“Yes,” he said.
“I’m asking because some of the submarines stationed here are supposedly moving to new bases up north.”
“So much for military secrets,” he laughed. “Your sources may well be better than mine, but I haven’t heard that rumor. To my knowledge there aren’t any bases north of here that are ours, anyway. I have a week off, by the way. Admiral’s orders.”
“Shit!” she exclaimed. “I just took a week off. I was on my way to Melbourne House for the night when I saw you. Back on shift at six a.m. sharpish, unfortunately.”
“What is Melbourne House?”
“Another requisitioned hotel downtown for the docs and senior nursing staff at the hospital. Pretty plain digs, but by the end of a shift in the OR, we’re all ready for a night’s sleep and little else.”
“And you were on shift today, right?”
“Gawd, yes.”
“Damn.”
She hooted at that. “Poor thing,” she said. “Poor deprived thing.”
“Depraved is more like it,” he said, before realizing they were at his hotel.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The new exec’s name was Sanford Higgins. He was class of 1933 and Malachi thought he looked much too young to already be a lieutenant commander. Higgins and Marty had done a three-day turnover while Malachi was enjoying his nights much better than his days. Marty had then flown to Brisbane in preparation for a ride on a boat going back to Pearl for shipyard work. Higgins was not quite six feet tall, with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes. He had maintained his football player’s physique since graduation, and he appeared to have a positive outlook on most matters. He was friendly with the enlisted and, more importantly, the COB thought he was okay, which was an important vote of confidence. His last duty station had been on a fleet boat out of Pearl as the Ops officer. In their first official CO/XO meeting, Higgins was ready with a thorough status on the boat’s repairs, some personnel changes, and news that the boat was going out a week earlier than anticipated when she’d first come in.
“Any idea as to the Op area?” Malachi asked.
“No, sir, sealed orders forthcoming. But we’re getting a full load of torpedoes for a change, so somebody’s expecting rich pickings.”
“What do you think so far about Firefish?” Malachi asked.
“Looks and sounds like a good boat,” Higgins said, carefully. “Can’t argue with all those rising suns on the sail, either. She’s got a super rep in Pearl.”
Malachi wanted to ask him if he’d heard the name Iceman back in Pearl, but he knew that would put Higgins in a difficult position. “Okay,” he said. “Welcome aboard. I won’t bore you with a philosophical discussion of how I run things, and I’m sure Marty filled you in. I plan to be aboard during working hours, and at the skippers’ billet downtown nights until we sail. I have a meeting with the admiral tomorrow morning.”
“Do you need any staffing or prep materials for that meeting, Captain?”
“No, XO,” Malachi replied with a weary smile. “Just me. That’s the usual subject of my meetings with the admiral.”
He was shown into the admiral’s office downtown the next morning at ten o’clock. The admiral pointed him toward a chair while he finished up with two staff officers—something about torpedoes. When they left the admiral lit up a cigarette, offered one to Malachi, who accepted gratefully. He needed one right about now.
“Well, Captain, I’m told that Firefish has come back together in fine fashion, so much so that Pearl wants her back on patrol a week earlier than we estimated. How’s your new exec?”
“Looks like an upstanding citizen,” Malachi said. “I’ll know better once we’re at sea.”
“Right,” the admiral said. “So, how’s by you?”
“I’m better, Admiral,” Malachi said. “Got some time off away from the boat, physically and mentally. Got some good sleep, too.”
“Yes, you look better than when you came in from that last patrol. Apparently your doctor friend knows what she’s doing.”
“Indeed she does, Admiral,” Malachi said with a smile.
“God bless Australia,” the admiral said. “Now, some news. The targeting guidance has been changed. We now are to expand our operations to fold in merchant shipping, especially tankers.”
“Ah,” Malachi said.
“Yes, I know you favor that, and I agree with the new guidance. Instead of attacking heavily protected battleship and carrier formations, we’re going to attack the means by which the big boys can get to sea in the first place. Your attack on that battleship may have figured in this decision.”
“Because the only reason he was in Brunei in the first place was to get oil?”
“Precisely. Now, you know what I need to ask you.”
“Yes, sir, and the answer is yes, I’m ready to go back out. I’m rested, the boat is getting closer to RFS, I’ve got a new and fresh XO, and I understand we’re getting a full load of fish. That sounds like my kind of patrol.”
“Indeed,” the admiral said. “It’s been eighteen months since Pearl Harbor. The Japs are finished in the Solomon’s and it appears they’re starting to realize that. In other words, they’re shifting to defense. MacArthur is driving, well, maybe creeping, north through New Guinea and Indonesia. Everybody knows his true objective is the Philippines. Nimitz is preparing to drive north through the western Pacific islands with an eye toward getting airfields for the new long-range bombers. Then we’ll start to attack the home islands. Basically, the Japs have overextended themselves. We need our best skippers to go out there and demonstrate that to them.”
“We’ll go do just that, Admiral.”
The admiral sat back in his chair and finished his cigarette. “You’re a hard case, Malachi Stormes,” he said, finally. “I didn’t think much of you when we first met. But you’ve convinced me that you are precisely the kind of skipper we need right now: aggressive, focused, and willing to go in harm’s way. The submarine force is going to make the difference in this war. Chester Nimitz has said as much. Good hunting, Captain.”
TWENTY-NINE
Just after nine p.m. the radar operator called a contact, three of them, actually. Range nineteen miles, bearing northwest. The boat was on the surface recharging batteries, idling along at seven knots and changing course every fifteen minutes as a precaution against a Jap submarine ambush. The night sky was dramatic: a half moon popping in and out of towering cumulonimbus clouds, flickering with occasional lightning. The seas were calm but “uneasy,” as the new exec termed it. Malachi and Higgins were on the bridge, with four lookouts posted above them. They’d been in their assigned area, northwest of Palau Island, and had seen nothing at all for three nights and days.
“About time,” Malachi said, lighting up another cigarette. Higgins didn’t smoke. “So, did Marty tell you how he and I worked attacks?”
“Yes, sir,” Higgins said. “He said you prefer surface attacks, with you up here on the TDT and him down in the conning tower, directing the attack team.”
“Correct,” Malachi said. “As far as we know, the Japs don’t have radar, but we do think they can detect submarine radars. So we radiate one sweep at a time, just enough to develop a course and speed track on the targets. The attack team recommends courses and speeds to get in position, I send the final bearings down to confirm we have correct track data, and then we fire.”
“What about the zigzag?”
“Yes, that complicates things if they change course right as we’re trying to shoot. But the base course—the course they have to take to get to their destination—doesn’t change. If they zig out of my ambush, then we do an end-around, get back in front of them, and try again.”
“Bridge, Radar: there appears to be one big contact and two smaller ones, one ahead, one behind. We’ll have a course and speed in three minutes.”
“Bridge: aye,” Malachi said. “Okay, XO, lay below and assume the attack director watch.”
“A
ye, aye, sir,” Higgins said and then disappeared down the hatch into the conning tower. Malachi turned away from the bearing of the oncoming ships and took a big drag on his cancer stick, concealing the sudden glow in his cupped hands. He liked Higgins, who seemed to be as eager as he was to blow up Jap ships. Now he’d have to wait three minutes for the tracking team to develop the approaching ships’ course and speed, and then make recommendations to put Firefish in front of them.
One big contact and two small meant two escorts. Those were better odds than the formations of battleships and carriers presented, with up to a dozen destroyers to contend with. The big contact could be anything—a tanker, freighter, maybe even a troop ship. The sealed orders had discussed the fact that the Japs were reinforcing Palau in anticipation of an American invasion, now that the Solomons were going under for them.
“Bridge, Conn: the formation’s course and speed is one four zero, seventeen knots on first plot. No zigzag as yet. Recommend we come to zero five five to intercept on their starboard bow at a target angle of zero three zero.” The exec’s voice sounded confident, a nice change from Marty’s eternal worrying.
“Make it so,” Malachi replied. “Seventeen knots is not tanker speed. This is something else.”
Three minutes later Plot refined the track: the formation was doing 20 knots, not 17. And appeared to be turning to the next leg of a zigzag pattern. “We can’t get there from here, Captain. We need to run like hell due east while they go southeast, and hope the next leg brings them back to us.”
“Okay, do it,” Malachi said, glad now that he’d remained on the surface. It was, as always, a crapshoot when dealing with a zigzag plan. If their next leg took them south instead of east, Firefish would be even farther out of position. The attack team was making the best bet they could, that the Japs’ destination was Palau, and Palau was east, not south of them. The diesels sprang to life with an authoritative roar as the boat came about and accelerated up to full power and 22 knots. In a few minutes the boat was leaving a broad, phosphorescent wake and twin trails of diesel exhaust behind them. He could actually hear the huge quantities of air being sucked into the induction valve behind the sail.
The new batch of torpedoes they had onboard had just come out from the West Coast and purportedly had new running depth sensors. The magnetic exploder feature was still in doubt, so the Perth skippers had decided to just disable it to prevent its predilection for setting off the warhead 50 feet away from the target. The admiral undoubtedly knew that, but with the rest of SubPac having done the same thing he’d probably decided not to push the issue anymore. The new fish also had stronger contact firing pins in their noses, courtesy of some testing done back at Pearl. The bad news was that if you didn’t get a boom now, you couldn’t keep blaming the fish. He smiled to himself in the darkness; always a hook, he thought.
“Bridge, Conn: they’re still opening to the southeast; we can slow down to fifteen knots and still make intercept position.”
The surrounding sea suddenly lit up as the moon came back out from behind the clouds. “Assuming they come back toward us, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the exec said. “But they should, if they’re going to Palau.”
“I agree, and if we can get ahead of them, we’ll do this one submerged. The moon is staying out more than it’s going in. Slow to fifteen knots. How far away is Palau now?”
“Forty-six miles, sir.”
“Any time now, then. I need some coffee.”
Again it was the boatswain, who’d taken to standing watch in Control when an attack was shaping up, who brought him his coffee.
Malachi thanked him and then asked how he liked his new twin 20mm guns.
“They’re a little on the old side, but they’re better built than our other mount. Somebody said they were Swedish made.”
“No, actually, they were probably made in Germany before the war. Started in Switzerland, but it was the Germans who brought the quality into them.”
“Go figure,” the boatswain said. “We chasing something big?”
“One big, two escorts. We don’t know what we’re going after, but if they turn the right way, we’ll soon find out.”
“Bridge, Conn: they’re turning again, back to the northeast. We’ll confirm the track, but it looks like we can submerge anytime and get ready for business. Last range was eighteen thousand yards.”
The boatswain put two fingers to his forehead in an ancient naval salute and hustled back down below. Malachi acknowledged the report and scanned the horizon. The seas were dark except for wide wedges of moonlit water pointing in the direction of the moon. The light made the water appear black. At 20 knots the Jap formation would cover one mile every three minutes. Six minutes to intercept. He pushed the diving alarm.
Down in the conning tower he conferred with the attack team. “There’s a tin can ahead, and another behind the big guy. The trick is to get into firing position without that lead escort getting contact on us. We got a layer?”
“Yes, sir, layer at two hundred ten feet.”
“Okay, when Plot says they’re eight thousand yards out, we’ll go down to two hundred thirty feet and point the boat at the approaching formation. When we hear the first escort go down-Doppler, we come back to periscope depth and make the attack. I’ll want bow tubes, four fish, depth setting fifteen feet, speed high. Remember that I want the boat to be pointed on the firing bearing to reduce the chances for a circular run.”
He watched as the exec huddled with the attack team over the plotting table. Gone were Marty Brandquist’s what-ifs and what-abouts. Higgins was eagerly focused on the kill.
Minutes passed and then the exec pointed his index finger down. “Make your depth two hundred thirty feet,” Malachi ordered. “Trim for a quick return to periscope depth. Open forward outer doors. Make ready tubes one through four.”
The boat tilted down as the ballast tanks were adjusted to make her heavy. They were making five knots, which was a good speed to take her down without any drama. The game then passed to Sonar.
“Screwbeats approaching from the southwest, bearing two four zero. Sounds like a destroyer.”
“Conn: aye, let me know the moment the Doppler shifts to down.” And hope and pray the bastard doesn’t detect us, he thought. If he busts our cover, the big guy will simply roar past us at 20 knots.
“Up-Doppler, but he’s still pinging in wide band search mode,” Sonar reported.
C’mon layer, Malachi thought. The wide search pattern of a sonar didn’t have the power of the more focused attack beam. The temperature thermocline should deflect the probing beams up and away.
“Down-Doppler,” Sonar called. “New screwbeats, something bigger. Multiple screws. Bearing two three seven. Definite up-Doppler.”
“Come to periscope depth and handsomely,” Malachi told Control. He looked over at the exec.
“Firing bearing will be one niner zero if the track agrees with the passive plot.”
“Come to course one niner zero, speed four,” Malachi ordered, watching the depth gauge. The moment they got to periscope depth he ran the scope up, stopping just short of broaching the surface.
“Stable at periscope depth,” Control reported. Malachi ran the scope up another three feet and immediately saw a darkened ocean liner in his picture. “Bearing—mark!”
“Two one zero,” the exec announced from the other side of the scope.
“Plot agrees. Fire at any time,” the TDC operator said.
“Fire one,” Malachi ordered, and then went through the normal sequence of sending four fish out to make the kill. If the plot was correct, this big beast would pass at a distance of a half mile. He kept the scope up. The ship was definitely an ocean liner type, with railed galleries along her sides and two big funnels amidships. She was fully darkened but he could still see the five-inch mounts on her forecastle. Converted ocean liner and armed. Meant she was a troopship. Reinforcements for the Palau garrison.
The first
torpedo hit her just behind the bow with a red flare and a satisfying geyser of water shooting up into the air. The second hit amidships with another good, solid explosion. The third hit her just behind the second stack but with a small splash, a dud. He thought that the fourth one missed astern until there was a fearsome blast right under her stern. He swung the scope back to amidships and was pleased to see huge clouds of red steam erupting out of the forward stack.
“Make your depth two hundred fifty feet, full power and close the outer doors forward,” he ordered. He intended to go deep right behind the stricken ship and run for a thousand yards or so. All the explosions had been on the transport’s port side, so he wanted to get over to the other side before those destroyers came racing in to find him. He turned to the attack team as the scope came down and the boat tilted into her escape mode. “Three good hits, one dud,” he announced. “She had a big bow wave on her, so she’ll carry forward for a mile or so. Troop transport. Big bastard—twenty thousand tons, maybe even more. Five-inchers fore and aft. Reload forward.”
The boat vibrated as they slipped into the depths. There were distant sounds of a ship in big trouble coming through the hull, although the layer was masking most of it. Finally they heard a barrage of depth charges going off way behind them. Now that they knew where the escorts were they could slow down and burn less battery power. Malachi ordered speed of four knots and continued to open the distance between Firefish and the escorts, which were still making a racket.
“XO, get us out to five thousand yards from the firing track and then we’ll turn east. I want to give those tin cans a chance to quit searching and go into rescue mode if that big guy is what I think he is.”
“Aye, sir, and when they do?”
“I’m going to attack them.”
It took two hours for them to creep back up on the scene of the transport’s sinking. Malachi assumed she’d gone down because the radar revealed only two small contacts that were nearly stationary about five miles from where the torpedoes had done their work. The clouds completely obscured the moon now and the seas appeared to be rising. He was temporarily blinded by a flash of lightning on the horizon, and for a moment he thought the Japs had seen his periscope and opened fire.
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