Hara-Kiri: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 5)

by Craig DiLouie

  The Sandtiger prowled offshore, waiting, until the soundman called out the destroyer escort had changed course.

  Heading straight for the Sandtiger.

  Another set of light screws. And one set of heavy screws.

  Charlie ordered the helmsman to come left until his submarine’s bow pointed at the enemy. That way, he could raise his periscope with an almost undetectable feather in the water.

  While submerged, the soundman was the boat’s ears, but Charlie was her eyes.

  “All ahead one-third,” he said, fighting his rising excitement. Heavy screws meant a large warship or more likely a merchantman. “Up scope.”

  A year ago, he might have thought it strange to find two escorts guarding a maru, but not now. For him, it was just more evidence the submarines had taken a massive toll on the empire’s merchant fleet.

  He suppressed a smile, forcing an expression of sullen competence. He had to act as if his hunch had been more than a desperate shot in the dark. That he’d planned all this, and finding ships here was not just a happy surprise.

  Was it like this for Moreau? He’d always appeared to know what he was doing, where the enemy was. For that bloodhound to find a target, all he had to do was sniff hard enough.

  The attack periscope rose above the surface. Charlie circled to scan for planes before settling his view on the menacing V shape of a Japanese destroyer escort.

  The sea and island backdrop were still as a photograph, the result of the coming storm front pulling warm, moist air into itself and pushing it back out as stable, dry air.

  The literal calm before the storm.

  Hugging the periscope, he shifted the view until he found the second escort. He called out bearings for Percy to mark on the plot. With careful tracking, Charlie would have a future route into the bay past any mines.

  At last, into view came the prize, the ship the DEs were guarding.

  At first glance, he thought it was an oiler. Then he recalled its profile from the reference book.

  “Down scope.” He stepped back from the withdrawing periscope and smiled at his crew. “Gentlemen, we found the Mamiya.”

  A large food transport ship, 15,000 tons. It carried enough food to provision an entire division for nearly a month.

  “I thought he’d been sunk by the Cero almost a year ago,” Percy said.

  “No, it was the Spearfish, I heard,” Morrison chimed in.

  Charlie shrugged. On two separate occasions, these submarines had apparently damaged but not sunk the ship. “This time, it’ll be the Sandtiger, and we’ll be putting him down for good.”

  He ran his hand over his stubbled face. The enemy cruised single file on a 195° True bearing, but that would likely change any second as the group exited the bay and chose its course. Likely to Peleliu to resupply the troops fighting there, or return to Japan. Either way, Charlie had him in the bag.

  The Sandtiger held course at the center of the bay’s entrance. No matter where the maru went, Charlie would have a shot.

  The question was whether he wanted to attack now or wait.

  If he attacked, he’d have to fire a spread. The Mark 14s would leave a trail of backwash leading directly to the Sandtiger. The escorts would be on top of her in minutes and pound her with depth charges.

  Charlie didn’t want to bet on the new countermeasures unless he had no choice, but if he attacked in those shallow waters, he’d likely have to use them.

  The other option was to plot the enemy’s base course, wait until they’d gone over the hill, and then do an end-around. Go in hard and fast on the surface, under cover of darkness before moonrise, and sink the bastard. Charlie might even get two shots at the target, allowing him the possibility of conserving torpedoes. He preferred this type of submarine combat, quick and mobile.

  The only problem was the storm. If it hit while the Sandtiger pursued her prey, she might lose contact altogether.

  The men watched him as he thought it all out. Taut and expectant faces glistening with sweat and sprouting new beards. They wore diesel-stained shorts and sandals. Already starting to look like proper pirates.

  “Battle stations, torpedo attack,” he said.

  The alarm sounded throughout the boat. Hands rushed to quarters.

  In the end, he didn’t have that much of a choice. He had the maru in the bag and didn’t want to risk losing it later.

  “Target is a food transport, bearing oh-four-oh,” Charlie called out. “Range, about 6,000 yards. Give him thirteen knots.”

  Standing at the TDC, located aft to port, Morrison adjusted a series of knobs, entering these variables into the computer. Using the boat’s instruments, the crew would fine-tune the numbers until the TDC produced an accurate firing solution.

  “Two escorts screening,” Charlie added, providing a complete picture. “Matsu-class DEs. Sound, keep those bearings coming.”

  His senses tingled. The Sandtiger hummed all around him. She’d had her breakdowns, but now, he hoped, she’d deliver when it counted.

  Bleary from sleep and still buttoning the shirt of his service khakis, Rusty mounted to the conning tower. “I’m here!”

  The telephone talker said, “All compartments report battle stations manned, Captain. The crew is at general quarters.”

  “Very well. Up scope.”

  Charlie crouched and rose with the periscope, slapping its handles into place. The sea was calm as a sheet of glass. The maru’s dark gray hull plowed the water, its single funnel belching smoke.

  His eyes roamed across the superstructure, the gun platforms on both the bow and stern, the derricks protruding next to the cargo holds.

  “Food transport,” he said. “Mark the bearing.”

  Rusty called out the bearing ring reading on the other side of the periscope shaft. Morrison fed the number into the TDC.

  “Range, mark!” Charlie said.

  “Range, 5,000 yards!” Rusty answered. “Angle on the bow, starboard forty and opening.”

  “Down scope.”

  When the angle on the bow reached ninety degrees, the Sandtiger would be facing the target’s broadside.

  The ideal time to fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY

  Charlie studied the tactical picture portrayed on the plotting table. The enemy ships steamed as close to the coast as they dared, the Mamiya with land to port. The escorts held station off the maru’s starboard bow and quarter.

  After Percy confirmed the target’s speed, Charlie had enough information to determine an approach and firing position. He’d come about and shoot his wad from the stern tubes. By firing from the stern, the boat would be in good position for escaping to the deeper waters of the open sea.

  “Helm, right full rudder,” he ordered.

  The helmsman, who steered the boat at his station mounted against the forward bulkhead, repeated the order and turned the rudder hard over.

  After the turn put him on the desired bearing, Charlie said, “Rudder amidships.”

  “Rudder amidships, aye, Captain,” the helmsman answered.

  Aside from routine chatter, the men remained quiet, focused on their tasks in the excited atmosphere. Charlie found himself with time to double-check his approach and attack plan. During the long wait before firing torpedoes, many captains second-guessed themselves into failure, but not him. The setup was less complicated than many problems he’d encountered in the attack trainer. Only 2,500 yards from the target’s track, which he’d easily close to 1,500 in time to shoot his fish.

  He scanned the cramped conning tower jammed with ten men sweating in the stale, humid air. A few stared back with wide eyes. He smiled, hoping it conveyed confidence and not the mix of anxiety and childish excitement he felt. Percy returned a glum expression, resigned to his fate. Morrison grinned at the TDC.

  Rusty regarded him with his face screwed up in thought, probably wondering if Charlie had thought the whole thing through or was rushing to the attack to p
rove himself. “You know, those escorts are going to clobber us.”

  “Probably,” Charlie said. “Up scope.”

  The periscope broke the surface. The targets were larger now, coming on fast.

  “Bearing, mark!”

  Rusty called it out for Morrison.

  Range, closing. Speed unchanged at thirteen knots. Angle on the bow, starboard seventy and continuing to widen.

  “This will be a stern shot,” Charlie said.

  He conned the boat to come about so his stern faced the enemy.

  “We'll be a sitting duck in these shallow waters,” Rusty pointed out.

  “Noted,” Charlie replied, in no mood for a debate. “Target is the Mamiya. We’ll fire three fish from 1,500 yards.” He’d wanted to fire a fourth for insurance, but the faulty torpedo had been removed. “Aft Torpedo, make ready the stern tubes.”

  He felt a thud as the outer doors opened.

  “Stern tubes ready, Captain,” the telephone talker said.

  “Very well. Order of tubes is one, two, three. High speed, depth eight feet. Up scope!” Charlie centered the crosshairs under the maru’s smoking funnel. “He’s coming on. Aft Torpedo, stand by. Final bearing, mark!”

  Rusty: “Oh-four-three!”

  “Range, mark!”

  “Sixteen hundred yards!”

  The men tensed, waiting for the order to fire. The conning tower went dead quiet as seconds ticked by.

  At 1,500 yards, he’d—

  The soundman called out, “Captain! The escorts are—”

  “I see it,” Charlie said in surprise.

  The escorts had rapidly shifted position, the lead escort slowing while the rear escort accelerated, a risky and delicate maneuver they’d obviously practiced. Together, they formed a wall blocking the Mamiya.

  Charlie didn’t believe they’d spotted his periscope and were taking defensive action. He’d heard of Japanese skippers doing crazy maneuvers to throw off submarines. It was just his bum luck they’d done it while he was attacking.

  Regardless, the question remained. Should he fire his torpedoes?

  He still had a firing solution. If he hit one of the escorts, he’d at least have gained something, though the Navy would consider it more a waste of a good torpedo than a big win. If the torpedoes passed under them, or if the ships dodged out of the way, he might still hit the maru.

  Or he might miss, shooting partially blind, and take a beating for nothing.

  The risks had substantially increased with this curveball. So did the angle on the bow. With each passing second, his window of opportunity closed quickly.

  If he passed on the attack, he could do an end-around and take another shot later in open, deeper sea. He hated the idea of letting go, though. The men were counting on him. Cooper and ComSubPac were counting on him. His blood was up. He was itching for combat.

  No time to think it through. Too late now to do anything.

  The firing solution light winked off at the TDC.

  “Check fire,” Morrison said.

  “Down scope,” he said with disgust. “We’re standing down. Abort attack. Secure the tubes. Secure from battle stations.”

  In the end, he just couldn’t risk it. The Mamiya was too important a target to stage an attack lacking in certainty. He needed to focus on that ship and sink it.

  Across the conning tower, the crewmen blew out a collective sigh. Of relief or frustration, Charlie didn’t know. Morrison stared in disbelief.

  “What happened?” Rusty said.

  “The escorts changed it up and walled off the target,” Charlie fumed. With the target’s speed and an angle on the bow widening from ninety, the Sandtiger couldn’t hope to catch up and line up another shot. “We’re going to wait and start an end-around.”

  “We’ll get him tonight,” Rusty assured him.

  The concern in his friend’s voice, touched with pity, only made Charlie feel worse.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A GOOD COMMANDER

  The Sandtiger lunged from the sea as the last Japanese ship went over the hill.

  Charlie, Rusty, and Chief Jack Hooker, on duty as quartermaster of the watch, mounted to the bridge. The usual three lookouts scrambled up the shears. Another two lookouts took positions on the bridge and cigarette deck, keeping a careful eye out for enemy planes.

  Charlie had surfaced the boat to make a run in daylight, though thunderheads gloomed on the eastern horizon. The coming storm would make his hunt a lot harder, but he hoped it would also keep enemy patrol planes on the ground. Until then, the roughening seas would hide the Sandtiger’s wake, making the submarine more difficult to spot from the air.

  Below deck, the electricians uncoupled the electric motors from the batteries and connected them to the diesels. The submarine trembled as the engines fired and breathed smoke. She made way east by northeast on two mains while the other engines dumped amps into the depleted batteries. Once the batteries charged, Charlie planned to open up with all four mains.

  As they departed the area, the targets had zigzagged, including a new pattern he’d never seen before and appeared random. Percy had their northerly base course pegged, however. The ships were likely heading to Taiwan, though they might slip west into the San Bernardino Strait between Samar and Luzon for a run to Manila.

  He hoped that, by moving quickly, he could get ahead of them before they reached Luzon. Though he had to circle around just over the horizon, he had the faster ship, and zigzagging slowed the enemy down. If any Japanese planes came within six miles, he’d dive the boat and then resurface to continue the run. He’d yo-yo all the way to an attack position, if he had to.

  “You made the right call,” Rusty said.

  “I made the call,” Charlie partially agreed. Whether he’d made the right one or not remained an open question. It still galled him he’d halted the attack. He’d been surprised to discover how badly he’d wanted a win. Then there were the other repercussions. Would Cooper or even his own crew think he’d lost his nerve?

  “I’m serious.” Rusty frowned. “You…”

  Charlie shot him a glance. “I, what?”

  “You’ve done a lot of impressive things, brother, but that may have impressed me most.”

  “A lot of effort for no results impresses you? I’m not following your logic.”

  Rusty raised his binoculars to study the approaching storm. “Captains react to the pressure differently. Many end up too cautious. I was worried you might be the opposite.”

  “I wanted to shoot. I almost did.”

  “Robert E. Lee once said, ‘I cannot trust a man to control others who cannot control himself.’ Not a lot of men are able to exercise good judgment when they’re facing the thing they want more than anything else.”

  “It isn’t about what I want,” Charlie said. “The overall result comes first. And I have to think about the lives of every man aboard.”

  “The bottom line is you have to pick your battles. Pick your battles then win the ones that matter most.”

  His friend sounded like Captain J.R. Kane. Charlie remembered his old commander saying, That could be a good move. But there might be a better one.

  Not surprising to hear it from Rusty, who’d also mentored under Kane.

  It rang true to him. All this time, Charlie had compared himself to Moreau, when he’d always agreed more with Kane’s approach.

  Make your strategy bold and your tactics cautious.

  “You know, you’d make a great captain yourself,” he said.

  Rusty laughed. “Are you kidding? It’s the easiest thing to be a critic. I second-guessed you during the attack, and that’s on me.”

  “I’ll always hear you out,” Charlie told him. He thought about it some more and added, “In the right time and place.”

  The exec sighed. “Give me a good captain, but never make me one. That’s my motto. I’d end up the overly cautious type. You put the overall results first, as it should be. I’d put the men
first, not to mention my own neck. It reminds me of something else Robert E. Lee once said.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘To be a good soldier, you must love the army. To be a good commander, you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love.’”

  A strong wind blew from the east. The seas became increasingly agitated. Storms traveled east to west in the tropics. Winds formed by equalizing pressure differences in the atmosphere flowed toward the equator, called the trade winds. These winds deflected to follow the earth’s east-to-west rotation.

  A westerly wind in the trades usually meant a tropical storm, but Charlie didn’t need the wind or a barometer to tell him what was coming. He saw it. A massive dark wall of misty squalls, periodically whited out by intense flashes of light. He already felt a change in the air, which cooled but thickened. Thunder stomped and growled in the ether.

  He lowered his binoculars. “We aren’t going to make it.”

  The wind intensified until it howled around them, stirring up waves that swept over the main deck. Charlie dismissed the extra lookouts and had oilskins sent up. They were delivered just before the blackening sky lashed them with rain.

  The storm arrived like a freight train.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TEMPEST

  The Sandtiger rolled as the storm stirred up ten-foot swells that crashed into the struggling boat and washed her decks. The world dimmed to virtual night with near-zero visibility.

  “Lookouts below!” Charlie ordered.

  The men struggled down the shears and squeezed into the two-foot-wide hatch, shimmying down the ladder one by one.

  “All engines on propulsion!”

  A moment later, St. Elmo’s fire flared at the tops of the shears. The men remaining on watch eyed the blue, luminous plasma.

  “Wow,” Rusty said.

  Sailors once considered St. Elmo’s fire a good omen. Charlie doubted it meant good luck for him. Even with all four mains driving the propellers, the colossal force of the raging seas was grinding down the Sandtiger’s speed.

  A roller surged over the bridge and drained away. The Sandtiger steered into the waves and found herself riding a swell as big as a hill. Charlie’s stomach lurched as the Sandtiger crested, wobbled, and then slid into the trough. He slammed against the coaming, earning a fresh bruise.