Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo

by The Sea Hunters II

  “It’ll be clear tonight, sir,” Thom noted.

  “All the better for hunting,” Kennedy said easily.

  ON THE JAPANESE destroyer Amagiri, there was a level of tension that came from knowing they were being stalked. Somewhere in the night were the pesky American mosquito boats. The fast plywood attack crafts came quickly and disappeared just as fast. This was a strange and new type of marine warfare. The Japanese sailors were not trained for this. Historical rules dictated that ships fired on other ships when they were in sight. Sneaking and hiding in the dark was a little unnerving.

  Truth be told, the PT boats had not caused much damage—their torpedoes were notoriously inaccurate, and to use their deck guns, they needed to be close enough to the ships of the Express to be in harm’s way themselves. Still, they were out there in the blackness, came quickly without warning, and sped away as if on the wings of eagles.

  Gunner Hikeo Nisimura adjusted the chin strap on his helmet and stared to port. From his vantage point in the bow gun, he had an unusually broad view of the areas Amagiri steamed past. This evening, the top of the peak on Kolombangara Island was shrouded in clouds. As he watched, the last remnants of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, and the peak began to grow purple from top to bottom, as if a giant had poured on a ladle of plum sauce.

  And then, although the temperature was nearly seventy degrees, Nisimura felt a chill.

  IN AMAGIRI’S PILOTHOUSE, Commander Kohei Hanami stared at the chart, then ordered the speed increased to thirty-five knots. Hanami was both a stem taskmaster and one who believed in rigid schedules. In the holds of his command were 912 soldiers and nearly a hundred tons of supplies that were bound for Munda Airfield, where the Japanese army was fighting a losing battle against the American marines. Amagiri’s part in this plan was to arrive at the base at Vila on Kolombangara Island, off-load the soldiers and supplies, then steam back to her base before daylight.

  ENSIGN Ross WALKED back from the bow to the helm. The flotilla was cruising north through Ferguson Passage. To starboard, barely visible in the black of night, was the outline of Vonavona Island. Ross stood for a moment, hands on his hips, and smelled the air. Salt and seawater, mildew and fungus. From over the water on land came the scent of night-blooming jasmine and limes mixing with the musty smell of mangrove roots at low tide. He sniffed again.

  A smell of home.

  The scent of baked beans wafted through a hatch. Then the smell of meat being fried in lard. Beans and Spam was the order of the night. Ross just hoped the cook had some powdered lemonade to add to their chlorinated water for flavor.

  Reaching Kennedy behind the helm, he smiled. “Smells like dinner’s almost ready, Jack.”

  Kennedy adjusted his orange kapok life vest. “I can hardly wait, Henry,” he said, smiling.

  “I checked out the thirty-seven millimeter,” Ross said. “She’s ready for firing.”

  “Mamey’s in the forward turret?” Kennedy asked.

  “Yes,” Ross said.

  “He’s a good Massachusetts man,” Kennedy said, “from Chicopee.”

  “I talked to him,” Ross said. “He mentioned he’s new to your crew.”

  “Yes,” Kennedy said. “Starkey, Marney, and Zinser down in the engine room—all new to 109.”

  “How do you feel about them?” Ross asked.

  “All good men,” Kennedy noted. “Ready to fight.”

  “That’s good,” Ross said, “because I have a feeling they’ll soon have a chance.”

  Kennedy nodded and stared into the black night. “I do, too, Henry,” he said easily. “I do, too.”

  The time was half past 9 P.M.

  THERE WERE A total of fifteen PT boats on patrol, as the Japanese flotilla consisting of the destroyers Amagiri, Arashi, Hagikaze, and Shigure steamed south. The boats worked in small groups, with PT-109 patrolling with PT-157, PT-159, and PT-162 of Division B.

  Radar was a recent addition to the PT boats, and only a few of the vessels had been equipped. The radar sets were finicky, unreliable, and subject to interpretation by the operator. Still, they were better than nothing—and when they did work, they added a margin of safety and success to what were for the most part random search-and-destroy missions.

  On PT-159, the operator stared at the glowing green screen intently. A second later, he shouted to the captain. “Radar contact, four possible barges, three miles distant, along Kolombangara.”

  The skipper climbed down to look at the radar screen, then back up to stare into the blackness. After repeating the maneuver a few more times, he ordered the deck guns set to fire low. With the crude radar, he was still certain the blips were barges.

  In fact, they were the four Japanese destroyers.

  PT-159 raced close to fire and was met with fire from the heavy guns of the destroyers. Now knowing his target, the skipper pushed the buttons on the dashboard to launch a pair of torpedoes. Unfortunately, the skipper of PT-159 chose not to break radio silence to inform the other boats of the flotilla passing. The torpedoes missed and the flotilla steamed south without harm.

  WHILE THE WATERS around Kolombangara Island were filled with Japanese destroyers and barges, along with American PT boats and heavy cruisers to the north, there was a different type of war being fought.

  It was a solitary and introspective affair of waiting, watching, and reporting.

  High atop Kolombangara Island, in a crude camp consisting of a bamboo hut, was a brave Australian armed with a telescope, binoculars, radio, and little else. Lieutenant Arthur Reginald “Reg” Evans was a member of the Australian Coast-watcher Service. The service had been formed in World War I to help in patrolling Australia’s vast coastline. The Australian Navy hit upon the idea of enlisting the help of local fishermen, harbormasters, and postmen to watch the coast and report any suspicious activity by telegraph. The idea proved successful and was reintroduced and expanded as World War II came along. Submarines, aircraft, and small boats transferred the coastwatchers to small islands in the South Pacific to provide eyes on the ground. They reported ship and plane movements, recruited local natives to help the effort against the Japanese, and provided weather reports for the Allied forces. The job was lonely, dirty, and dangerous.

  The Japanese knew of the coastwatchers, and they hunted them down with dogs.

  Reg Evans sipped a cup of tea and stared down at the black water. He had no way of knowing he would be instrumental in rescuing the man who would one day be elected President of the United States.

  AMAGIRI ARRIVED OFF Vila just as August 1 turned into August 2. Commander Hanami ordered his ship anchored, then waited as a fleet of barges and landing craft approached and swarmed around his hull. Soldiers assembled on deck, then began climbing down landing nets into the rectangular crafts in an orderly line. To the other side, sailors began to unload cases and crates from the hull, then filled stem nets that were hoisted up off Amagiri’s deck and down to the barges. Hanami paced the decks, willing the off-loading to go faster. The quicker he and the other ships of the flotilla finished, the less chance they had of being dead in the water when the sun came up.

  Twenty minutes passed.

  “The soldiers are all off,” a junior officer said finally, “and the last of the supplies are being handed down now.”

  “Secure the landing nets and order the anchor hoisted,” Hanami ordered. “I want to be back in our slip at Rabaul before first light.”

  The officer saluted and made his way forward, as Hanami walked toward the pilothouse.

  AUGUST 2 WAS less than an hour old as Lieutenant Kennedy adjusted the wheel of PT-109 to port. The boat was off Kolombangara, following PT-162 and PT-169. Heading west at a slow speed, the trio were seeking a target. Slowly, the three boats crossed Blackett Strait and headed in the direction of Gizo Island. Since the actions of a few hours earlier, when PT-159 and PT-157 had fired torpedoes at the Japanese flotilla, the night had been quiet. Kennedy accelerated PT-109 close to the other two boats, t
hen broke radio silence to request the trio head south to attempt to intercept the rest of the Rendova fleet. The other two skippers agreed. PT-109 made a wide, sweeping turn in Blackett Strait and steamed slowly toward Ferguson Passage.

  ABOARD AMAGIRI, COMMANDER Hanami stared into the blackness. He was always uncomfortable when his ship was in Blackett Strait. The close quarters spelled danger if the American PT boats ever launched a coordinated attack. He turned toward the helm.

  “What’s our current speed?” he asked Coxswain Kazuto Doi.

  Doi stared at the gauge. “Thirty knots, sir,” he answered.

  “The other ships are pulling away,” Hanami said. “Increase speed to thirty-five knots.”

  Doi gave the order and Amagiri slowly began to gain speed.

  Captain Yamashira, Amagiri’s second in command, made a notation on the chart. “We will be in Vella Gulf in approximately ten minutes.”

  Like Hanami, Yamashira preferred the safety of open water.

  In the black night, tall wakes lit by the phosphorescence in the water streamed from Amagiri’s bow.

  DIRECTLY AHEAD, PT-109 was idling on a single engine. Lieutenant Kennedy strained to listen for the sound of the other PT boats. He thought he heard a throbbing sound from the south, but he was unable to pin down the exact location. The noise was reverberating between the mountain on Kolombangara and the islands to the west. Kennedy stared around his boat as he listened.

  Ensign Ross was on the bow near the thirty-seven-millimeter gun. Ahead of Ross in the forward gun turret was nineteen-year-old Harold Marney. By training, Marney was a motor machinist, but tonight he had been assigned deck duty. The rear gun turret was manned by a twenty-nine-year-old Californian, Raymond Starkey.

  Maguire was to Kennedy’s right; to his left was Thom, who was lying on the deck. Directly behind the cockpit, Edgar Mauer peered into the night. Mauer, who also functioned as the cook, had been a seaman aboard the tender Niagara when she had been torpedoed and sunk. He had no desire to repeat the experience, so he watched the water carefully.

  Two of the crew, Andrew Jackson Kirksey and Charles Harris, were off-duty and slept a fitful sleep on deck. Raymond Albert, a seaman second class, was on watch amidships, while Scottish-born motor machinist William Johnston slept near the stem engine hatch. Gerald Zinser kept watch nearby.

  Belowdecks was the oldest man on the crew, thirty-seven-year-old Patrick “Pappy” McMahon, tending the engines. At this instant, Pappy was adjusting the flow of raw seawater into the engines to regulate the temperatures. Touching a manifold, he liked what he felt. Wiping his hand on a rag, he listened carefully to the engine-room noises. Something was amiss, but he could not pin down what it was. He climbed over an auxiliary generator to stare at a gauge.

  The stray sound would save his life.

  LIKE THE EDGE of a knife, glistening wakes flowed from the bow of Amagiri as the ship hurtled north through the blackness. Commander Hanami paced the deck in the pilothouse. He knew the enemy was nearby—he could sense it—but so far at least, nothing had attacked.

  “Ship to starboard,” the lookout suddenly shouted.

  “Deck guns fire,” Hanami ordered.

  As soon as he looked out the window, he could see the PT boat coming into view. Amagiri was right on top of the vessel, and Hanami knew the guns were too close to find their mark.

  “Hard to port,” he ordered.

  Hanami knew that if it got away, the PT boat stood a chance of lining up for a shot. He needed to sink the vessel or his crew would suffer the consequences.

  THE MOMENT BEFORE, the horizon had been clear; now, as if by magic, a massive vessel had appeared in the blackness. It was all too much to comprehend. For a second, like a man staring at an avalanche unable to move, the crew stood mute as the mysterious leviathan approached.

  There was only one chance to save the crew of PT-109. They needed to get out of the way—and fast. Kennedy rammed the throttle forward.

  Belowdecks in the overheated engine room, Pappy McMahon heard one of the engines race. Unfortunately, the drive was not engaged, and now that the engine rpm had increased, there was no way for McMahon to slam her into forward without stripping the gears off the shaft.

  For the next few seconds, PT-109 was a sitting duck.

  ON THE BOW of Amagiri, the gunners could not depress the guns low enough to take a shot.

  “Steer straight at the ship,” Hanami ordered the helmsman.

  Hanami stared out the starboard window at the men on the deck of the PT boat. Two blond-haired men were behind the helm; on the foredeck a man struggled with an artillery piece.

  Ross TRIED TO fire the thirty-seven-millimeter gun, but he simply did not have enough time. Kennedy, who by now realized he had throttled up the wrong engine, pulled back on the throttle, but it was too late. The Japanese destroyer was now only feet away.

  And then it happened.

  Metal met wood like a machete hacking off a tree branch.

  In the forward gun turret, Marney saw Amagiri approach only seconds before he was crushed by the bow. The teenager, who had been with the crew only a few weeks, died in the warm water of Blackett Strait thousands of miles from his home in Chicopee.

  Andrew Jackson Kirksey, sleeping on the aft starboard deck, managed to rise to his elbows before Amagiri slammed into PT-109. He left behind a wife and young son. Neither his nor Marney’s body was ever found.

  One second Pappy McMahon was staring at a racing engine; the next found him on the deck of the engine room of PT-109. As if in a dream, a line of fire came into his view. This was followed by a black shape scraping through the engine room. A few seconds later, McMahon felt water, and when he struggled to regain his footing, he was, strangely enough, looking out the stem of the ship at the sea. He could smell the fire before he felt the pain.

  ON AMAGIRI, COMMANDER Hanami felt his ship pass through the PT boat with barely a shudder.

  “Damage report!” he shouted to his second in command, who raced from the pilothouse.

  “How’s she feel?” he asked Coxswain Doi.

  “There is a slight vibration, sir,” Doi answered.

  “Reduce speed to thirty knots,” Hanami ordered, “and see if it smoothes out.”

  Then he began to write notes in the ship’s log about the encounter.

  THE STERN OF PT-109, burdened with an engine, plunged down into the black water.

  Pappy McMahon, burned by a sudden fire, was plunging down through the water, spinning like a top from the turbulence caused by Amagiri’s propeller wake. Heavily weighted and with a rotting life vest, he struggled to swim toward the light on the surface. He popped to the surface, surrounded by a sea of burning gasoline.

  Ensign Thorn had been hurtled into the water at the moment of impact, as were Albert, Zinser, Harris, Starkey, and Johnston. Miraculously, the bow of PT-I09 remained afloat and Kennedy, Maguire, and Mauer remained aboard. Henry Ross had first ridden out the collision on deck but then decided it was safer in the water. As soon as he slipped into the wetness, he realized his mistake. The heavy layer of gasoline on the water caused fumes that quickly sickened him. Struggling to breathe, he fainted and floated on the water in his orange kapok life vest.

  “Into the water,” Kennedy ordered Maguire and Mauer. “The boat might explode.”

  The three men entered the water, then swam a short distance away. They waited until Amagiri’s wake and the strong currents in Blackett Strait carried away the burning slick of gasoline.

  “Back to the boat,” Kennedy said a few minutes later.

  The men swam back to PT-109 and climbed onto what was left of the wreckage. The boat was riding in the water, bow in the air, with the shattered stern lapping at the edge of the water. She was afloat, but there was no way to know for how long.

  “Mauer,” Kennedy ordered, “see if you can find the blinker.”

  Mauer scrambled into the battered hull and searched until he found the metal tube that encased a battery-operat
ed light used for signaling. “Found it, sir,” he said.

  “Climb as high up onto the bow as you feel safe and start signaling for the others,” Kennedy said. “There must be others from the crew in the water.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Maguire asked.

  “Help Mauer, and keep watch for anyone who is out there,” Kennedy said, as he began to remove his shoes and shirt. “I’m going into the water to see who I can find.”

  HIGH ON A peak on Kolombangara Island, Reg Evans scanned the night water with his binoculars.

  Just north of Plum Pudding Island, past the halfway point west in Blackett Strait, was a section of water aflame. Evans recorded the position. Then he lay on his cot for a few hours of rest.

  As SOON AS Kennedy swam into the blackness, Mauer and Maguire began to hear the faint sound of voices from across the water.

  “Help, help,” Zinser screamed. “It’s Ensign Thom—I think he’s drowning.”

  Maguire had no desire to climb back into the gasoline-saturated water, but he knew he needed to. Grabbing a rope from the locker, he secured it to the hulk of PT-109 and slid into Blackett Strait.

  Ensign Ross awoke from his faint, floating in the black water. For a few moments, he had no idea what had happened and how he had ended up in his situation. A few minutes passed before his head began to clear enough to assess the situation. He could just see the outline of a pair of men floating in the water nearby, and he swam over to them.

  “Thom’s delirious,” Zinser said, as Ross came into sight.

  Thorn was fighting an invisible opponent. Ross reached behind him and took him in his arms.