Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  The gates at the far end opened and Blackfin entered Gatun Lake. Roaring, the engines pushed her south and then east, weaving between islands and narrow cuts in the hills. It was very hot and the humidity was oppressive. Brent was kept busy, responding to requests for frequent course changes. “Twenty-three changes in course in a fifty-mile run, Lieutenant,” Garcia said, sighting through the bearing ring.

  Finally they entered Miraflores Lock and were lowered to the level of the Pacific Ocean. Then the short run to Balboa Harbor and Garcia was taken off by a pilot boat. “Vaya con Dios,” he said, climbing down into the boat. Brent and Mark Allen waved.

  Mark Allen turned to Brent. “Steam one-eight-zero, all ahead standard until you clear that headland to starboard and those islands.” He stabbed a finger. “I’ll be in plot with Cadenbach. I’ll call up a course change when we’re well clear. Then we’ll set our course for Pearl.”

  Brent repeated the order and Mark Allen went below.

  Steaming on a northwesterly course for the Hawaiian Islands, the sea was calm, skies cluttered with clusters of clouds. Line squalls were seen and occasionally the bridge crew was drenched by a sudden downpour, the submarine charging through the small but intense rainstorms. Only two freighters were sighted on the long run.

  Ten days after leaving Panama and three hundred eighty miles from the Hawaiian Islands, they were sighted by the Martin PBM flying boat. Dropping low, the graceful, gull-winged patrol bomber circled Blackfin. Although Brent instructed Cryptologic Technician Simpson and Petty Officer Goroku Kumano to guard FM-Ten and Bridge to Bridge circuits, nothing came over the airways. Instead, after four complete circuits of the submarine, a handheld Aldis lamp flashed a single-letter challenge from the cockpit. Instantly, Crog responded with the correct return. The big Martin disappeared to the west. Mark Allen snickered, “They’re learning to be careful.”

  Just two hours later Electronics Warfare Technician Matthew Dante, a bright young petty officer from Villa Park, California, called Brent from the radio room to the ESM console in the control room. “I’ve been getting a lot of UHF and VHF garbage — even a clear channel AM station in Los Angeles with the call letters KFI, but something big is trying to bust through all of it.” Slipping an earphone from one ear, he pointed to his tactical warning board where a red light suddenly began to glow steadily between two flickering lights.

  “There it is!” Dante tapped his keyboard, studied some meters and the display on his screen. “We’ve got him. A big mother, fifty-five hundred megahertz. Signature characteristics of a naval vessel. Bearing zero-zero-five, range one-seven-five. Closing at thirty-two knots. There’s a lot of interference, but listen to him, Mr. Ross.” He threw a switch and static followed by a fuzzy beep came through a bulkhead mounted speaker.

  “I hear him. Is he ranging us?”

  “No, but a good operator would’ve picked us up, sir. We’re at his extreme range and the beep would be a steady tone if he had us. You know we can pick him up before he gets a return off of us.” He clapped his hands over his earphones. “At this range the curvature of the earth is causing most of his search to go right over us. We’re getting the downside of his beam, though. His antenna must be about eight-feet wide, over a hundred feet above the waterline, and his beam width is five degrees — could be an old Hull class destroyer, but, actually, he should be getting a return off of us — weak, maybe, but we should be on his ’scope. Maybe he’s asleep or a total screw-up.” He tapped the tube. “Or that RAM, Deflecton Four, works.” He fingered a few keys, turned a knob and a green light glowed. “He’s not in our threat library.”

  “IFF (Identification Friend or Foe)?”

  “Nothing yet. Shall I inform the Admiral?”

  “I’ll do it and stay on it, Dante.” Brent picked up the phone and called the admiral.

  “Must be a picket called by the PBM. They’ve been a little more careful ever since December 7, 1941,” Mark Allen said from the bridge. “Report to the bridge, Brent. We need your good eyes up here.” Brent turned to the ladder.

  With a combined closing speed of over fifty knots, the vessels were within thirty miles of each other after an hour and a half of steaming. Still, the stranger’s radar did not fix Blackfin. Allen was jubilant.

  Brent was staring through his binoculars when the strange ship heaved over the horizon; radar cluttered mast first, then the upper works of what was obviously a destroyer and then the knifelike bow.

  Dante’s voice came through the speaker: “He has us on his radar, Admiral.”

  “Very well.” Mark Allen turned to Brent. “He should. After all, his lookouts can see us.” Both men laughed.

  Suddenly, the sounds of a shrill bell ringing came up through the hatch and every man on the bridge turned his head. Radarman Dante’s alarmed voice shrieked through. “Bridge, he’s switched to eight-thousand megahertz — that’s fire control, Admiral!”

  “Stand by to dive. Battle stations submerged!” Mark Allen roared. Immediately, the horn boomed through the submarine and scores of hard leather shoes pounded on steel decks and floor plates, the crew rushing to diving stations.

  Dante’s frantic voice came through the speaker. “He’s secured his fire control, Admiral. And I have his IFF. Friendly, sir.”

  Mark Allen shouted down the hatch, “Secure from diving stations, secure the diving horn. Section three return to steaming stations.” A light began to blink. Allen turned to the signalman. “Answer his challenge.”

  Crog turned the light on the stranger and signals were exchanged. The ship identified herself as the USS Somers. Blackfin reduced speed.

  “Hull class,” Brent said to Mark Allen.

  “That’s right, Mr. Ross,” Mark Allen said, staring through his binoculars. “He must’ve mistaken us for a Zulu or Whiskey. We all look alike from a distance.” He was obviously relieved but Brent noticed his face was unusually pale and the veins stood out on his forehead and temples like blue lines.

  The light tapped out a signal from the Somers’s signal bridge. “I am your escort. Follow in my wake.” The ship slowed and began to make a wide turn.

  Brent heard Mark Allen clear his throat with a loud “Harrumph!” The old man turned to Crog. “Signalman, request name and rank of commanding officer of Somers.”

  There was an exchange of flashes and Crog said, “Commander Bruce Doheny commanding, sir.”

  Mark Allen chuckled. “Send a signal — Admiral Mark Allen commanding Blackfin. Follow in my wake.” Everyone on the bridge laughed as Crog worked the shutters. Somers fell in astern of Blackfin.

  A few hours later radar traced most of east coasts of Oahu and Molokai and the peaks of both islands were visible on the horizon. Numerous steamers and fishing boats were sighted and ESM reported numerous J-band and S-band radars. Entering the Kaiwi Channel between Oahu and Molokai with Somers five hundred yards astern, the sea was a mirror and the sky brilliant. Off-duty crewmen crowded the deck as Blackfin steamed past the forest of skyscrapers at Waikiki and Honolulu and turned north toward the entrance of Pearl Harbor. The inevitable light began flashing from the Aloha Tower and Crog flashed his “K.”

  Mark Allen spoke, “Request permission to stand in, Crog.”

  The radioman worked the handle of the light and the shutters clacked. “Permission granted, sir. Proceed to the sub base, berth at Sugar Twelve.”

  “Very well.” Allen gestured to Brent.

  Brent squatted and peered through the sights of the bearing ring. “Three-five-five splits the channel, Admiral.”

  “Take her in, Mr. Ross.”

  Brent gave the orders and Blackfin entered the narrow channel to Pearl Harbor. Ahead, he could see the soaring beauty of Oahu climbing in green hilly escarpments to the cloud-shrouded heights of the Koolau Mountains. Hawaiian flora has special intense greenness all its own and the sprawl of concrete towers in Honolulu and Waikiki seemed particularly obscene when viewed against this glorious backdrop. “Progress,” Brent muttered to h
imself.

  Slowly, Blackfin stood in, passing naval housing to port, Bishop’s Point to starboard, then the marine barracks, the shipyard, and the slow turn to the right past Ford Island to the north and the lonely white buoys of “Battleship Row.” Lettered in black, the rows of grisly white bollards were grave markers: Oklahoma, Nevada, Tennessee, West Virginia, California, Vestal, Arizona, Maryland. Slowly they passed the white, sagging, low bridge of the Arizona Memorial and the crew stared silently.

  Somers dropped off and headed for her berth at the shipyard and Allen ordered another right turn and Blackfin made for her berth at the submarine base. Within a few minutes, she was firmly secured to the dock at Sugar Twelve.

  Mark Allen was visibly upset. At first, Brent thought the memorials to the old dead and wounded battleships had depressed him. But it was not that at all. Mark Allen waved. “Look at all those ships. Destroyers, frigates, tenders — they don’t have the fuel to keep them at sea.”

  Brent nodded. “And they’re converting them, sir.” He pointed to a nest of destroyers. “ASROC launchers are gone and so are their surface to air Tartar missiles.” He pointed at several silolike structures, “They’re installing the Phalanx, twenty-millimeter AA Gatlings.”

  Mark Allen nodded. “Twenties and forties in multiple mounts, automatic seventy-six-millimeter and five-inch dual purpose guns, too.” He punched the screen. “And they don’t have the fuel to keep them at sea.”

  “All lines secure,” came up from the chief boatswain’s mate. “Brow secured, sir.” A group of officers waiting on the dock began streaming across the gangway.

  Allen knuckled the screen and climbed down to the main deck.

  *

  Fuel tanks topped off and, with stores jamming every space, even the heads, Blackfin stood out the next morning. Steaming on a westerly course, the submarine left Johnson Island to the south and then Wake to the north, so close radar emanations were picked up by the ESM. Ships were infrequent and, when detected, avoided. They crossed the International date line and then the Marshall and Gilbert Islands were left to the south and the long run parallel to the Caroline Islands began. Here they found inter-island traffic cluttering their scope with many small steamers plying the trade routes between islands and atolls. All were carefully avoided.

  Conditions on board Blackfin were much better than Brent had first anticipated. The crew had settled down into a routine almost immediately after leaving New York. There were no problems in the racial mix of American and Japanese. Two cooks and a baker prepared three good meals daily, designed to satisfy both Western and Eastern palates. The freezer was filled with steaks, roasts, hamburger, and fish. Up by 0300, the baker prepared rolls, bread, cakes and cookies. The pantry was open to all hands. Every man, regardless of the hour, had the right to open the refrigerator and help himself to rice, tofu sushi, tempura, bacon, eggs, or cold cuts for sandwiches. As usual on warships, a “Joe Pot” was kept hot with fresh coffee twenty-four hours a day, and tea was available for anyone who wanted it.

  Brent was pleasantly surprised by the amount of fresh water available. In fact, the new evaporators provided enough water for at least two showers a week for all hands. The washing machine was in almost constant use. Off-duty enlisted men liked to congregate in the crew’s mess, after battery room, the torpedo rooms or control room. The Americans taught the Japanese poker and the Japanese showed the Americans their game of Go — an intricate game played with black and white stones on a board checkered with nineteen horizontal lines and nineteen vertical lines. With a large store of video cassettes on board, movies were shown in the forward battery room and in the wardroom every day.

  On the day Blackfin crossed longitude one fifty-five east, Brent had the morning watch when Mark Allen climbed up on the bridge and wearily raised his binoculars. “Down there, Brent. Only a hundred miles south of us.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  The admiral appeared sick and old. Sighing, he leaned against the windscreen, “Truk. It was Japan’s Gibraltar of the Pacific. Their biggest base — headquarters for their combined fleet. It was supposed to cancel out Pearl Harbor.”

  Brent chuckled. “According to my history courses, Task Force Fifty-Eight canceled it.”

  “We hit the place in February of ’44. But we never took it.”

  “Let it wither on the vine, Admiral?”

  The old man nodded. “Used it for bombing practice.” He stabbed a finger astern. “Did the same thing back there in the Marshalls. Bypassed Wotje, Jaluit, Mille, and used their garrisons for bombing and gunnery practice.” He pointed southeast. “Ponape, too.”

  “Good planning, sir.”

  “Tarawa wasn’t.” Mark Allen threw a thumb astern. “It’s back there in the Gilberts.” His voice became bitter as hard memories returned. “We didn’t need it, I was against it and said as much. But the ‘braid,’ in their infinite wisdom, knew better.” He ran a fist over the rail. “Bloody foul up, didn’t even figure the tides right — lost a thousand fine boys — hundreds of them shot down in the water before they even reached the beach. It’s beastly hot down there, almost on the equator. You could smell the rotting meat a mile at sea.” The fist punched the steel windscreen. “Should’ve bypassed it — we never used it. It was all for nothing.” Silently, the old admiral drummed his fingers on the windscreen. Brent could see he was upset — these waters, the old ghosts.

  The reminiscences continued. “Remember I mentioned a tanker would be stationed in the Palaus?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We invaded it, you know, and that was another useless slaughter. I was against it and so was Douglas MacArthur.” He ran a palm over his forehead, brushing his hair back. “We only took two worthless islands out of hundreds, Peleliu and Angaur at the southern tip of the archipelago — two thousand more boys thrown away. We never used it, either. All those gold-star mothers never knew their sons died for nothing.”

  Brent found nothing to say, remained quiet like a mourner seated beside next-of-kin at a wake.

  The approach on Tomonuto Atoll was made cautiously. Because the entrance was on the southwest coast, Blackfin steamed around the northern coast of the atoll. Just out of radar range, Mark Allen, Reginald Williams, and Brent Ross gathered in plot with the navigator, Charlie Cadenbach. Mark Allen ran a finger north of the atoll. “We’ll maintain this course — two-seven-zero, on the ninth parallel and make a radar search of Tomonuto.”

  Cadenbach dropped his parallel rules. “Sir, that’s only seventy-miles north of the atoll. They’ll pick us up on their ESMs.”

  “Of course. But we need a reading on their precise anchorage. We can’t plan on doing it visually. They’re probably anchored about here.” He struck the chart in the middle of the atoll. “Not too close to the entrance. They wouldn’t want to give a sub a chance at a lucky long shot through the entrance.” He slid his finger to the west. “The Philippines, Yap, the Palaus. Dozens of small steamers ply these waters — we’ve been picking up their radars ever since we entered the Marshalls.” He traced a straight line west. “We’ll follow this steamer route past the atoll until we’re out of radar range.” He looked up. “They’ll take us for another inter-island steamer.” He turned back to the chart. “And then we’ll turn off not only our radar but all electronic equipment except the ESM, which doesn’t transmit a signal.” He looped his finger back southeast. “And then we’ll double back and make a fast run in on the entrance and begin our patrol.”

  “Sir,” Williams said. “What about Libyan aerial reconnaissance?”

  The old man shook his head. “No chance. There are no airstrips at Tomonuto, and those heavy ME One-Oh-Nines and JU Eighty-Sevens need at least twenty-six knots of wind over the deck to take off.”

  The officers eyed each other. All of them had doubts, but no one had a better plan.

  At a hundred eighty miles, ESM detected three surface search radars emanating from the atoll. “Big stuff,” Matthew Dante reported with Mark Al
len, Brent Ross, and a half-dozen officers and crewmen crowded behind him. “Two are searching E and F bands. My threat library indicates the Majestic class carrier and the Spanish Principe de Asturias. The third is an S-band search probably coming from a Gearing class picket destroyer.”

  “Damn,” Mark Allen said. “I wanted a crack at that Majestic when she stood in. She’s early — a week early. Must’ve missed her by hours.”

  Eighty miles directly north of Tomonuto, radar traced the entire atoll in detail. Eighteen ships were anchored almost in the middle of the atoll, precisely where Mark Allen had indicated they would be. A single blip was stationary at the entrance.

  Continuing its westerly heading, Blackfin steamed slowly out of radar range. Then all electronics equipment, except ESM, was secured, course altered to the southeast and speed increased to twenty-two knots. When radar emanations were detected at a hundred fifty miles from the atoll, the submarine submerged.

  Nineteen hours later, Blackfin approached the entrance, cloaked in the darkness of midnight. Detecting no active sonar, Allen brought the submarine to the surface eight miles from the channel. Immediately, the diesels began charging the depleted battery. Brent heard a lookout pray to Deflecton Four.

  Standing together on the bridge, Brent and Mark Allen stared into their binoculars and spoke in hushed tones as if enemy ears were nearby and could overhear. Allen said, “They’re confident or stupid. One ‘can’ in the entrance. No way to run a war.” He turned to Brent. “Send the signal to Yonaga reporting we’re on station.” He rubbed his chin. “How long will it take to transmit the signal?”

  “A millisecond, sir — if we get an immediate acknowledgment.”

  “Good. The shorter the better. But wait until we submerge at dawn — they could pick it up with their RDFs (radio direction finders).”