“Sister, there’s a man in my room,” Kensie announced.
Malachi blinked and stood up. “Yes there is, Doctor,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?”
She gave him a wan smile and then extended her hand. “So glad you’re here,” she said. “I think I rather fell apart. They’ll never let me live this down.”
He sat down on the bed and kissed her hand. “I came as soon as I found out,” he said. “Your dad and I went for a drink, and then he left me here while he took your mother home. She was … upset.”
“She was truly upset, I suspect,” Kensie said. “To see me in a hospital bed rather than next to one. She and her family have really suffered in this war. She’s a love, but this war has frightened her more than Lambert and I realized. Sometimes I think she’s getting a bit dotty. My hours here haven’t helped.”
“Do you want to go home?” he asked.
“God, yes,” she said. “This is ICU—I’m hardly critical.” Then she hesitated. “Actually, no, I don’t want to go home. I want to go somewhere else, where I can sleep and not worry about missing my shift. And where a nice man I happen to know will hold me in the night and give me no aggro if I happen to demand a whiskey at an inconvenient time.
“Wow,” he said. “Tall order. I’ll have to think about that.”
She gave him an are-you-kidding-me look and he grinned. “Okay, all done,” he said. “How do we get you out of this joint?”
“I need to get a doctor to discharge me,” she said. “Oh.”
“Atta girl,” Malachi said.
EIGHTEEN
Malachi, the exec, and the COB were in the conning tower along with the OOD, the navigator, and one plotter.
“So that’s Truk,” the exec said as he peered through the periscope. “Happy new year, Truk. Although you don’t look like much.”
“We’re on the other side of the lagoon from the main naval anchorage,” Malachi said. “Even so, I don’t much like being here. Down scope.”
“From the intel briefs I understood this was the Jap fleet’s main base,” the exec said. “Ought to be some useful targets.”
“Not our mission, apparently,” Malachi said, handing the exec the single piece of paper that had comprised their sealed, secret orders, which were to be opened upon arrival in the assigned patrol area. The exec read them, and then shook his head.
“Report, but not attack?”
“Not unless it’s a truly valuable target,” Malachi said. “Think carrier or battleship. It seems there’s some big operation coming down in the Solomons, so our job is to report any major force movements out of Truk. They don’t want us to reveal our presence, which also might explain the light torpedo load.”
The boat had left Perth with only ten torpedoes, one for each tube. It was obviously a strictly defensive loadout. The tender torpedo office had told them that the shortage was even worse than it had been, and that that was all they could have. That was one explanation, but, before he’d opened the orders, Malachi had wondered if the admiral was sending him a message: Don’t want to use the torpedoes the way I want you to use them? We’ll give ’em to someone who plays by the rules.
“Make your depth two five zero, and come to course two seven zero,” Malachi ordered. “There are three passages out of this lagoon. One’s too shallow for big ships, so our job is to watch the other two. If we see something significant, we wait until nightfall, surface and run fifty miles away from the lagoon, and then, and only then, send out the message. Apparently the Jap HF direction-finding net is improving.”
“Just like their radar detection equipment,” the exec said, remembering the pasting they’d taken off Surabaya. That news had hit the SubPac community hard and, inevitably, prompting some Doubting Thomases back at headquarters to question Malachi’s theory.
The COB had come up to the conning tower to get a periscope look at Truk Lagoon just before the exec. “I still don’t understand how us using our radar told the Japs right where we were,” he said. “All they’d get was one bearing; how’d they know how far out we were?”
“By using more than one listening device,” Malachi said. “Remember, a radar sends out a pulse of energy. If the pulse hits something, it reflects some of that energy back to the radar receiver. But since the rest of the pulse keeps going, your signal can be detected miles and miles farther out than your receiver’s range. They can’t know how far away that signal originated, but if you put up three listening devices with some decent bearing separation, you can get a passive bearing fix on where that radar is. That’s how that destroyer division knew right where to go. Has to be.”
“Stable at two hundred fifty feet,” Control reported over the bitchbox. “On course two seven zero at five knots.”
“Is there a layer?”
“No, sir, no layer.”
“Okay, XO, here’s what I want: get us ten miles away from that lagoon, and then slow to three knots and begin a big submerged circle around Truk. Conduct a passive acoustic search. If some big guys come out, we should hear them assuming we’re near whichever passage they’re using.”
“And if we’re not?”
“Well, then, we’ll miss ’em,” Malachi replied, impatiently. “I didn’t say this was a smart way to use a submarine, did I. How many hours to full dark?”
“About seven, sir,” the navigator said.
Malachi groaned and then went down the ladder and forward to his cabin. This was almost as bad as Pearl’s latest great idea, using the subs to lay small minefields around Jap bases and choke points in the various southwest Pacific island chains. Now some genius had assigned a single boat, Firefish, to patrol the perimeter of a lagoon in the middle of nowhere that contained 800 square miles of anchorage and whose reef was 140 miles around. And if a Jap carrier happened by, the were not to shoot at him?
He closed the curtain, flipped off the overhead lights, and lay down on his bed. That was a signal not to disturb him unless something operational required it. As he closed his eyes he realized he was getting a little tired of the Navy’s political games in Perth. He’d run two unusually successful patrols during a time when the Navy was still trying to get back on its feet after a long series of defeats. Now here they were, on their third patrol at the beginning of the new year, with him still at least partially in the doghouse back at Perth. So much so that they’d assigned him to picket duty off Truk with only enough torpedoes to defend the boat in case some Jap destroyer jumped them. And, oh, by the way, his crew was scared of him. The Iceman. He snorted in the dim light coming through the curtain from the passageway. Maybe he should do this milk-run bullshit patrol, go back to Perth, and hand the keys over.
Then he heard the general announcing system click on.
“General quarters, general quarters. Fire, fire, fire in the after torpedo room. Secure the boat.”
Malachi made it to the control room just in time as all the watertight doors in the boat were being slammed shut and dogged down. The ventilation had been shut off immediately.
“Take her up to periscope depth,” he ordered. “Where’s Truk?”
“The lagoon bears two six five, range estimated ten miles. We’re halfway around.”
Malachi needed to put some distance between Firefish and Truk in case they had to surface, but the battery was depleted after a day submerged. “Then come to zero nine zero, five knots. Is everybody out of after torpedo?”
“Chief engineer says he thinks so, but they’re still counting heads. The fire was in an electrical panel, but it’s spread to berthing material and insulation. Bad smoke, sir. Repair party’s about to go back in.”
“Okay, they know what to do,” Malachi said. “I’m going to go get a look around from the conning tower.”
He climbed up into the conning tower and called for the periscope, only to find they weren’t at periscope depth yet. The boat was still turning, and the air was already getting hotter. The exec had gone aft to oversee the firefighting effort.
Malachi tried not to think of what would happen if the fire spread to the after torpedo tubes, but then was grateful they were carrying no reloads, because they would already be cooking by now. Then he remembered that all he had to do was open outer doors aft and flood the four tubes. He ordered Control to do that.
The big problem was that the fire, now burning canvas racks, bulkhead insulation, and bedding was consuming oxygen while filling the compartment with toxic smoke. Anybody who hadn’t got out before the hatches were locked down would be a goner. He dared not restore ventilation, because then the smoke would fill the entire boat.
“Steady at periscope depth,” Control reported. “Repair party is on scene.”
“Up scope,” Malachi ordered. He was careful to not just pop it out at full height, in case there happened to be Japs nearby. “Make your speed three knots,” he ordered, to reduce the periscope’s wake. It wasn’t just Jap ships he needed to worry about this close to their main southwest Pacific base. A Kawanishi could kill them just as well as any Jap destroyer.
It was late afternoon, so there were at least a couple hours of full daylight left. The seas were mostly calm, with a light chop indicating maybe ten knots of wind. He walked the scope around through 360 degrees. The seas were empty. He thought about using the radar, but after the last patrol he had decided to be sparing with it. If the Japs had put up a radar detection net at Surabaya, they’d sure as hell have one here.
“Down scope,” he called. “Sound, Conn: anything?”
“Negative contacts, Captain,” the sonar shack replied. “Control, Conn: progress report?”
“Three men unaccounted for, Captain. XO’s gone into the compartment. Maneuvering is getting smoke.”
“Very well,” Malachi said. He was itching to go back there, but that would mean opening four watertight hatches just to get to Maneuvering. The repair party should be in oxygen breathing apparatuses, and hopefully the exec had put one on, too, before entering the fire zone. If Maneuvering was getting smoke, it meant they hadn’t totally isolated the after torpedo room. And if smoke was getting out, then air was getting in and sustaining the damned fire.
“Control: who’s working the isolation of after torpedo?”
“Chief engineer, Captain, and whatever it is, it’s really small. Wait one.” A pause. “XO’s back out. The fire is being starved of oxygen but it’s still glowing. Request permission for the repair party to go in and fight it with CO-two.”
“Permission granted. Any word on the three missing men?”
“Negative, sir. Too much smoke. Repair party is entering the space.”
“Conn, Sound: I have screwbeats, bearing three five zero, slight up-Doppler. Multiples, I think. Something big.”
Malachi sighed. Just what he needed right now. He turned to the radar operator. “I want to put the surface search radar mast up, but do not rotate the antenna. I want it pointed at three fifty true, energized for thirty seconds, and then pull it down. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, got it,” the operator said.
“Conn, Control: repair party is backing out. When they opened the hatch, the fire reflashed.”
“All right, ask the XO to call me here in the conning tower. In the meantime, open all outer doors forward.”
The exec came in on a sound-powered phone. His voice sounded dry and stressed from the OBA air. In the background, Malachi heard the radar mast going up.
“XO, here’s what I need you to do: go back in there in three minutes, when the fire’s had a chance to use up that oxygen. I want you to go all the way aft to the torpedo tubes and manually fire one fish. The after outer doors are opening now. Once the fish is away, get out and call me. When I know you’re back out I will close the after outer doors. Then I want two people to go back in. You go in and open the empty tube to the compartment like you were going to reload it. The second guy goes in and opens the suction valve to the main eductor in after torpedo. Then you both get out.”
“What are you going to do, sir?”
“Once you’re both clear, I’m going to reopen outer doors aft, which will flood that compartment and extinguish the fire. Then we’ll close outer doors again and activate the eductor to get all that water out.”
“Yes, sir, got it.”
“Oh, by the way, there’s a Jap formation coming our way, just for grins.”
“Why not,” the exec said, and then hung up.
“Control, Conn: the exec is going back into after torpedo to manually fire one tube. Tell me when he’s back out, and then prepare to counterballast against a flooded after torpedo room.”
“Control: uh, aye, sir.”
Malachi looked around the conning tower space. The attack crew was in place, having nowhere else to go during a fire emergency. They all appeared to be digesting the news that the captain was going to intentionally flood the after torpedo room. “Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Prepare for an attack on the heavy coming our way.”
The attack crew jumped to it, cranking up the plotting table and the TDC. The TDC operator started talking to sonar, which, at the moment, was their only source of information about whatever was headed their way.
“Conn, Control: XO’s going in. They think they’ve found the air leak in an LP air line. Maneuvering is de-smoking now.”
“Conn: aye, have the XO call me when he gets back out. Radar, what’d you get?”
“Five contacts, four destroyer size, one big bastard. Escorts are in a bent-line screen ahead of the big guy. They’re out at ten miles and closing. Steady bearing, still three five zero.”
“Okay, do that again in three minutes so we can get a course and speed. I want the big guy. Gonna fire all we got at him. Forward torpedo: set fish on contact exploders, running depth ten feet, speed high. No spread—all on the firing line.”
They waited, and then felt the pulse of a torpedo launching from the back end and howling off to nowhere.
“Conn, Control: XO is back out.” Malachi acknowledged and then immediately ordered the after outer doors closed. The sound-powered phone squeaked; it was the exec. “Captain, that fire is still getting air from somewhere,” he said. “And it’s spreading. I barely got out.”
“Any sign of the three missing guys?”
“No, sir. Visibility in after torpedo is zero-zero. I had to crawl the deck plates to get to the tubes. If they’re in there, they’re long gone.”
“I’m closing the after outer doors right now. You think you can go in one more time and open up that tube?”
“I can try, sir,” the exec said. “I’ll need a hose team to follow me in and keep me covered. The COB’s here now—he’ll go for the eductor valve under the deck plates.”
“Okay, do your best, but stay alive. If you can’t do it, then back out and we’ll try something else.”
“For what it’s worth, sir, I concur with flooding the space,” the exec said. “That flask handle was already hot.”
Malachi hung up. The radar operator was trying to get his attention. “Conn, Radar: second sweep complete. Bearing remains three five zero. Range is now seven miles and closing.”
“Based on that,” a plotter said, “plot has the formation at twenty-five knots.”
“Very well,” Malachi said. They’d be on top in about five minutes. “Come to course three five zero,” he ordered. “Prepare tubes one through six.”
He desperately wanted to take a periscope look at the approaching formation, but really didn’t need to. Steady bearing, decreasing range meant the formation would run right over the top of Firefish. The real problem would come when they fired all those fish and then tried to make the boat go deep, with the front end lighter by 12,000 pounds worth of torpedoes and the back end heavier with a flooded after torpedo room.
“Conn, Control: XO and COB are back out and the hatch secured. Tube ten air flask assembly is open to the compartment.”
“Conn: aye,” Malachi said. Now, he thought: decision time. Flood it now, and Control might lo
se control of the boat and pop to the surface right in front of the Japs. Or, let it burn, fire the six fish forward in the next three minutes, and then flood after torpedo. It was a tough call, especially when his orders were not to attack anything but rather to wait and report.
“Forward torpedo reports six tubes ready, settings applied,” the TDC operator announced. “Time to fire is one hundred thirty seconds.”
“Conn: aye,” Malachi said. “Up scope.” He just had to take a look. If it was a carrier coming, he’d attack. Anything else, he’d dive now and worry about them later. He squatted down as the scope came up. He dropped the handles and rotated the scope to look at 350 degrees true bearing.
“Conn, Control: Maneuvering reports the hatch to after torpedo is getting too hot to touch.”
Malachi swore. If he waited much longer, the torpedoes might cook off even with the tubes flooded. He acknowledged the report, and then finally got the scope to focus on the near horizon. There were four contacts that he could see. Three small ones, and one much bigger. No, two much bigger. Two aircraft carriers, one slightly larger than the other, bows on, the distinctive shape of their flight decks clearly visible.
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