Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 4)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Beginning
Area of Operation - Saipan
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Area of operations - The Marianas
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
The island of Saipan
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Ryūsei Type 94 naval gun emplacement
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The invasion of Saipan
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Note on Fictionalization
Note on the Battle of the Philippine Sea
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Hara-Kiri: Crash Dive series book 5
Sample Chapter
About the Author
CONTACT!
A novel of the Pacific War
CRAIG DILOUIE
CONTACT!
A novel of the Pacific War
©2017 Craig DiLouie. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Editing by Timothy Johnson. Cover art by Eloise Knapp Design. Interior ebook design by Ella Beaumont.
Published by ZING Communications, Inc.
www.CraigDiLouie.com
Click here to sign up for Craig’s mailing list and be the first to find out about new episodes of the Crash Dive series! When you sign up, you’ll receive a link to Craig’s interactive submarine adventure, Fire One.
CONTACT!
Area of operations. Saipan.
CHAPTER ONE
RUNAWAY TRAIN
On the Sandtiger’s bridge, Lt. Commander Charlie Harrison observed Captain Harvey conning her out of Pearl. Today, the fifteen-man Relief Crew 202 of the USS sea tender Proteus would determine if she was seaworthy.
They were healing, man and submarine, and getting to know each other again.
Seven months ago, Sandtiger limped into Pearl with new scars and a broom tied to her shears. Sailors crowded the wharf and watched in silence as the battered boat warped to the dock. Word had gotten around. Disaster in the Japan Sea. The sailors thought they were seeing a ghost ship, this sole survivor.
Then they’d cheered loud enough that ComSubPac heard it in his office.
Now, trailing black smoke, Sandtiger exited the harbor mouth for her shakedown. For Charlie, a moment of vertigo as she seemed to shrink against the vast Pacific.
Lt. Morrison said, “We’re underway, Captain.”
“Very well,” Captain Harvey said. “Dismiss the maneuvering watch.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Set a course for two-seven-oh.”
“Setting a course for two-seven-oh, aye,” the first officer echoed.
Charlie smiled at the tedious but important routine. It felt like home just as being back at sea did.
The submarine’s engines pulsed like a strong and healthy heartbeat as she found her bearing.
Sandtiger had survived, but it had been a near thing. Her wood decking and steel superstructure warped and broken. Commutator short circuits in the starboard main motor. The electrical and steering system turned fickle. Drain pump sparking. Multiple leaks, including one through the stern torpedo tubes.
Charlie had feared he’d see her scrapped, but she had gone straight to shore repairs. Struck by the loss of three fighting captains, ComSubPac wanted Sandtiger back in the thick of it. Vice Admiral Lockwood couldn’t bring back Moreau, but he could honor the man’s martial spirit.
The repairs had taken longer than expected. By the time the engineers declared her sea ready, Charlie had completed Prospective Commanding Officer (PCO) School in New London. He’d returned hopeful for a posting to new construction and had been happily surprised instead to find Sandtiger waiting for him.
He glanced over his shoulder at Waikiki Beach. A crowd of men stood on the white sands. The regular ship’s company, wishing her the best. Somebody raised a drink in salute, probably Lt. Percy. Like Charlie, they belonged to her.
Charlie hoped to become her captain.
Ahead, the Pacific beckoned. The tropical sun burned across gentle swells, paving a golden road. A destroyer — the USS Grant, a four-gun Benham — emerged from the glare. Lt. Morrison called out the arrival of their escort.
Charlie beamed. Nothing could ruin this moment.
“Did you miss me, Mr. Hara-kiri-san?”
He started at the familiar grating voice. Looked up to see John Braddock, one of the four lookouts, grinning down at him from the shears.
“Keep your eyes on your sector,” Charlie said on reflex.
He thought about the heavy thumping Sandtiger had taken on her last patrol. How good Braddock was at fixing equipment, even if he excelled at ruining everything else.
Charlie added, “And you know what, I actually did. What are you doing here?”
“Right now, I’m on lookout.”
“I mean what are you doing on a relief crew?”
“Staying alive by staying as far away from you as possible, sir.”
Just as Charlie remembered, Braddock made sir sound like asshole.
Captain Harvey lowered his binoculars and glanced up at the sailor before fixing Charlie with a glare. Charlie shut up and kept his eyes forward, his face a practiced mask of professional sullenness. Captain Squadron Commander Rich Cooper had said he could tag along but only if he stayed out of Harvey’s way.
Lt. Morrison threw him a furtive wink. Brash and looking far too young to be first officer, he struck Charlie as a go-getter, chafing to transfer and see combat before the war ended. Stationed on sea tenders, relief crews manned submarines during shore repairs. They provided a valuable service but never faced the enemy.
Sandtiger continued to reach from the shore, making way on growling engines. The Grant paced her to starboard. Oahu’s bright coastline and lush green mountains receded to a blur. The submarine’s prow knifed the swells.
“Depth under the keel, 500 feet,” Morrison said.
“Clear the topsides,” the captain snarled.
The men hustled down the ladder to the conning tower. The last man called out he’d secured the hatch. The klaxon blasted twice as the captain gave the order to rig for dive. Wedged into a corner of the crowded room, Charlie listened to the boat’s hum, felt it along his spine.
The iron lady appeared healthy and strong.
“Dive, dive, dive!”
“Maneuvering, Conn,” Morrison said. “Stop the main engines. Switch to battery power.”
The big generator, which powered the electric motors that turned Sandtiger’s four propellers, switched from engine to battery power.
“Rig out the
bow planes.”
The blades thumped as they extended into the sea.
“Manifold, close the main induction,” the first officer continued.
The valve banged shut. The Christmas tree glowed green across the board, signifying all hull openings secured.
“Pressure in the boat, green board, Captain,” Morrison said. “All compartments ready to dive.”
Harvey scanned the conning tower, confirming everything was in order. Gaze settling on Charlie, he frowned. He clearly didn’t like an officer from the regular ship’s company being here. Probably felt he could give the boat her proper shakedown without some hotshot looking over his shoulder.
“Very well,” the captain said. “Planes, take us to ninety feet.”
The brawny planesmen turned their wheels in opposite directions. Bow planes rigged to dive, stern planes angling the submarine.
Morrison: “Control, open all main vents.”
The manifoldmen opened the vents to flood the ballast tanks with seawater, draining the boat’s buoyancy.
Harvey would dive in stages to the boat’s test depth, checking her trim and hull integrity. After that, steep ascents and descents to give her a thorough trial. Angles and dangles. Then he’d fire dummy torpedoes at the Grant.
The men leaned as Sandtiger tilted for her dive.
Charlie stiffened. Something was wrong.
The deck kept tilting.
Sandtiger surged forward at a steep down angle and plummeted into the depths.
“Control your planes!” Harvey cried in surprise.
A wrench clattered down the sloping deck. Charlie gripped a handhold, watching the captain. Harvey grimaced as he tried to figure out the problem.
“Passing ninety feet!” Morrison said, his brashness gone.
Out of control, Sandtiger bolted toward the bottom like a runaway train. The depth gauge needle spun crazily as she sank.
“Passing 150 feet!”
“Recommend blowing the ballast tanks!” Charlie called out.
Harvey glanced around wildly, saying nothing.
“Blow the goddamn tanks, Captain! All back emergency!”
The captain gave him a blank stare, his face glistening with sweat.
“Now or we’re done, Captain!”
“Passing 200 feet!”
The boat trembled as she hurtled toward her test depth.
“Surface, surface, surface!” Morrison screamed.
The first officer had taken the conn without declaring he was doing so. The desperate crew obeyed without question.
The helmsman yanked the alarm handle. “Surfacing, aye!”
“Control, blow the main ballast tanks!”
Harvey snapped out of his funk and bellowed, “Hard rise on the bow and stern planes! All back emergency!”
“Aye, aye!”
All eyes were on the captain now, while he stared at the depth gauge.
“Passing 300 feet!”
The orders came too late. Sandtiger was passing her test depth and entering pressures that could warp her steel hull.
Then deeper until the heavy waters crushed her like an egg.
Harvey shouted fresh commands to pump water from the amidships trim tank out to sea. The boat shook as her engines fought to check her descent.
Depth, 350—
The hull groaned and popped as the surrounding water pressed against it.
Charlie’s mind flashed to the Japan Sea. Nixon laboring to close a spraying valve with a pipe wrench. Liebold dragging a body through the brackish water covering the deck. Percy screaming into the 7MC.
Evie standing at the edge of a pier at Mare Island, waving a red scarf.
Four hundred feet.
Sandtiger shuddered as if she were coming apart—
Then Charlie felt the change.
The boat’s descent was slowing. No longer sinking like a rock.
Manifold had punched a bubble into the bow and main ballast tanks. The deck began to level out as the bow rose.
Sandtiger lurched again and shot up fifty feet. The crew worked hard to get her under control and keep her moving toward the surface.
Morrison took a ragged breath. “We’re out of it, Captain.”
“Something’s wrong with this boat,” Harvey growled.
He glared at the submarine that had flatfooted him. Scanned its dials and levers as if this mere inspection might derive the cause among thousands of moving parts.
His glare settled on Charlie as if he’d found his culprit.
Charlie didn’t care. He’d just survived another brush with death; the captain’s embarrassment and anger meant nothing to him. He had a bigger concern.
What was wrong with Sandtiger?
CHAPTER TWO
THE SOUVENIR
The USS Sandtiger lay moored next to Proteus, whose crew swarmed the submarine’s innards searching for the malfunction.
In three hours, Charlie would meet with the squadron commander. He chipped in to pull apart the hydraulic system in the control room.
The auxiliarymen noticed the oak leaf pinned to his service khakis but thought nothing of it. On the submarines, officers and crew worked alongside each other to do what needed doing.
The men labored shirtless in the sweltering heat. Charlie took off his own shirt and hung it from an overhead valve. The men glanced at the pale scars that ran like lightning down his ribs.
“Hara-kiri,” one murmured, nudging his mates.
Focused on his task, Charlie ignored them. He’d pictured walking into Cooper’s office and reporting a clean bill of health for the boat. Then Cooper would give him command along with choice hunting grounds for his next patrol.
Right now, that fantasy wasn’t looking likely.
Submarines dove and surfaced based on buoyancy. At the order to submerge, a crewman pulled levers on a manifold. Pressurized hydraulic fluid shot down tubes to pistons. The pistons opened vents at the top of ballast tanks filled with high-pressure air. As the air escaped, seawater flooded the tank via ports at its bottom.
The bow tanks flooded first, next the amidships tanks, finally the after tanks, resulting in a controlled forward descent. Air made the submarine lighter, water heavier. As the submarine’s weight exceeded that of the seawater it displaced, it gained negative buoyancy and dived. A simple principle, though controlling it required a complex hydraulic system running the length of the ship.
“Commander,” a voice said behind him. “May I have a word?”
Captain Harvey probably wanted to talk to him about the system failure. Charlie didn’t want to discuss the man’s handling of the emergency. Men made mistakes, and he hoped Harvey had learned from his. Charlie would make nothing of it.
“Of course, Captain,” he said.
He followed the man into the passageway. Two grease monkeys squeezed past toward the control room.
Harvey grinned and said, “Get off my fucking boat.”
Charlie wiped his oily hands on a rag to hide his rising anger. Right or wrong, Harvey commanded the Sandtiger. His word was law.
“I’ll go ashore at once, Captain.”
“Very well.”
Thirty minutes until his meeting with Cooper, and still he had no idea what caused Sandtiger’s nosedive.
“Captain?”
“Yes. What is it?”
Charlie said, “It’s my fucking boat, and I expect you to take care of her.”
He found his shirt and black tie in the control room. The shirt had fallen onto the deck. Streaked with grease, his pants looked no better. He stuffed the tie into his pocket and checked his watch again. He had just enough time to return to his quarters and change before his meeting.
He paused at the ladder that would take him up into the conning tower and, above that, the bridge and open air. He’d missed something.
He said, “Hey, Chief.”
The chief of the boat looked up from his work. “Commander?”
“Where’s John Braddock?”
“He went aft, sir. Said he had a theory.”
Charlie released the rung and hurried through the crew’s mess and quarters. Through the engine room, which was like walking between giant locomotives. Into the maneuvering room with its dizzying array of levers, dials, and gauges. Then the aft torpedo room and its rack of unfired dummy torpedoes.
Part of the deck was gone, the metal plates piled next to the hole alongside scattered tools. Braddock worked alone, head and torso buried in Sandtiger’s machinery, ass in the air.
“What are you doing, Braddock?”
“Fixing your boat, sir.” His hairy hand emerged. “Angled wrench.”
Charlie picked up the heavy tool and placed it in the hand, which retreated back into the hole.
Main ballast tank number seven was below this part of the deck. The last in line to fill during a dive. He followed Braddock’s theory. If the tank didn’t flood, the bow would become heavy while the stern remained buoyant, resulting in a nosedive.
“You think the main vents are stuck closed,” he said.
If the vents stuck, the compressed air couldn’t escape. And water, acting on the upward pressure from the sea, couldn’t surge into the tank and make it heavy.
“I know they’re stuck. I’m trying to unstick them.” Braddock’s hand returned. “Screwdriver.”
Charlie gave it to him. “A problem in the hydraulics was more likely.”
“I had a hunch.”
“So why won’t it open?”
The big machinist didn’t answer, grunting as he labored. Then he emerged, his barrel chest splattered with oil. “Looks like you brought home a souvenir, sir.”
He held out a chunk of crumpled steel. Debris from a sinking ship that found its way into the submarine. Charlie took it and felt its weight. He remembered the destroyer’s sound as it broke up in the depths. Like nails on a chalkboard, thousands of them, played at the volume of a scream.
Braddock said, “Just like the Japs. Even after they sink, they try to kill you.”
“What are you doing on a relief crew?”
Recent graduates from Submarine School comprised relief crews. Not experienced seamen like John Braddock.
“I thought I already answered that, sir.”
“Come on, Braddock. You’re too good for this. We need men like you.”