The Iceman_A Novel

by P. T. Deutermann

  “I hit her with four fish,” Malachi said. “Four of six fired. She just drove off. Once again, the Mark fourteen let us down.”

  “We’ve made progress on that,” the commodore said. “Or, rather, Pearl has. They found out that the contact exploder pin was being crushed when it hit at a ninety-degree angle. BuOrd’s working on a new design, but Nimitz has also ordered the magnetic exploder deactivated permanently.”

  “Well, that is progress,” Malachi said, remembering the COB’s theory.

  The commodore smiled wearily. “Yes, and no,” he said. “Our admiral doesn’t work for Nimitz—he works for MacArthur. He has determined that the Perth boats will still use the magnetic exploder.”

  Malachi just stared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Well, the problem I saw is that the warheads are just too small to deal with battleships. I’m glad we hurt him, but I think we’d be much better off concentrating on tankers. If their big guys can’t get fuel, they’re no threat to anybody.”

  The commodore put his hands up in a sign of surrender. “You’re preaching to the choir, Malachi,” he said. “In the meantime, how’s the boat and the crew?”

  “The bomb was my fault,” he said. “I’d forgotten that it was daylight topside and I’d forgotten we were only forty miles, if that, from a Kawanishi base.”

  “A battleship in your periscope, even an antique, will do that,” the commodore said. “We’ll get a damage assessment in the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime, I want you to take some time off. You look like you got rode hard and put away wet.”

  “To tell the truth, I feel like I got rode hard and then run over a cliff,” Malachi admitted. “In that regard—”

  “Yes?”

  “My XO, Marty Brandquist. He did a superlative job on this patrol. I think he’s ready to go into the PCO pool, my former comments not withstanding.”

  “Changed your mind?”

  “He may not have the killer instinct, Commodore,” Malachi said, “but he’s smart, expert on an attack, and already thinking like a skipper. And always right there when I needed him. I think he’s ready to go out on a PCO patrol and then get his own boat.”

  The commodore sat back in his chair. “That’s quite a turnaround,” he said. “Want to tell me what really happened out there?”

  Malachi sighed and slumped in his chair. He told the commodore about their disagreement about making sure there were no survivors from the Kawanishi.

  The commodore nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “And, yes, he would have to transfer after a conversation like that. I agree with you, by the way. Up to then the Japs didn’t know one of our boats was there. You did exactly the right thing, in my opinion. It’s not like the Japs don’t do that on a regular basis.”

  “I finally figured out that it wasn’t a weakness, but rather a difference in operational opinion. We hit that Kawanishi hard and fast. There may have been no survivors to worry about. But…”

  The commodore was silent for a moment. “One of our skippers surfaced after sinking a troop transport and ordered the machine-gunning of several hundred troops in the water in lifejackets. His XO asked to be transferred when they got back to Pearl. The matter was hushed up because that skipper was, well, let’s just say, untouchable in terms of how many ships he’s sunk. This matter is small potatoes compared to that, and I’ll forward your recommendation to the admiral about Marty Brandquist. Write it up as soon as possible.”

  Malachi reached into his briefcase. “Did that on the transit back,” he said, handing the memorandum over. He then produced his captain’s log.

  “Does Marty know you’re doing this?” the commodore asked.

  “As long as you approved, I was going to put a copy of that in his inbasket before I go ashore tonight. That way he won’t start cranking on a request-to-transfer letter.”

  “Yes, good move. Get back to your boat and see how bad the periscope stack’s been damaged, but then do get ashore. Maybe call that good-looking doctor friend of yours.”

  Malachi’s brows rose in surprise.

  The commodore grinned. “Why are you surprised, Captain?” he said. “We commodores know stuff.”

  Back aboard Firefish the news on the periscope assemblies was mixed. The attack scope was well and truly hammered. The acquisition scope was damaged but repairable. The surface search radar mast needed new suspension bearings, and the air search mast was okay.

  “Fortunately,” the repair superintendent told him, “the last of our refugee S-boats is being sent back to Pearl next week. We’re going to do a little raping and pillaging, since she’s going back for de-comm. We’ll take her entire attack scope assembly, do a little metal bending, and put it in Firefish. We’re also going to relieve her of her twenty-millimeter mount, which happens to be a twin barreled set. Your boatswain is beside himself.”

  “I’ll just bet he is,” Malachi said. Then he went to find the exec, who was busy in the engine room arguing with a tender engineer. Malachi gave him the high sign and they went back to his cabin.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Number four engine needs a new injector rack,” the exec said. “They don’t want to do it. They’re claiming the engine needs a complete overhaul and that’s shipyard work, not tender work. BuShips rules.”

  Malachi sighed. The tail wagging the dog, again. Then he asked about the boat’s RFS status.

  “We’re rearmed and refueled,” the exec replied. “Of course without periscopes we’re not going anywhere productive, but we can leave port if we have to.”

  “Excellent,” Malachi said. “You know about how they’re gonna do the scopes?”

  “Yes, sir. Sounds good to me and a whole lot better than a three-week trip back to Pearl.”

  “Yes,” Malachi said. “Okay—I’m going ashore to the hotel. There’s a memo you need to read—I put it in your cabin. Basically, it says that I recommend you for independent command and for orders to the prospective commanding officer pool in Pearl. From there you’ll make a PCO cruise with another skipper, and then get your own boat, unless you piss him off.”

  The exec was clearly stunned. “I thought—” he began, but Malachi cut him off.

  “You rate it and you’re ready,” he said. “You’ve demonstrated that more than once. The incident with the Kawanishi was one of those things they call a command decision. Within the year you’re going to learn all about that. I’ve told the commodore, and he’s going to forward my recommendation up the chain. You might begin preps for a turnover with a new XO.”

  “Do we know—?”

  “Hell, no,” Malachi said. “But he’ll have some big shoes to fill. Well done, Marty. Now I’m going ashore.”

  “You’ve almost never called me Marty before,” the exec observed. “All this time…”

  “Well, I guess that’s why they call me The Iceman,” Malachi said. “For whatever it’s worth, Marty, it was never personal.”

  Malachi got a ride downtown to the hotel, went to his room, ordered in room service, took a thirty-minute hot shower, and went to bed. For once, the killing dream stayed away. The next morning, much refreshed, he had breakfast in the hotel dining room and then took a cab back to the tender and Firefish. He spent the day wrangling various repair jobs, going through the three bags of official mail to see what had to be dealt with and what could be “lost” in wartime transit. The supply officer had conducted payday the afternoon before, with the inevitable consequences ashore in the bars and fleshpots of Perth/Fremantle. Through all this, he’d been waiting for the call from the admiral, who had, by now, read his captain’s log. It came at 1600, just as the crew was headed ashore for the evening. The tender provided him a car to the admiral’s downtown office. The commodore was present for the meeting.

  “A most interesting patrol, Captain,” the admiral began. “Everything from a seaplane to a tanker to a battleship. And a typhoon, for your sins. And then you brought us back a bomb. How are you?”
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  “I’m tired, Admiral,” Malachi said. “We all are. It was interesting, but in the Chinese sense of that word.”

  The admiral smiled. “Yes, indeed. I know exactly what you mean. Well, Pearl is beyond pleased with your assault on Yamashiro. They’ll get her refloated and back into operation, no doubt, but it really offends them when we hit one of their capital ships. My congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Malachi said.

  “Your squadron commander has forwarded your recommendation for your exec to go to the PCO pool. I concur, and we’ll make that happen. In the meantime, we’ll need to find you another exec, but ComSubPac will need to weigh in on that. From what I’ve been told, your repairs will take a couple of weeks, so we have time. But here’s the question: you’ve done three patrols as CO. Are you up to doing another one? Or do you want to take some time off and then maybe go to new construction?”

  “I think I can do another,” Malachi said. “Pressing my luck, perhaps, but we’ve done some damage in Firefish.”

  “You absolutely have,” the admiral said. “But recently the force had a case where the CO, who was, apparently, emotionally and physically exhausted, handed over command to his exec in the middle of a war patrol, went to his cabin, and stayed there for the remainder of his patrol. This prompted Pearl to ask the question: how many patrols should a CO make?”

  Malachi could only shrug. “Depends on the patrols, and it depends on the age and resilience of the CO, I guess,” he replied. “A couple of oh-my-God, this-is-it depth-chargings can make all the difference. I think the fleet’s strategy has a bearing on this.”

  “Yes?”

  “As long as we’re being sent out to attack carriers and battleships, we’re put in the position of attacking heavily defended formations. Personally, I think we ought to be hunting down and destroying their logistics train—tankers, freighters, troop carriers, seaplane tenders, repair ships, any convoy that contains no capital ships. Even tankers alone might do it—strangle their fuel oil supply, the battleships and the carriers will have to stay in port. When you think about it, the Japs are seriously overextended, and Japan has no oil.”

  The admiral sat back in his chair and thought about that for a minute. “You might be interested to know that that concept is even now being discussed at SubPac headquarters. Your squad dog here tells me he wants you to take some time off, and I support that. You’ve been successful. Very successful. But here’s what I want. Go on leave for a week. Get away from the war and the boat, as much as you can. And then come back and tell me you can do another patrol, or not. When you do, don’t hesitate to say no, because everybody back at home coming behind you could benefit from what you know and what you’ve learned. No one will gainsay your decision, okay?”

  Malachi didn’t know what to say. Did the admiral want him to quit? Was his unrelenting tactical aggression causing more problems than he was worth? The admiral’s demeanor had changed from thinly veiled hostility to one of concern. The admiral saw him hesitating.

  “Our two most aggressive and tactically brilliant COs have recently been lost,” he said. “We have, as usual, no idea of what happened to them and their boats. One was on his fourth patrol; the other on his fifth. The docs in Pearl are telling ComSubPac that command fatigue especially is cumulative. So think about it, please. Now—go get a beer.”

  Malachi left the office totally confused, and then realized that he might be an example of just what the “docs in Pearl” were talking about. One good, and dreamless, sleep did not a recovery make. The beer sounded good, however.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  By seven that evening he was back at his usual corner table in the rooftop bar and lounge, savoring that beer. He’d gone back to the boat to see how Marty was coming with all the crises, and then told him he’d be on leave for a week, most likely in town. He said he’d set the XO up for a similar week off when he got back. Everybody was always concerned about the CO’s physical and mental state, but it was his job to do the same for his exec, who did not get to go sit down in the wardroom and have a cigarette and a coffee after the action was over.

  There were two other skippers and the usual pretty girls behind the bar attending to their needs, real and imagined. He recognized one, but the other commander was a stranger. They’d been too busy with the bartenders to notice when he’d slipped in and gone to “his” table in a far corner. From there he could overlook the city and just barely make out the harbor in the distance. The air was much less humid now that the northeast monsoon had settled in. He wondered if typhoons ever came here. Probably not, he thought: Perth/Fremantle was about as remote as you could get on this planet. And Kensie was engaged to be married.

  He’d called the hospital before coming up and asked if he could speak to her. The operator had taken his message and the hotel number. Ten minutes later her assistant called back and gently informed him that Dr. Richmond was away until tomorrow, having taken a week off to attend some parties at the family’s station to celebrate her engagement to Gerald Hightower, the eldest son of the family that owned the sole transcontinental railroad in Australia. It had taken Malachi a few seconds to absorb this news.

  “Well,” he’d said. “Please tell her I send my sincerest congratulations and wish her every happiness.”

  “I will certainly do that, Captain,” the assistant had said, obviously aware of the surprise he’d just delivered.

  Now at the bar he thought back to their times together. She had told him that her father wanted to make a marriage for her that would cement the Richmond family’s position as one of Australia’s premier industrial magnates. Owner of yet another railroad ought to do it, he thought. Maybe it was his confession that had made her realize that how they felt about each other was painfully vulnerable to the vagaries of this war. He was about as temporary a feature in her life as one could get—the skipper of one of America’s submarines in wartime, which had a nasty habit of disappearing without a trace on a regular basis, like the two he’d just heard about. God, he’d miss her, though, he thought. Should never have told her.

  Two nights later, unable to sleep, he went out for a late-night walk along the city streets. There were few people about, other than the occasional joint US-Aussie shore patrols keeping an eye out for passed-out drunks along the storefronts now that the pubs had all closed. Two of them were walking ahead of him. The occasional Ute, Australia’s ubiquitous utility vehicle, clattered by, but everyone else seemed to have gone to bed. The Fremantle harbor area and the mouth of the Swan River were under a blackout order, but up here in Perth itself the lights were still on. MacArthur’s recent victories over the Japanese Army in New Guinea had pretty much dissipated the threat of invasion in Australia. The flow of casualties, however, had not diminished one bit.

  He’d been thinking about what the admiral had said: can you do a fourth patrol, or is it maybe time for you to go back to Pearl and help train all the new boats that were streaming out to the Pacific war in increasing numbers. He’d made a big mistake exposing the boat to a Kawanishi and now the specter of fatigue was playing on his mind. If he came off the boat now, he’d be leaving at the top of his game. He could go on to another command, or even to a staff. Maybe the staff right here in Perth. Being able to see Kensie would have been part of that decision, although, realistically, there never had been much chance of any real future with her. She’d alluded to the fact that her father’s ambitions for her were somewhat medieval, but it was no surprise that the daughter of a seriously prominent family would be expected to do better than an itinerant American naval officer. Now it seemed her father had clarified that question beyond any doubt.

  There was a screech of tires out in the street. One of the Utes had come to a sudden stop and was backing up. Then the driver’s side window rolled down, framing Kensie’s smiling face. “G’dday, mate—need a lift?”

  Malachi was so surprised he failed to answer. The Aussie member of the shore patrol duo turned around and said,
sotto voce: the answer is yes, you berk.

  Malachi grinned at him and then went out into the street to get in. Then he had to go around the vehicle because the Aussies, like the Brits, drove from the right side of the vehicle … on the wrong side of the damned road, too.

  He climbed into the boxy vehicle and closed the door. “I guess congratulations are in order,” he said.

  “Whatever for?” she asked.

  “Engagement to somebody Hightower?”

  She stopped the Ute in the middle of the empty street. “What?” she cried. “Who told you that rubbish?”

  “Your ace assistant at the hospital. Said you’d been on a week’s leave to celebrate your engagement to—”

  “To Jerry Hightower?” she asked, before breaking into peals of laughter. “Oh, God, that’s funny.” Then she realized he was being serious, and she reached across the front seat to take his hand. “I’ve done no such thing, dear heart. I’ve been off for a week because I told them I’d quit if I didn’t get some time off. Spent the week at the station. And yes, we were celebrating Jerry’s engagement, but not to me, for God’s sakes. To a Melbourne heiress named Pamela Carstairs, who’s probably the only woman in Australia who’d have him. Jerry’s a world-class cad, a serious drunk, and possibly a switch-hitter in the bedroom, but his father owns the transcontinental railroad, so there you are. They were out here—the Hightowers and the Carstairs—because Father Time had acquired the coal mines and their railroads. The party was secondary. Oh, the look on your face.”

  “Your assistant is a dead man,” Malachi growled.

  She put the Ute in gear and asked if he still had his hotel room at the Benbow.