.” He turned to Jerry Gold.

  “I’m going to try to jolt her off the bottom, Jerry. I don’t want to go up more than twenty, thirty feet if I can help it.” He looked upward, the sweat dripping off his chin, as the noise of the pinging echoed through the ship.

  “I don’t get anything out of the regular sound heads, Control,” Paul Blake called down. “But I’m getting some readings through the topside JP sound head.”

  Brannon chewed his lower lip for a second. The topside JP sound gear, a small horizontal bar mounted on a shaft, was not nearly as sensitive as the two big sound heads that were lowered beneath the ship’s forward keel. Those sound heads, he reasoned, were either broken off or buried in the bottom.

  The thunder of the destroyer screws hammered through the submarine’s thin hull, and Brannon craned his neck upward, waiting for the shattering explosions he knew would come. The first two charges exploded with a massive roar.

  “Hit it!” Brannon yelled at the Machinist’s Mate. The high-pressure air roared into the after main ballast tanks, and the Eelfish lurched upward a few feet.

  “All astern! Hit bow buoyancy!” Brannon barked. The Eelfish lurched backward, its bow beginning to rise.

  “Belay the blow! All stop! Gold, how does it feel?”

  “Under control, Captain,” Jerry Gold said.

  “All ahead dead slow. Two hundred feet,” Brannon ordered. The Eelfish, freed of the grip of the bottom, moved slowly upward, the men on the bow planes gasping for air in the oxygen-depleted atmosphere of the submarine.

  “Two hundred feet, sir,” Gold reported.

  “Sonar,” Brannon said. “Can you hear anything at all through the regular sound heads?”

  “Negative, sir,” Blake answered.

  “Probably wiped them out on the bottom,” Brannon said. He stood, staring at the plotting board, wishing that Captain Mealey were standing there with him. What would Mealey do with no sound heads to get accurate bearings on the enemy above? What sort of maneuvering would he go through without ears to hear? He squared his shoulders and wiped his face with the sodden towel.

  “Keep me on this course to deep water,” he said to Olsen. “We can’t risk going down on the bottom and staying there. We’re too easy to find. How much farther have we got to run?”

  Olsen measured with the dividers. “Little less than a mile, sir.

  The destroyer captains recognized Brannon’s strategy at once. Once the submarine was beyond the shallow shelf that ran along the west coast of Borneo it would be in very deep water, free to maneuver as it could not in the shallower water over the shelf. The navigator on the destroyer carrying the flag for the small convoy bent over his plotting board and looked at his chart.

  “He’s getting close, sir,” he said tonelessly.

  The destroyer captain, a small, thin man whose face still showed the shock of seeing his treasured oil tanker go skyward in a series of tremendous explosions, touched the chart with his finger.

  “Once he is there we lose him. That paragon of virtue of a supply officer with his talk of water less than two hundred feet along the coastline! So he emptied his warehouses of all the old depth charges he had, charges that cannot be exploded below two hundred feet because they have the old exploder mechanisms! Continual attack! Continual attack!”

  Eelfish twisted and turned, its hull racked and wrenched in a seemingly endless series of depth charges as it fought its way slowly toward the deeper water. The temperature in the Control Room had long ago passed 110 degrees. The humidity stood at 100 percent, the air saturated with moisture. The crew, gasping for oxygen in the foul air, struggled with the job of stopping leaks, working in the dim light of the battle lanterns.

  “If those bastards up there don’t get tired of loading depth charges pretty soon, we ain’t gonna make it,” Jim Rice grunted as he tried to tighten the packing gland around the capstan shaft, his beard dripping salt water from the leaky shaft.

  “We’ll make it,” Petreshock said grimly. “Telephone talker says the Old Man is trying to get to deep water. The talker said we had about ten, fifteen minutes to go.” He winced as a stream of salt water sprayed into his eyes as he relieved Rice on the wrench.

  A string of depth charges exploded above the Eelfish, and John Olsen went to his knees at the gyro table with the shock. He struggled to his feet, hearing Brannon order a fathometer reading.

  “Three hundred fathoms, sir,” the Chief of the Boat said.

  �
�Make depth four hundred feet,” Brannon ordered, his voice soft. Eelfish planed downward, and in the compartments where there were leaks the crewmen fought harder to stem the incoming water as the pressure outside the ship’s hull increased steadily.

  “Four hundred feet, sir,” Jerry Gold gasped. He was hanging on to the ladder to the Conning Tower, fighting for breath. He raised his head as the steady ringing sound of the destroyer’s searching sonar beams echoed through the ship. Gold braced himself for the depth charges.

  The pinging continued for long minutes but no depth charges were dropped.

  “You suppose he emptied his depth-charge lockers?” Olsen said.

  “No,” Brannon said. He walked to the Conning Tower ladder, realizing suddenly how deadly tired he was.

  “Chief,” he called up to Booth, “how many charges did you count?”

  “Seventy-one, sir.”

  Brannon looked at Olsen. “Seventy-one. Each destroyer carries at least forty charges, that’s what we’ve been told. Forty times three is one hundred and twenty. They’ve got plenty left. I wonder why in the hell they didn’t drop?” He listened, realizing how utterly silent the ship was.

  “They aren’t pinging anymore.” He chewed his lower lip reflectively. “I wonder what sort of a trap that son of a bitch up there is setting for us. Whatever it is I’m not falling for it.” He looked at his watch, turning his wrist so that the radium face caught the dim rays of the battery-powered battle lantern.

  “Nineteen hundred hours, almost. Dark in another hour or less. I’m going to stay on this course for another thirty minutes. If they don’t ping on us again we’ll increase speed and see if that brings them to us.” He looked at the men on the bow and stern planes and at the helmsman.

  “Stay with it, fellas, just a little longer.”

  John LaMark on the bow planes turned a sweating face toward Mike Brannon.

  “Hell, Captain, we can take this all the rest of the night. Just a nice workout.” Brannon looked at the man’s heaving chest, the soaking wet khaki shorts, and the puddles of sweat on the leather seat where the planesmen sat when they were using the ship’s hydraulic power to tilt the bow and stern planes.