Battle Stations: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 3)

by Craig DiLouie

  Not for China, not for Pacific dominance, not for resources. For home.

  To Charlie, this wasn’t just a story. It was all that mattered.

  Yellow light flickered near the horizon. The spark flared into a pulsing ball of light. The light winked out.

  “Conn, Bridge,” he said into the bridge microphone. His heart pounded against his ribs. “Explosion, oh-seven-oh on the starboard quarter.”

  Redhorse had found a target.

  Give ’em hell, he thought.

  He counted the seconds. At eighty-eight, the muted boom rolled across the water. Sound carried about 1,100 feet per second. He estimated the explosion happened twenty miles away.

  Liebold emerged from the hatch. “Flash message from Redhorse.”

  “Well, what’s the word? What’d she hit?”

  He handed Charlie the sheet of paper. “Look at this.”

  Charlie clicked on a flashlight fitted with a red filter. The message read:

  FOR RAIDERS X CONTACT REPORT X JAP SUBM

  Submarine? Rickard had tangled with the enemy submarine!

  “Where’s the rest of it?” he asked.

  Liebold said, “That’s it. That’s all we got.”

  “Wait,” Charlie murmured, trying to deny it.

  The ball of light …

  “The message cut off just before you called down about the explosion.”

  The message. Sent by a dead man. Like a warning from a ghost.

  He reached for the gunwale. Steadied himself as his world suddenly shrank. He looked across the black waters of the Sea of Japan.

  Somewhere out there, Captain Frank Rickard and the crew of the Redhorse tumbled to the bottom of the sea. Their final resting place, far from home.

  Sandtiger was on her own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE INVISIBLE ENEMY

  The captain retired to his stateroom to study his Bible. The conning tower fell silent. The sailors sagged at their stations in the gloomy atmosphere.

  Charlie said, “Helm, how does she head?”

  “Oh-four-five, Mr. Harrison. We’ll zig to three-one-five in four minutes.”

  “Very well.”

  Sandtiger raced north on all mains, hoping to distance the Japanese submarine. She zigzagged as a protection against torpedo attack. For all Charlie knew, multiple submarines had closed in after the destruction of the troopships. The Sea of Japan might be filled with lurking submarines.

  Now he understood how Japanese merchants felt as they darted from port to port on a prayer. To them, the invisible undersea enemy was nowhere and everywhere.

  The Japanese submarine had zeroed in on Redhorse’s radar pulses and made her kill. Redhorse spotted her, but it was too late. Rickard and his crew didn’t know it at the time, but they were already dead.

  Charlie pictured the lookouts calling out the incoming torpedo wakes: “Torpedoes to starboard!” Undulation in the sea. The grating bleat of the collision alarm. Rickard snapping, “All ahead flank! Rig for collision!” A hail-Mary attempt to outrun the torpedo’s track. The boat trembling with power. The crew in the conning tower gazing dully at their instruments, knowing they were about to die. The radioman starting his flash message to warn the wolf pack.

  How long to impact? Twenty seconds? Fifteen? Ten?

  What was Rickard thinking in those last moments?

  “Sugar Jig, secure the radar,” Charlie said.

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison,” the radarman responded.

  He pictured the enemy boat rising in the water. Her decks awash, just high enough to do a radar sweep. Torpedoes on standby. Rickard had a demanding schedule to keep; he wasn’t zigzagging.

  The Japanese skipper likely fired two Type 95 torpedoes at long range. The Navy had recently captured one. A beautiful and deadly weapon. The IJN spared no expense in torpedo development in the years leading up to the war. They knew the Americans had numerical superiority in capital ships. Both sides anticipated the IJN would whittle down American forces as they rolled west across the Pacific. Then the IJN would commit its big battleships for the final battle.

  The American Mark 14 torpedoes relied on steam for propulsion, which left a telltale trail of bubbles in the water. The Type 95 torpedoes used pure oxygen, which made them virtually wakeless. They traveled faster and farther than American torpedoes. They carried a bigger warhead and a reliable detonator.

  Within a minute of detecting the American submarine, the Japanese skipper fired torpedoes. Redhorse’s lookouts didn’t spot them until they were close aboard.

  The same tactics had likely claimed Captain Shelby and his Warmouth.

  “Bridge, Conn,” Charlie said. “I ordered the radar secured, Jack. I’m sending up two more lookouts. For the time being, we’re eyes only, so stay sharp.”

  “Roger that, Charlie.”

  “I need another two lookouts on the double,” he told the yeoman.

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison.”

  Rickard was good. He certainly kept his head. He may have even dodged one of the torpedoes. But the Japanese skipper would have fired at least two to ensure his kill. The next shot struck amidships. Charlie knew that because of the flash and boom. Her magazine had gone up in an instant. The submarine had simply exploded end to end, her twisted hulk tumbling into the depths.

  Charlie didn’t scare easy, but the Japanese submarine terrified him. The way she’d surfaced just enough to deploy radar and spot her target. How quickly she’d shot her fish. How far and fast her torpedoes traveled before destroying sixty lives.

  The Japanese skipper could have been firing on a friendly ship. The speed with which he’d assessed his target and fired was uncanny. How did he know the submarine he’d detected was American?

  “Helm, come left to oh-two-oh,” Charlie said.

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison.”

  The answer to his question was simple. The Japanese captain knew his target was American because there were no other Japanese submarines in the Japan Sea.

  “Steady on oh-two-oh,” he said. “All ahead full.”

  “Steady as she goes, aye,” the helmsman said. “All ahead full.”

  No more zigzagging for Sandtiger tonight. The boat knifed north by northeast toward Hokkaido.

  Charlie laughed bitterly at himself. After the convoy attack, the Japanese sub had acquired him on radar. While Smokey and the Japanese exchanged blinker signals, the skipper had been lining up his shot.

  For Sandtiger, it was a simple ruse to buy time. Apparently, it had been a ruse for the Japanese as well. That skipper had been playing him right back.

  Damn, he was a wily son of a bitch.

  What would I do next if I were him? Charlie wondered.

  Likely, he’d stick to a patrol area in central Honshu.

  No, Charlie decided. I’d move north along the coastline. Sweep the Americans out. Then back the other way, using the same tactics. Stay submerged at periscope depth, and surface just enough to conduct radar sweeps.

  That meant the submarine remained a threat to the rear in a war zone already congested with enemy warships and planes.

  By morning, Sandtiger would reach Otaru, however. Tomorrow night, she’d run La Pérouse Strait. In all probability, the Japanese sub would never catch her.

  The smart move was to bypass Otaru and make tracks for the strait. Get the hell out of this cursed sea before the net closed.

  Moreau wouldn’t do that. He’d made the Japanese suffer since he’d arrived. He wasn’t about to head home with his tail between his legs. There was also the matter of avenging his dead comrades. Tomorrow, the captain would shell Otaru.

  And unleash hell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  OTARU

  Battle stations, surface action.

  Morning in the Land of the Rising Sun.

  The horizon burned like hot coals over Hokkaido’s black mountains. The calm sea blazed red in the light. Overhead, the paling sky glowed purple and blue, an artist’s dream. />
  Sandtiger cruised west across Ishikari Bay. Otaru Harbor lay three miles off the port beam. Lookouts perched on her shears, watching for enemy planes.

  David prepared to meet Goliath.

  The helmeted gun crew tensed around the five-inch deck gun. Seated on both sides, the pointer and trainer cranked hand wheels to bear it on the target. The ten-foot barrel elevated for a 5,000-yard shot. The sight-setter corrected their aim.

  A train of sailors passed up the fifty-pound cartridges. The loader shoved the first round into the breech and slammed the block shut.

  “Ready to fire, Captain,” Smokey said.

  A line of ships lay moored at a series of sprawling wharfs in the harbor. Beyond, dozens of warehouses, buildings, and houses stacked the plush green foothills of Mount Tengu.

  The target: a large vessel that appeared to be a sea tender for warships.

  Moreau lowered his binoculars and nodded.

  Charlie roared, “COMMENCE FIRING!”

  The gun crashed with a burst of flame and smoke that dissipated in the morning breeze. The recoil flung the hot empty shell casing into gloved hands, which tossed it aside. The loader shoved a fresh cartridge into the breech.

  Charlie glared through his binoculars. “Check fire!”

  The five-inch-diameter shell tore the air in its long descent.

  A geyser of water shot up from the bay.

  “Short fifty yards!” Charlie said.

  The sight setter adjusted the elevation. Smokey yelled, “Ready!”

  “FIRE!”

  The pointer stomped the firing pedal. The gun bucked as it hurled another screaming shell across the lightening sky.

  “Check fire!”

  A decrepit freighter moored next to the tender rocked as the shell burst on its deck.

  Charlie called out corrections.

  “Ready!”

  They had the tender zeroed now.

  “FIRE!”

  The long barrel spat flame with another crash. The shell whistled onto the tender’s deck and exploded in a spray of debris. The gun crew cheered.

  “Fire at will! Keep it hot!”

  The gun crew pumped shells into the tender at a rate of twenty per minute.

  Smoke rose from the burning tender as the rounds smashed into it. Charlie glanced at the sky, anticipating airplanes.

  So far, clear skies all around.

  “There’s our boy,” Moreau said.

  Sleek and fast, a destroyer darted into the harbor. The Japanese had concealed him in a crowd of other ships behind one of the breakwaters jutting across the bay.

  Fubuki-class. Two thousand tons, six 127mm guns, eighteen depth charges. An older destroyer built long before the war, but formidable.

  “Secure the gun!” Charlie bawled.

  “Conn, Bridge!” Moreau said. “Come right to three-double-oh, flank speed!”

  Sandtiger let out a high-pitched snarl as her engines pushed to the limit. The submarine began her turn, blowing spray and smoke from her exhaust ports.

  Then she raced northwest. The Fubuki cleared the breakwaters and barreled after her with a pronounced bow wake indicating fast speed. What the submariners called a “bone in his teeth.”

  A puff of smoke appeared in front of his twin-mounted bow guns. The thunderous boom rolled across the bay. A terrific splash as the shells landed astern.

  “Contact!” one of the lookouts called out. “Two destroyers, starboard one-one-oh, 10,000 yards and closing!”

  Charlie raised his binoculars to inspect the new arrivals.

  Asashios!

  Twenty-four hundred tons, six 127mm guns, thirty-six depth charges. They charged toward Sandtiger from the open sea at thirty knots.

  The Fubuki steamed in hot pursuit 6,000 yards astern.

  Soon, they’d catch her in a vise.

  Still no enemy planes, though Charlie knew they were coming. David hadn’t just challenged Goliath. He’d ticked off Goliath’s entire family.

  The destroyers fired a salvo from their bow guns at long range. The shells punched the water far off the beam.

  For now, the Asashios were little threat.

  Charlie returned his attention to the Fubuki.

  He was gaining fast, smoking pouring from his stacks.

  “Five thousand yards, Captain.”

  Another salvo punched the sea. Water sprayed across the deck.

  The Fubuki’s bow gunners were finding the range.

  “Clear the topsides!” the captain roared. “Dive, dive, dive!”

  The lookouts shimmied to the deck and went below. The captain followed. Charlie secured the hatch and dropped into the conning tower.

  Pressure in the boat, green board. Sandtiger angled into the sea while her klaxons wailed.

  “Helm, right full rudder!” Moreau ordered. “Battle stations, submerged!”

  The fresh alarm bonged through the boat.

  Charlie repeated into the 1MC, “Battle stations, submerged.”

  “Control, take us to periscope depth! Sound, get on that DD on our tail.”

  “Bearing three-oh-two. Range 4,000.”

  “Helm, steady as you go on oh-three-oh. All ahead standard.”

  “Steady on oh-three-oh, aye, Captain!”

  Charlie reported, “The boat is at battle stations, Captain.”

  “Very well. After room, make ready the tubes. Order of tubes is one, two, three, four. Depth, four feet. High speed.”

  Charlie now had a few moments to analyze the captain’s tactics. As usual, Moreau played his cards close to the chest. Sandtiger had turned right. It was obvious the captain intended to hit the Fubuki as he crossed the stern.

  Another gamble, and a big one at that. By presenting the submarine’s broadside, the captain had made her much easier to detect. By staying at periscope depth, much easier to destroy.

  Sound: “Bearing three-double-oh, range 3,100!”

  The Fubuki’s captain raced straight toward the trap. Part of Moreau’s gamble. An American submarine had invaded Japan’s private sea and shelled one of her ports. Two DDs approached from the northwest. The Fubuki’s skipper wanted the kill, and he had to do it fast before his brothers showed up.

  A matter of honor.

  “Bearing three-oh-two, range 2,250 yards!”

  Sandtiger now pushed to open the range to at least 450 yards so her torpedoes would arm. A point-blank shot at the Fubuki’s broadside as he passed.

  “Bearing three-oh-one, range, 1,100 yards!”

  Moreau jerked his thumbs. The periscope whirred from its well. The captain grabbed Charlie’s shoulder and pushed him toward it. Charlie seized the handles and pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece.

  Sound: “Two sets of light screws, bearing one-one-five, range 2,500 yards!”

  The Asashios! They were closing the distance rapidly.

  “Ignore them, Charlie,” the captain said. “Focus on the target.”

  He swung the periscope until he’d centered the reticle on the hull a little forward of the Fubuki’s center mast. White-uniformed sailors ran excitedly about the aft deck, preparing to dump depth charges. The prow bore the stenciled number 99. The Rising Sun flag fluttered at the stern.

  “I’ve got him,” Charlie said. “Final bearing, mark!”

  Standing on the other side of the periscope, Nixon read the bearing from the bearing ring on the shaft. “Bearing three-double-oh!”

  “Set!” Liebold called out from the TDC.

  “Range, mark!”

  Nixon entered the height of the destroyer above the waterline into the stadimeter on the periscope base. “Range 600 yards! Angle on the bow, starboard eighty-five! Speed, twenty-five knots!”

  “Down scope!” Charlie said.

  The TDC whirred. The light flashed green. Liebold turned. “Set! Shoot anytime!”

  “Shoot!” Moreau ordered.

  Liebold pressed the firing plunger. “Firing one!”

  Sandtiger jerked as the torpedo lun
ged into the sea.

  “Firing two! Firing three! Firing four!”

  “Secure the tubes,” the captain said. “Sound, where are the other DDs?”

  “Light screws bearing one-one-four, range 1,500 yards.”

  “Very well. Take her deep, emergency. All ahead flank.”

  The deck tilted as Sandtiger burrowed into the sea. Now came the wait. And retaliation. Charlie grabbed the nearest handhold in anticipation.

  “All fish are running hot, straight, and normal,” the soundman said.

  “Rig for depth charge,” the captain said. “Rig for silent running.”

  Watertight doors slammed shut across the boat. The only hatch left open was between the conning tower and control room, which enabled communication without the phone. The air instantly warmed as the air conditioning cut out.

  “How long?” Moreau asked.

  Liebold stared at his stopwatch. “Thirty seconds. We should be hitting soon.”

  The captain said, “This one’s for Rickard.”

  “The first fish should have hit by now.”

  “Sound, is the target evading?”

  “Target is maintaining bearing, Captain.”

  “I think our fish went under him,” Liebold said.

  The Fubuki had a narrow draft of four feet. The Mark 14 torpedoes tended to run as much as ten to fifteen feet deeper than their setting.

  Moreau growled, “Damn these—”

  BOOM

  Sandtiger rocked as the shock wave struck the hull.

  BOOM

  “Two hits heard,” the soundman confirmed.

  WHUMP

  BOOM-BOOM

  “That’s his magazine going up,” the captain said.

  The boat shook violently in the aftermath.

  “Put it on the 1MC, Sound. I want the crew to hear his swan song.”

  The soundman connected the hydrophones to the 1MC, piping the destroyer’s death throes over the loudspeakers.

  Grinding metallic roar filled the boat. The hulk broke into pieces that ground and scraped as they tumbled through the depths. The Fubuki’s final screams.

  The thunder faded into a series of ghostly groans and pops. A new sound filled the submarine. A terrible sound the crew knew all too well.