Firespill

by Ian Slater

  Kyle didn’t bother to look up. “When?”

  “About five minutes ago. Just after you left.”

  Kyle mopped his neck, then let the sodden rag fall in a heap on the deck. His head was now bent forward, resting on his arms and knees. He sucked in a gulp of the fetid air. “We’re just about dead on power. We’ll have to go up and run for our lives on the diesel—as long as we can—if we stay—we stay down any longer without air conditioning, the heat’ll finish us.”

  O’Brien frowned dubiously. “But the fire?”

  “I know, I know. First we’ll blow a hole ahead of us,” Kyle was forced to rest before going on. “Then once we’re up, maybe we can use the remaining torpedoes to keep the fire off us till the planes arrive. Won’t give us much time,”—he paused again—“but it’s better than staying here.”

  While Hogarth helped one of the planesmen to the controls, Kyle, wavering and having some difficulty focusing, used the periscope column to pull himself up. “Bring the forward torpedo room to the action state.” To O’Brien, the slow cracked voice sounded like a judge’s, passing sentence of death. Then the small telex receiver chattered in the radio room.

  A few seconds later a figure half-stumbled out of the semidarkness into the control room, crashing into the captain and pushing him back roughly against the attack scope supports. The sailor took no time to apologize. “Sir—message. Air fleet. They’re approaching.” He shoved a message into the captain’s hands. Hogarth let out a croak meant to be a cheer, slapping the planesman on the back. “Jesus Christ! It’s the cavalry!”

  The message read:

  X COMAIRRES TO COMSUB SWORDFISH X ETA 2258 PLUS 55 X FIRE FLARES ONE MINUTE INTERVALS BEGIN 2233 PLUS 55 PST X COMAIR SENDS X

  Kyle grinned triumphantly at O’Brien. “Thank God. We’re going home.” The radio operator started to say something, but Kyle called as loudly as he could, “Prepare to surface!” His voice was so feeble that he had to repeat the order, and the effort brought on another flurry of vertigo. He grasped the long steel column.

  Hogarth by the intercom called the other compartments for reports. They were slow to respond. The captain switched on the PA system, stumbled forward and grabbed the mike, almost falling as he did so. “Now hear—now hear this. Aircraft approaching. Get off your butts.”

  Despite the crew’s torpor, the last reports were in within seconds and Hogarth confirmed, “Ready to surface.”

  “Surface,” ordered Kyle.

  “Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Hogarth happily, instructing the auxiliaryman, “Blow one, two, four, six, seven tanks,” while Kyle told O’Brien to ready the flares at the forward and aft ejectors, then turned to the radio operator.

  “Watch the DF signal. Let me know the moment they’re above us.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  It was 2230 plus 15 seconds. As the submarine began its ascent, O’Brien ordered that a test flare be fired. The flare shot out from the forward ejector and opened at three thousand feet, bursting in an apple green shower of sparks. It could not be seen by any of the bombers, which were delayed slightly by the increased headwinds of the Arctic front.

  Clara Sutherland handed her husband the black bow tie. She wanted to put it on for him, but these days even to be that close almost embarrassed him. Whenever she came near him, to brush off a piece of lint or to check his jacket, he felt that he should somehow acknowledge her presence with a smile, a nod—some small gesture of affection; but the more he felt this way, the angrier he became at her, as if she were deliberately being nice to him to force a response.

  Worried about Elaine, the President found it difficult to concentrate on the prepared speech, short as it was, which he would have to give in reply to the sheik of Amar’s toast. He glanced at his watch. By now the bombers would be nearing the submarine.

  Clara looked her sophisticated best in a long cobalt blue gown patterned with small silver white fern leaves that caught the light as she moved. She opened the paua shell jewelry case that the New Zealand prime minister had given them in happier days, took out a small diamond necklace, and began to put it around her neck. Then she stopped, looking across at Walter. It was like seeing a stranger. Fatigue had aged him, etching deep lines in his face, and bitter anguish seemed to have dulled the color of his eyes. She doubted whether he could put on his public face tonight no matter how important the sheik’s oil was to the United States.

  Clara brought the necklace down from her throat. “Walter,” she called softly.

  His lips were moving as he practiced his speech in front of the mirror. Behind his reflection, she could see their separate beds. “Walter?”

  “Yes?” It was the same impatient tone that he sometimes used with junior aides.

  “Could you—could you do this up for me please?”

  He walked over and drew the necklace quickly about her throat. Feeling the diamond chain slide up over her breast and rest coolly on her skin, Clara closed her eyes and knew that if she did not say something, she would start to feel sorry for herself again. “Do you think you should go ahead with it?—the ball, I mean? They can’t expect you—”

  “They have every right to expect me there. It’s the sheik’s last night here. He was good enough not to object to the late hour.”

  “I should think he wouldn’t,” said Clara protectively. “I really think it’s inconsiderate of him to expect you to attend after—”

  “Clara,” began Sutherland in an exasperated voice, “I know it’s ridiculous toasting people after midnight, but you know that we’ve done it before and we’ll do it again. It comes with the job. And you know I wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t so damn important. We need the oil, that’s all there is to it.” He pulled on his jacket. “If I didn’t show up, Congress would have my head—let alone the caterers. Anyway, I’ll sleep after,” he said, knowing he would not sleep a minute until he knew that Elaine was safe and on her way home. There was a silence before he added, “But God knows I’ll feel a hypocrite.”

  Clara reached behind to help him with the clip. Their fingers touched, and for a moment she felt that he was holding her hand. “There,” he said, as the clasp slipped into place, and walked away.

  For a moment Clara said nothing, but then, convinced she was being self-indulgent to feel hurt, she determined to change the subject.

  “Why?”

  “What?” he said.

  “Why will you feel a hypocrite?”

  “Oh, I’ll be toasting the son of a bitch when I’m still cursing him for having threatened us with more oil embargoes.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “In.”

  Henricks entered, nodded at the First Lady, and handed Sutherland a cable. Sutherland brightened visibly as he scanned the message. “I want to know the second you learn anything. Don’t worry about the ball.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Henricks withdrew, the President turned to his wife and with more than usual attention ushered her graciously out of the room before him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The bombers. They’ll be over the sub in less than ten minutes.”

  Clara smiled. “That’s good news.”

  Their eyes met, not with love but still with affection. “Yes,” he said, “yes, it is,” and softly closed the bedroom door.

  Twenty-Two

  When the bombers began to penetrate the black oil smoke, it was Si Johnson in the lead plane who was once again the first to see the dots speckling the radar screen. For an instant, panic squeezed at his stomach. Then he checked himself and informed the captain almost casually, “A.C., there’s another batch closing.”

  “As many as before?”

  “No, but they’re still thick—and flying faster. Coming in on the left forward quarter. We’ll hit them over or around the target area—but not head-on.”

  “Aren’t we lucky!” said Stokely.

  Burke switched to intercell radio. “Ebony Leader to Gold and Pu
rple. We’ll have to blow another hole through this new lot quickly. Same as before. Maintain the bombing formation. Gunners, you’re side-on to them this time, so watch your sixty-degree sweep, and for God’s sake don’t hit anyone else. We’ll stick to the original plan for the bomb run. I’ll start the To-Go count at a hundred and thirty seconds before estimated release time. Subject to flare verification of sub’s position, count will continue using sub as offset aiming point. I’ll release bombs at the end of my radar nav’s fifteen-second count and on his direction. This will give the sub one point five miles’ safety distance and a bombed-clear area of three by one miles to surface in and recharge its batteries. Remember, don’t do anything till after we verify the sub’s flare position relative to our position. We’ll be visual bombing, so you’ll drop your loads the moment you hear my ‘pickle’ drop signal. Any earlier—repeat, any earlier and you’ll hit the sub. Got it?”

  The other two cells acknowledged the message. Burke asked Si, “You got that, radar nav? We drop on your call and your call only.”

  Si answered nervously, “Yeah, I got it—fifteen-second count.”

  “Affirmative.”

  At 2232, as the bombers swept towards Cape Bingham, parts of the fire were already visible through the night sky and the curtain of black smoke that now extended for four hundred miles from north to south. At 2232 plus 7 seconds, the bombers swung round from southeast to south in a line that would pass directly over the cape and to the center of the fire, fifty to sixty miles beyond.

  At 2232 plus 21 seconds, Peters notified Si Johnson that the final countdown of latitude and longitude to target had begun. “Navigator to radar nav. Final GPI. Counters are good.”

  “Roger.”

  Peters glanced at his indicators. “We’re one mile off track, pilot. Make twenty degrees S turn to left.”

  Burke’s voice was unhurried. “Roger, navigator. Taking twenty-degree S turn left.”

  Checking that the aircraft-to-bomb-site director system was working, Burke added, “FCI is centered. Stand by for initial point call.”

  Peters had the cape centered on his scope. “IP—now, crew.”

  Si grabbed his stopwatch, wiped the sweat from his hand, and held his thumb over the stop button as Burke chanted, “Stand by, timing crew. Ready … ready … ready … hack!” Si depressed the button as Peters called the captain, “Watches running. Time to release six minutes, fifty seconds.”

  “Captain to nav. Understand. Six minutes fifty seconds.”

  Si watched the cross hairs flicking, changing position on his scope. “Cross hairs going out to target area.”

  Burke, waiting for the birds to hit, announced calmly, “Sixty seconds gone.” He had no sooner spoken than there was a thud on the fuselage. Si reported, “Target area direct at 176 degrees, 56 miles. Reported sub position as offset aiming point is at 176 degrees, 54.4 miles.”

  Peters, knowing that at this speed three seconds would account for half a mile, was busily verifying that the sub would be at least one and a half miles away from the first bomb that would fall during the thirty-second, three-mile-long release period. “That checks. Offset at 176 degrees, 54.4 miles.”

  As they approached the sub’s position, they could see the flames leaping two to three hundred feet up from the sea towards them. “Holy Toledo!” said Stokely. “The whole fucking sea’s on fire.”

  Burke’s voice snapped over the intercom. “Shut up, gunner!”

  Two or three more birds thudded against the plane as Si reported, “Looks good direct. Offset coming in.”

  At 2234 plus 6 seconds, the cannons opened up again, filling the air with tracer as the main mass of birds began to strike the wave. As the bodies began to smack into the fuselage again, cold sweat ran down inside Si’s flying suit. His voice was strained as he struggled desperately to keep calm. “Radar nav to pilot. I’m in-bomb now, pilot. Center the FCI.”

  “Roger. FCI centered.”

  Next Si spoke to Peters. “Disconnect release circuits.”

  “Release circuits disconnected.”

  The noise was like thousands of claws scratching and tearing at the fuselage as pieces of ripped metal flapped wildly in the slipstream. Si could hear again the tom wings and tail flapping over Hué, his voice intoning the same deadly litany. “Connected light on … ‘on’ light on…”

  Peters’s voice came in from far away. “Bomb door control valve lights?” Si could hear the gunner over Hué. But just as his eyes started to go out of focus, he caught sight of the instruments dancing frantically before him.

  For the first time, Peters’s voice had a ring of frightened urgency, repeating, “Bomb door control valve lights?”

  “Off!” answered Si.

  Almost over the target area, with the birds still hammering into the wave like a phalanx of antiaircraft missiles, the copilot’s voice came in on the intercom. “Where the hell’s that flare?”

  Hogarth called off the depth. “Forty-five feet … forty feet … thirty-five feet…” Kyle stared above him. It was 2236. At thirty feet, Sparks advised him, “They’re three minutes from us, Captain.”

  “Very good. Mr. O’Brien, fire another flare.”

  “Fire green flare,” repeated O’Brien, his voice carrying to the aft ejector room.

  “Green flare away!”

  The flare erupted from the sub, streaked toward the surface, burst through the burning slick, and exploded in a green star-shower at two thousand feet.

  Unable to see anything beyond the bloodied windshield, Burke strained to look through the side panels, announcing, “To Go—driving 130 seconds.”

  Peters checked the ground speed. “Doppler looks good.” Burke began the initial count, which would be taken up by Si Johnson at 0 minus 15. “125 To Go … 75 TG … 60 TG … 50 TG … I see the flare. Copilot, check relative position.”

  “Roger. Relative position checks out. Resume your count.”

  “30 TG … 20 TG … FCI centered.”

  Peters raised his voice as the cannonade suddenly increased. The plane took a dozen or so more hits in such quick succession that it seemed any more impacts would penetrate the fuselage. Already one engine was out.

  As he said, “Bomb doors coming open,” Peters was watching the myriad dials before him, praying that none of the air ducts would be fouled up and cause overheating malfunctions. So intent was he that he failed to notice the glazed look on Si’s face. Nor did he notice that Si, crouched over the visual bombsight ready to take the final count, was shaking violently, his hands clamped rigid to the side controls of his seat.

  As Si took up the count, “15 seconds … 14 … 13…,” he could no longer hear birds striking the aircraft, but only antiaircraft fire exploding all around him and the voice of the gunner screaming, “Drop ’em, Si—drop ’em—let’s get the hell—” and instead of the cross hairs intersecting over the blood red ocean below him, all he could see was the gunner’s headless body. His voice began to slur, “ ’leven … ten … nie…”

  Burke didn’t worry. He made a mental note to have the intercom overhauled, and then with the conditioned reflex of over a hundred missions, he flipped up the safety cover from the bomb release. He could barely hear Si.

  “Eigh … sev—”

  The plane shuddered violently, buffeted by the strong fire winds. Burke gripped the yoke with all his strength and lost the count. He would have to depend on Si. But all Si Johnson could hear was the gunner screaming, “Drop ’em, Si, drop ’em!” and so he called, “Bombs away!” Burke pressed the release button. “Roger,” he acknowledged. “Pickle! Pickle! Pickle!”

  The moment they heard the first “pickle” of his drop signal, the other six captains simultaneously released their loads.

  It was only as the long black sticks of explosive began falling in unison towards the sea that Peters, glancing at his stopwatch, realized what had happened. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled, turning on Si. “You didn’t finish the count! You dropped them too early
! You stupid bastard—you dropped them too early—you didn’t finish—Jesus Christ!”

  Si didn’t hear him. All he could hear were the gunners still firing—over Hué. Now the missile would not hit them…

  As the first of the bombs burst around her, the Swordfish’s pressure hull imploded. Within three seconds, tons of boiling white water cascaded through massive punctures fore and aft as the crew, working as fast as their weakened condition would allow, tried to close the three-hundred-pound watertight doors. In the engine room, amid a twisted tangle of ripping steel and the screaming of ruptured steam pipes, two men struggled to dislodge a floating mattress that had prevented the compartment’s forward door from being sealed, but with a long, hollow roar, a torrent from the after end surged through and swept them forward like driftwood. As the bombs kept falling in crisscrossing chains of explosions, the submarine plunged, rose, shivered violently, and broke in two, its skin still buckling as it disappeared in a black shroud of dieseline.

  From the air, all the pilots could see through the smoke were the multiple blushes of explosions followed by towering spumes of oil and water shooting skywards, interspersed with long, red fingers of flame.

  Gradually, as the bombers turned away and disappeared into the far darkness, the sound of their engines was swallowed by a more distant roar. Sections of the firespill were already creeping back like pariah dogs to the carcass, and a burning lifejacket marked H.M.C.S. Swordfish, along with billions of particles of oil, was snatched from the sea and sucked skywards by one of the wind storms, generated by the fierce heat of the spill that ripped across its molten surface. The life jacket soon fell back to the sea, but the tiny oil particles continued on their southward journey, driven hard by the Arctic front that had failed to extinguish the fire.