The Iceman_A Novel

by P. T. Deutermann

  “What?” he asked, but the bartender had already hung up. A moment later there was a knock on the door. He grabbed a bathrobe and opened the door. Kensie stood there in her blood-spotted scrubs, her hair a bit askew, dark circles under her eyes, and a look of total exhaustion on her face.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “But I desperately need a hot bath and a bed. My ride back to Melbourne House broke down three blocks away, and there are no rooms available here. I happen to know that all the rooms here have two beds, so I went to the bar up top and asked them if you were in. They said yes, so I asked them to call you. Now you please say yes.”

  “Of course,” Malachi said, gesturing for her to come in. “You look like you got shot at and missed, shit at and hit.”

  “It’s been a horrible forty-eight hours,” she said, sitting down on his rumpled bed. “I just want to forget about everything and sleep for about ten hours. Do you have any whiskey?”

  “No, but I’ll bet I can get some. Bathroom’s over there. The water is mostly hot. Get your bath going and I’ll see what I can do about a drink.”

  “A bottle, not a drink, my dear captain,” she said, smiling up at him with weary eyes. He smiled back at her, helped her up, and gently propelled her into the bathroom. Then he called the lounge and asked for a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a bucket of ice. He called the front desk and asked them to bring up some more towels and a bathrobe for her.

  An hour later she was ensconced in the other bed, the covers pulled all the way up to her chin. She’d consumed the top third of a bottle of Scotch and was now holding the empty glass between her two hands. Malachi had told her to cover up earlier when he brought in the extra towels, the bathrobe, and a glass full of whiskey. She hadn’t really bothered, and beneath a thin film of water and suds he was able to see her in all her glory. She grinned at him. “The least I can do, mate,” she said.

  He laughed out loud and then went out. She’d come out thirty minutes later in her bathrobe and climbed directly into the second bed.

  “So what happened?” he asked.

  She lay there with her eyes closed. “The fucking Japs torpedoed a passenger ship just outside of Darwin,” she said. “She was inbound from the Indian Ocean with a load of wounded soldiers from the Burma campaign. Darwin’s hospital was overwhelmed so they sent half the casualties to us. It’s over a thousand miles by rail. Burn cases. Shark attacks. Blast injuries. I think we lost half of them.”

  “But not for lack of trying,” he said.

  She grunted. “Most of them were hopeless. Burns, then six hours in the sea before Darwin could get boats out there. Infections. Amputations to get ahead of infections. Then the train ride. Hopeless, most of them.” Then she began to cry.

  He got out of his bed dressed only in his skivvies. He sat down on the side of her bed and pulled her to him and let her cry it out. Then she fell asleep. He laid her back down and pulled up the covers. Then, on an impulse that surprised him, he kissed her forehead. Her eyes opened. “Hold me,” she said. “Please.”

  When he awoke the next morning he heard her in the bathroom. He looked at his watch: 0630. He lay back under the covers. He’d climbed into bed with her and then wrapped her up in his arms, where she proceeded to weep for a while and then they both fell asleep. For once he slept like a log with no visitations from his nemesis, The Dream.

  She popped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed in her rumpled scrubs from the night before. She came over to their bed and sat down. “You’ve been such a love,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  He put on a hardcase face. “Okay, sister,” he said. “But the next time I find you in my bed I will have my way with you.”

  She looked down at him with those glorious eyes, dark circles and all. “God, I hope so,” she said, kissed him, and then left for work.

  Five days later they went back out on patrol.

  TWELVE

  The COB whistled softly when Malachi finally exposed the Mark 14 magnetic influence exploder within the torpedo’s guidance section. It was actually fairly comfortable in the forward torpedo room, with the boat at 250 feet and stable as a billiards table. Malachi and the COB were the only ones present and the forward torpedo room hatch was closed. The COB, being a torpedoman himself, had been highly impressed with the skipper’s technical knowledge of the fish and its guidance system. Malachi had wanted to extract the entire exploder mechanism, but its 92-pound weight and position in the warhead base made that dangerous.

  “I’m not sure I can modify this thing here at sea,” Malachi said. “I think the problem is twofold: one, the reference magnetic field stored in this machine is wrong for this part of the world, and, two, if the torpedo itself is running too deep, it might not be able to detect a sufficient magnetic anomaly to make it fire.”

  “What’s that thing?” the COB asked.

  “That’s a thyratron tube,” Malachi said. “Basically, when the pickup coil senses a magnetic disturbance, it sends some current to this tube. The thyratron then amplifies that current and trips a solenoid, which in turn fires the pistol into the warhead. If the signal isn’t strong enough, the thyratron doesn’t do anything—you get a dud.”

  “Does it have a battery of its own?”

  “Nope—it has its own baby generator, right down here. Runs off the counter propeller shaft, which is driven by the torpedo’s propeller shaft. It counts four hundred eighty turns of the propeller, and only then starts up.”

  “How could we modify this?”

  “The reference magnetic field is stored in this coil right here. It contains almost five hundred thousand copper strands. That’s the sensing mechanism. This resistor sets the value the sensor has to overcome to activate the thyratron. Change the size of the resistor and it might work.”

  “Or,” the COB said, “fix the depth-control mechanism. Then all this secret shit might work.”

  Malachi smiled. “That might be the best approach, but we don’t know what’s screwing up the depth-control mechanism—it’s a pretty straightforward system. Simple hydrodynamics.”

  The COB moved back to the torpedo guidance section, whose maintenance panel allowed them into the guts of the torpedo. He pointed to the module that controlled depth. “That’s the same one they had in the Mark ten,” he said.

  “Yes,” Malachi said. “So?”

  “The Mark ten ran at thirty-three knots. This beast runs at forty-six when you set high speed. Maybe that’s what’s fooling the depth sensor.”

  Malachi sat back on his heels. The chief might be on to something, he thought. The depth sensor was designed to measure water pressure. As the depth increased, the pressure increased. The sensor then manipulated the horizontal fins on the back end of the fish to keep it at the desired pressure, which translated to an actual ordered depth. Was the slipstream of a 46-knot fish fooling the sensor designed for a 33-knot fish?

  “Maybe I’ve been doing this wrong,” he mused. “Maybe we should use the magnetic feature, but order the torpedoes to run at ridiculous depths—five feet, or even three feet.”

  “They’ll porpoise at that depth.”

  “If they’re running at that depth,” Malachi replied. “But if they’re running ten to twelve feet deeper, they should be stable.”

  “Be worth a try, Skipper,” the COB said. “If that’s all it takes to make the damned thing work, it solves a whole bunch of problems.”

  “Well I know,” Malachi said. “We’ll be in our patrol area in three days. I need to think, and then set up a firing template for the TDC operator. Okay, have the guys routine this baby here since she’s out and then put her back in.”

  Three days later they arrived in their assigned area, just west of the Sunda Strait, between the islands of Sumatra and Java, and nervous host to the infamous volcano, Krakatoa. The rusting bones of the American cruiser Houston were somewhere down in this strait, the fate of her crew unknown. They surfaced at nightfall to recharge the batteries and refresh
the boat’s atmosphere. The night was dark but clear enough for the lookouts to be able to see the hellish glow of Krakatoa’s rebuilding crater off to the east. Malachi climbed to the navigation bridge for a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

  “Look at that damned thing,” he said to the OOD. “You know its history?”

  “No, sir,” the OOD, LTJG Joe Brooks, the main propulsion assistant, said. “I think I’ve heard the name.”

  “Well, in 1883 that was a whole lot bigger than that little crater is now. When it exploded, the resulting ash cloud caused the climate around the whole earth to change, so bad that 1884 was called the year with no summer. There was famine in parts of Europe because the harvest was stunted by lack of sunlight. Los Angeles got thirty-eight inches of rain in the year after the eruption, and the sound of the explosion was heard all the way down in Perth, which is almost two thousand miles away.”

  “Wow,” the OOD said.

  “Yeah,” Malachi said. “And we think we’re significant.”

  An hour later, the bitchbox lit up. “Bridge, Control: we have a radar contact, bearing zero eight zero true, twelve miles and closing. Coming out of the straits. There may be more than one, but the radar’s having some trouble differentiating.”

  “Dive alarm, Captain?” Brooks asked.

  “No. I want to try something different. Call the XO up here.”

  Marty arrived a minute later, a bit out of breath for having climbed from the control room all the way up to the navigation bridge. “Yes, sir?”

  “We have one, maybe more contacts headed our way, coming out of the straits. I want to remain on the surface when we attack, so you go to the conning tower and set up the approach. I’m going to stay up here. If I can see them I’ll send you bearings via the TBT. I want the torpedoes set for high speed, magnetic exploder on this time, in addition to contact, and a running depth of three feet.”

  “Three feet? They’ll porpoise all over the place.”

  “I don’t think so. Set battle stations torpedo now, and leave the lookouts up here with me. Alert maneuvering that we may need full diesel power, and tell the diving officer to be prepared for a crash dive. Tell the radar operator to keep feeding me ranges and bearings.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Marty said, and dropped back down into the conning tower. The GQ alarm sounded ten seconds later. The four lookouts topside asked the OOD what they should do—go to their GQ stations or stay there.

  “Stay put,” Malachi said. “We’re going to make this attack on the surface.”

  Malachi checked the dimly lit gyro repeater on the starboard side of the bridge to see the course being steered: 090. Then he went to the target-bearing transmitter (TBT) and swung it around to that true bearing. The target-bearing transmitters were high-power binoculars mounted above a servo motor. Whenever the operator pointed them at a ship, the bearing of that ship was transmitted to the TDC in the conning tower in place of a periscope observation.

  He saw nothing but darkness, but that was to be expected with the ships being nearly twelve miles away.

  “Lead target now bearing zero eight two, range twenty-one thousand yards. Two more behind him.”

  “Conn: aye,” Malachi replied. “That’s too fast for a maru.”

  “Yes, sir. Still computing course and speed, but XO recommends coming right to one eight zero for initial intercept course.”

  “Make it so; increase speed to fifteen knots.”

  Malachi was working the attack geometry problem in his head and knew he had to get south in order to get in front of whatever was coming. If he had been submerged his maximum speed would have been about 8 knots. On the surface and on the diesels, he had 22 knots available, and he was charging the batteries the whole while. As the boat turned he felt the first puff of a breeze as she came up to 15 knots. He could have put on more speed, but those superb Japanese optics might pick up the boat’s wake, even in the darkness.

  “Targets now bear zero eight seven, range eighteen thousand one hundred yards. Total now is four. We have a computed course of two five five and speed of twenty-five knots. Recommend coming to two three zero at current speed.”

  “Make it so,” Malachi ordered.

  This was the point where the admiral would have ordered him to submerge immediately and write the formation off as a too hard. That speed indicated cruisers or destroyers, or both, running fast and dark out into the Indian Ocean.

  “Conn, XO: do you intend to submerge once we achieve an attack position?”

  And there was the critical question, Malachi thought. Approaching a cruiser-destroyer formation on the surface was extremely dangerous. If any of them spotted him, they would open fire immediately and possibly even try to ram him. He had the advantage of darkness and radar, and also the ability to run off into the night at 22 knots while seeding his wake with torpedoes. “I haven’t decided yet, XO.”

  “Sir, do you want the gun crew topside?”

  “No, I don’t. If we have to get under quickly they’d be lost.”

  “Aye, sir.” The XO’s voice betrayed his concern. An attack on a cruiser line while surfaced was unheard of. Merchant ships, maybe. But never warships.

  Speed was the key, Malachi thought. Soon they would start a zigzag plan, which meant that at any moment the entire formation could turn away by as much as thirty degrees and leave him in the dust. Or, they could turn toward him and run right into him. Fifty-fifty chance, he told himself. Not bad odds. But if they did turn in his direction, the closing speed would be 40 knots. Two miles, every three minutes.

  “Conn, XO: the bearing drift has stopped. We are on a collision course with the formation. Course and speed confirmed. Two five five at twenty-five knots. Intercept in nineteen minutes.”

  “And no zigzag?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Okay, here’s my plan: If they turn away we can’t catch them. If they zig toward us, we’ll be right in front of them. I want a five-torpedo spread, depth setting three feet, speed high, contact exploders, two-degree spread. Open outer doors, make ready tubes one through six when the range gets to five thousand yards.”

  “XO: aye.”

  “Lookouts,” Malachi called. “Lay below.”

  There was a brief scramble and then he was alone on the bridge. He glued his eyes to the TBT optics and strained to see anything. He really wanted a cigarette but could not risk that red ember being detected. He thought that one of the lookouts, a petty officer, had been just a bit white-eyed as he came down from his perch and disappeared into the conning tower trunk.

  “How many minutes to intercept?” Malachi asked.

  “Thirteen minutes.”

  Screw it, he thought. He sat down on the steel deck grates of the bridge, his sea boots wedged against the steel windscreen and his back up against the periscope tower. Hidden behind the windscreen, he lit up a cigarette. As he exhaled that wonderful first drag, he saw the smoke whip down through the conning tower hatch. He grinned and looked at his radium dial watch. Twelve minutes to intercept; plenty of time for the smoke.

  After he finished his cigarette, he rubbed it out on the deck grates and stood back up, his lungs comfortably poisoned. He went back to the TBT and scanned the night. Still nothing.

  “Conn, XO: they are coming right. Column formation. I think they’ve started their zigzag plan. Looks like a destroyer out front, two heavies, and one tin can behind. Current bearing is steadying on—zero niner one.”

  “Work up a solution for a head-on shot. Change course as necessary and slow to five knots before firing. Commence firing torpedoes when the range is four thousand yards. Once all the fish are away, come to due north and increase to flank speed. If I can get a visual I’ll send a TBT bearing.”

  The exec repeated back his instructions. Malachi reviewed the attack geometry. He’d be firing at a range of 2 miles with the targets coming at him at the relative speed of 40 knots. The lead destroyer would see the wakes coming in and sound the warning. Hopefully the t
wo heavies would turn to avoid and thereby present their broadsides to the incoming torpedo swarm. Five fish would take fifty seconds to get out of their tubes. By then the range would be only 3,000 yards, close enough for the lead destroyer to see him and open fire with his deck guns.

  So, get the fish away, make the turn, run at 22 knots away from whatever was happening to the formation, and then crash dive if any of the ships opened up with guns. He felt the boat make a slight course adjustment and begin to slow down.

  “Five thousand yards. Solution obtained. Radar mast coming down. You coming down, Captain?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “I want to watch.”

  There was no reply to that. A few moments later he felt the first fish leave its tube. He took another look through the big TBT binocs, scanning the night dead ahead. Nothing. A second thump, then a third. The targets were closing at him at almost 45 miles an hour. He looked again and thought he saw white in the water—bow waves or torpedo wakes? There was no way to tell.

  He looked again to see if he could make out the torpedo wakes, but he could not. Then the boat heeled over as the exec began the turn. He heard the diesels open up to full power and felt the breeze stiffen up. They’d come left, so he had to look back toward their port quarter. Still nothing. He switched off the TBT and moved closer to the hatch, still peering through the navigation bridge railing.

  Suddenly a large red flare blossomed into the night, followed by an enormous explosion that turned night into day and squeezed his eardrums a few seconds later. Behind the towering column of fire he saw the upper works of a Jap heavy cruiser, and then that was obscured by a red-hued waterspout that rose up along her starboard side to twice the height of her pagoda mast structure, followed by a second one farther aft.

  The targets were drawing aft rapidly. Whatever they’d hit at the head of the column continued to disintegrate in a series of what had to be magazine explosions. The lead cruiser was visibly slowing down with a cloud of reddish steam enveloping her amidships, and then he thought he could see the shape of a second cruiser materializing behind the one he’d hit, sheering out to port to avoid the one ahead.