Ingram grabbed the phone and punched CIC.
“Kelly.”
“Hank. What was the time of the Thomas’ last message?”
“Ahh, let’s see,” papers rustled, “...four-fifty-six, Captain.”
“Nothing since?”
“Not a peep.”
Ingram drummed his fingers for a moment and looked up. The mountains stood out in greater detail. The dawn would be cloudless, brilliant. Once the sun rose over the peaks, they’d be a sitting duck if the submarine was still around. “Okay, what time is sunrise?”
“0544, sir.”
“And how far to the barrier reef?”
“Ten miles. Recommend we slow soon. By the way, do you see Neba and Yande Islands off to port?”
Ingram looked into the gloom. “Yes, barely.”
“Watch it. Chart says shallow water up there.”
“Whatever we’re looking for is well away from there.” Ingram knew they’d soon be upon the debris of war. Bits of wood and cork and canvas would be strewn about. Among that, human wreckage would be splayed over life rafts or bobbing in the water, lifejackets keeping them afloat. Jerry Landa was out there along with Howard Endicott, her skipper, and 329 other men. He hoped they had time to get off the Thomas, that none were maimed or burned. “Sonar conditions are good out here” Ingram continued, “I’ll reduce speed in another six minutes. In the meantime, please advise Task Force 58.38 and COMDESFORSOPAC of our situation.”
“Right away, Captain.”
Ingram hung up and found Vincent, his talker. “Ask Mr. Wilson to step out here, please.” During anti-submarine warfare operations, Wilson became the anti-submarine warfare officer and shifted his GQ station from gun control on the flying bridge to the sonar shack, which was just behind the director barbette room and pilot house. With all the electrical equipment, a half dozen men, and just one vent blower, the five by eight sonar shack became very hot.
Moments later, a hatless Jack Wilson walked out, coffee cup in hand. His shirt tail was out and sound-powered phones were jammed over his head, the cord trailing back into the sonar shack. He raised his head, the wind ruffling his dark brown hair, reminding Ingram of a dog’s head out a car window, sniffing at the wind. “Sir?”
“I’m slowing in six minutes. Stand by to gain sonar contact.”
“Any idea what we’re looking for?”
“Jap I-class submarine.”
Wilson scratched his head. “Can you tell me what a Jap submarine would be doing out here in the boonies, so close to the coast?”
“Wish I knew.” Ingram had almost said, ‘a hunch.’ A larger question running through his mind was what was Shimada doing so close to Noumea’s northwestern tip? Could it have something to do with Taubman? Are these two trying to meet? Maybe so. It would make sense.
Wilson turned to go back into the sonar shack.
“And Jack...”
“Sir?”
Ingram stepped close. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you find this baby has a distinctive sound, a wobble, like a propeller shaft out of alignment.”
Wilson looked at Ingram wide-eyed.
Ingram forced a grin. “But then again, maybe not. Now go on in there.” He slapped Wilson on the rump.
Five minutes later, Ingram told Gunderson to slow to fifteen knots. The new day had brightened to reveal a black spot on the water about three miles ahead. A dark, foreboding feeling in the pit of Ingram’s stomach was validated when he lay his binoculars on it. Sure enough, heads and liferafts bobbed among wreckage. He turned to Gunderson, “That’s what we’re looking for.”
“The Thomas?” Gunderson gasped.
“Tell your lookouts to keep their eyes peeled on that. Also, they may see a sub periscope nearby.”
“Jeepers.”
“And we better get the deck apes ready to pick up survivors. Have them rig out the whaleboat.”
“Yes, Sir.”
To Vincent he said, “Call down to the wardroom. Tell Monaghan we’ll be bringing in survivors, soon.” At general quarters, the wardroom was converted to a battle dressing area complete with hospital equipment.
“Morning, Skipper.” Kelly walked out on the starboard bridgewing. “Duquette has it under control in CIC. Thought I’d come up here to see if I could help out.”
“Actually, Hank, I was going to call you,” said Ingram. “Can you go down onto the main deck to coordinate picking up survivors?”
“Aye, aye. Do you want to--”
“--sonar contact,” blared the bridge speaker. “Bearing zero-five-two. Range 4,800 yards.”
Gunderson called to the helmsman, “Come left to zero-five-two.”
“Watch for a torpedo,” said Ingram. “Now’s the time if he’s going to try and nail us.” He walked over to the 21 MC and punched sonar. “Sonar, bridge. What’s his course and speed?”
Wilson’s metallic reply was, “Zero, Captain. No doppler. He’s DIW.” Dead in the water.
Gunderson raised his binoculars and pointed straight ahead. “Look at that.”
Ingram trained his binoculars. “Bastards.” The bearing and range to the submarine was the same as the bearing and range to the survivors.
Kelly asked, “Todd? What the hell is it?”
“Sonofabitch is laying right under our guys,” growled Ingram.
Kelly’s lips pressed tightly when he realized the Maxwell couldn’t fire depth charges lest they kill the Thomas survivors on the surface. Worse, they couldn’t steam near the target with any speed. The wake would certainly create bedlam for the wounded. Possibly even kill them. He punched the 21 MC. “Sonar, bridge. What’s he doing, now? Any doppler, yet?”
“Just sitting there, Captain. Still speed zero. Sitting duck. I have to say you are clairvoyant. We just had some machinery noises. Some of it definitely sounded like a shaft wobble. How did you know, Skipper?”
“Magic.”
“Maybe some night after a few scotches at the o’club, you’ll share your secret?”
“Right.”
“You ready to unload? We have a good firing solution.”
“Can’t. He’s sitting right under the Thomas survivors.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Wish I was.”
“Well then, we better think about this. We’re well within his firing range.”
“Don’t I know it? Let me know if anything changes.” Ingram flipped the switch off.
Kelly’s face grew red in the gathering sunrise . Or was it his temper, Ingram wondered. “We can’t pick up our guys as long as that Jap is there,” said Kelly.
“Okay, then. Why don’t we move back a few thousand yards, and just let this whole thing cool down.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Right. Mr. Gunderson,” Ingram called. “Reverse course.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Gunderson. To the helmsman, he ordered, “Right full rudder. Steady up on course two-three-two.”
Maxwell leaned into her turn. She was almost halfway around when Ingram said, “He can’t stay there forever, Hank. He--”
“--Torpedo!” Blared the sonar loudspeaker. “Bearing zero-four-seven, range 3,000. Coming right at us.”
Damn! Shimada had made his move sooner than Ingram expected. At the same time, Ingram couldn’t help but admire Shimada’s skill; his shot very well aimed and timed. Ingram kicked himself knowing he’d just done a very dumb thing, presenting himself broadside to Shimada. “Mr. Gunderson. Come left and steer a course to comb the wake.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Gunderson. He yelled in the pilot house, “Shift your rudder. Steady up on course zero-four-seven.”
The bow came around as officers and men alike rushed to the port side of the bridge to watch for the deadly missile. “Sound the collision alarm,” shouted Ingram. “Set condition zebra throughout the ship.” He dashed over to the port bridgewing.
Vincent was there first, pointing to a white wake streaking toward them. “Holy shit, that thing’s fas
t! We ain’t gonna make it.”
“Sure aren’t,” yelled Ingram, intent on the torpedo’s track. The ship wasn’t turning quickly enough. “This is the captain. I have the conn. Starboard engine ahead full, port back one third.”
Smoke belched from the Maxwell’s stacks as her engineers spun their throttles, her uptakes squealing at a high pitched whistle as they delivered air to her hungry boilers. Closer, closer, the torpedo streaked. The ship shuddered as the screws bit harder.
“Jeez...,” rasped Kelly through clenched teeth.
One more trick. “Hard left rudder,” called Ingram.
With the rudder hard over, Maxwell turned faster, her bow sweeping past Noumea’ s jagged peaks, just seven miles away.
In seconds, the white torpedo wake streaked down the starboard side.
“Wheeeooo,” said Gunderson.
Kelly said dryly, “So solly, Tojo. Looks like your magnetic fuses are as screwed up as ours.”
“Rudder amidships, steady up on zero four seven; all engines ahead two-thirds, make turns for fifteen knots,” barked Ingram. To Gunderson he said, “Eric, you have the conn. Bring us to a full stop within three hundred yard of those men out there.”
Gunderson said, “Yes, sir, but what’s keeping him from shooting at us again?”
Ingram checked the bridge plot. “Range is down to 1500 yards. We’re too close, almost in the arming circle. Plus, he’s not going to waste torpedoes.”
Gunderson and Kelly looked at each other, Kelly rolling his eyes.
Ingram paced the bridge. What to do? Men, fellow Sailors, are out there dying. He pounded a fist on the bulwark. If he stopped to pick them up, he would be a sitting duck again. Just as bad, he couldn’t go after Shimada with depth charges lest he blow up his own Sailors. A Hobson’s choice. Have to do something. “Mr. Gunderson, launch the motor whaleboat. The coxswain’s orders are to pick up the most seriously wounded.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gunderson.
Kelly drew Ingram off to the side. “Skipper?”
“What?”
“We have to kill that Jap.”
“And in so doing, you want me to kill Jerry Landa and everybody else out there?”
“How ‘bout dropping an ashcan right here. Maybe scare him?” asked Kelly.
“Waste of a good depth charge. No, we have to do something else,” said Ingram.
“Well, shit. Pardon my French, Skipper, but it’s only a matter of time before he opens out on the other side of those guys and takes another shot at us. He must have tons of torpedoes.”
“No, he only has four.”
“Well, let me ask again, how the hell do you know that?”
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
29 September, 1944
USS Maxwell (DD 525)
2017.9' South; 164 09.3' East
Five miles off Noumea coast
The sun rose over Mount Poum, shining directly into their eyes. Crisp sunlight spilled onto Noumea’ s coastal plain as if it were a blazing, verdant green stage. Coconut palms were suddenly visible on the beach and in the distance, a gleaming waterfall cascaded down a steep cliff.
Gunderson ordered all back two thirds; then all stop. Dead in the water, the Maxwell rolled in lazy gray-green swells three hundred yards from the survivors. Their incredulous shouts and cries were barely discernable, some waving their arms over their heads.
Kelly searched Ingham’s eyes.
But Ingram couldn’t prove that the contact out there was Hajime Shimada. He would think him daft, crazy. And with what happened at the hotel the other night with Taubman, he worried over his officer’s loss of confidence. “Hank, I have a feeling for this Jap. He’s just like the one who--”
“Torpedo!” Wilson dashed out of sonar and pointed straight ahead. “Shit! Right there.”
The track was headed right for the bow. Gunderson and Ingram exchanged glances. All way was off the ship. Dead in the water, the Maxwell couldn’t get out of the torpedo’s path.
“Bastard!” Kelly leaned out and shook his fist. The others joined in, shouting obscenities and anything else that came to mind.
Clang! At nearly forty-five knots, the torpedo smacked the ship just under mount fifty-two and bounced away. Then it veered out about ten feet and passed just under the keel of the whaleboat, now suspended just above the water. Her crew gripped the gunnels, watching white-faced as it streaked just beneath. The torpedo paralleled the ship and was almost clear of the stern when suddenly, it ducked under the starboard screwguard.
The lee helmsman leaned out the pilot house. “Captain. Main control reports the something hit the starboard screw.”
Ingram asked, “What do they--”
A thunderous explosion threw them to the deck. The ship shuddered and vibrated as gray-white water cascaded high into the air and then spilled hissing back onto the stern.
Ingram was surprised to find himself on his knees. Many were down with him, some groaning, others holding their heads. “...what?” Slowly, he pushed himself up. “Damage control, reports.”
Vincent’s adams apple bounced. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“You all right?”
“Sir!” Vincent wheezed.
“Then get on it.”
Vincent punched his talk button and muttered the request. After a few moments, he said, “Explosion flooded after steering. One man injured. They’re securing after steering,” sir.
Ingram breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that it?”
“Yes, Sir, I...wait, it’s the DCA.” Vincent clamped his hands to his head. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Come on,” barked Ingram.
“Damage Control Assistant reports, sir, that the starboard screw is seriously damaged, maybe a blade gone.”
“Damnit.” Ingram called into the pilot house. “Carlton, how’s your rudder?”
With a look of disbelief, the helmsman spun his wheel. “Looks fine, Captain. A little slugging on the port side, though.”
“But is it working?”
“Best as I can tell, Captain.”
Vincent said, “More damage control reports, Captain.”
Ingram ran a hand over his face. “Go ahead.”
“Repair party reports starboard shaft alley flooded. And there’s a spilt seam near frame 166 in the aft engine room.”
“Is the flooding under control?”
Vincent said, “Working on it, sir.”
“Why am I not impressed with that answer?”
Vincent said, “That’s what they’re telling me, Captain.”
“Any other casualties?”
“No, sir.”
Ingram felt as if sand was chafing through his veins. And suddenly, his stomach seemed to be jumping. He said to Kelly, “Hank, get down and see what you can do about the aft engine room.”
“Yes, sir.” Kelly turned and dashed for the ladder.
Gunderson said. “Torpedo must have been sliced in half by the starboard screw and then decided to go off as it was falling away.”
“Ummm.” Ingham rubbed his chin.
“Damnit,” said Gunderson. “It’s only a matter of time before that Jap opens out and sticks one in our magazine. Maybe we should get out of here, Captain?”
“How much speed do we have available?”
Vincent said, “Engineers say four, five knots max on the port shaft. Starboard shaft is secured.”
As if in confirmation, Wilson reported over the loud speaker, “screw noises, bearing zero three nine. Range four hundred. I hear your shaft wobble. Down doppler, stern aspect, he’s moving away. Man o man, stand by for another torpedo.”
The sun glinted on Ingram’s face. “I’ll be damned.”
“Sir?” asked Gunderson.
“Torpedoes,” said Ingram. He grabbed Gunderson’s shoulder. “Eric. I want you to steer a course to go around the survivors and follow the contact. Stay as close to the sub as you can without going in there and injuring survivors. Do you understand me?”<
br />
“Yes, sir. But the way things are, he can probably go faster than us.”
“What he doesn’t know won’t kill us. Now I’m going to the quarterdeck. Call down to combat and have them send Mr. Duquette to me there.”
Wilson walked out on deck, his sound-powered phone cord trailing, and stood beside Gunderson. The ‘what the hell are we doing’ expressions were evident on both their faces.
“Hello?” asked Ingram.
Wilson planted his hands on his hips and asked, “You mind letting us in on your secret? I’d don’t need any more thousand pound warheads for breakfast.”
“He can’t shoot accurately,” said Ingram. “His warheads can’t arm at this distance.”
“He did alright with the last one.”
“A fluke.”
“Yes, sir. But what do you have in mind?”
“Jack. I want you to give Eric vectors to the submarine. Keep us right on top of him, got it?”
“Do my best. You mind telling us what for?”
“I’m going to stick a FIDO down his periscope.”
“What?”
“Get in there, Jack. Duquette will buzz you from the quarterdeck and relay my instructions. We’ll get this bastard, yet.”
“The odds say he fires first.”
“Jack, I have news for you. We’re about to change the odds.” Ingram scrambled down the aft ladder to the 01 deck and then down the portside ladder to the main deck, running aft for the quarterdeck. Fifteen seconds later, he drew up before the crates. Stacked in a cluster of four, each crate was about eight feet long. Black letters on the top were stenciled:
TORPEDO, MARK 24.
Remington, a dark-haired torpedoman chief with beefy arms and chest, asked, “Help you, Captain?” During anti-submarine operations, Remington and his torpedo gang manned the six depth charge launchers mounted port and starboard aft of the quarterdeck. Wearing headphones, Remington’s job was to call out depth settings for the depth charges and relay firing orders from sonar or the bridge.
Ingram said, “You bet. Grab a crow bar on the double.”
“Sir.” Remington stepped over to a compartment, the brass plate over the hatchway announcing Torpedo Shack. He spun a dogging handle, yanked open the hatch, and walked in. Soon he came out, palming a crow bar. “Mind telling me what we need it for, Captain?”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 38