by Peter Albano
“Passing two-seven-zero,” Sturgis shouted.
“Left full rudder. Come back to one-nine-zero. All ahead flank.”
Crog cranked his sound head around. “He’s steaming two-zero-zero and turning to his right.”
Williams yelled down the hatch. “Bottom?”
“Sixty fathoms and sand.”
“Take her down flat to the bottom.”
The sounds of the motors lessened and the boat began a gentle descent to the bottom.
“She’s turning, Mr. Williams. The can’s coming around,” Crog said.
“The other ships?”
The soundman cranked his soundhead around. “Big screws at slow speed like the carriers and cruisers are laying to. Two sets of high speed screws exiting the anchorage.”
“Keeping the heavy ships in until they deal with us,” Brent said.
“And sending two more cans.”
“Passing two-five-zero feet,” Sturgis said.
Minutes that seemed an eternity passed before the boat finally dropped gently onto the bottom at three hundred seventy feet and the motors were secured. The boat lay on the bottom as silent as a tomb. Brent could feel pressure on his eardrums and the ship’s hull creaked, popped and groaned. Sweat streamed down his face, his chest, soaked his collar, the back of his shirt. With seventy-one men breathing oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide, the atmosphere was heavy and stifling. The bulkheads seemed to be crowding him and he yearned for the ventilating system. Glancing at the pressure gauge, he felt a chill despite the heat — there was one hundred sixty-four pounds of water pressure on every square inch of hull. And pings seemed to be coming from every direction. But they were too deep — something was amiss.
Williams said, “They’ll be making their runs. Hang on.”
“Maybe their charts are off, too,” Brent said.
“What do you mean?”
“According to Cadenbach, we are still far short of deep water. Yet we’re almost down to four hundred feet. Either we’re in an uncharted canyon or the charts are off.”
Williams shouted down the hatch, “Navigator. According to your DR track, what is the depth here?”
“Two-nine-zero feet, sir.”
“I’ll be damned,” Williams said. “Damn near a hundred feet off.”
“A can’s making a run, sir,” Crog said.
“Turn on your speaker.”
Crog threw a switch and immediately the enemy’s noises were amplified, the compartment resounding with propeller beats, pings — even the hissing of steam, the whine of reduction gears and turbines, and the furious slashing sound of his prow and hull ripping water. The pings were hammering off Blackfin’s hull like solid shot, increasing in intensity and coming more rapidly. Now more screws could be heard.
Crog said, “They’re lining up — all three of ’em. Like the Easter parade.” And then bitterly, “Their pings shouldn’t be this strong — not at this depth. That’s new equipment. They’ve been cheating.”
“They’re Arabs — what in hell do you expect?” Williams said harshly.
Suddenly the sounds of the leading destroyer dropped in pitch, seemed to come from every bearing like a halo of death. “He’s directly overhead.”
“Turn off the speaker.”
Even with the speaker off, the noise still penetrated the hull. The thrashing of screws, pings, and then the depths were ripped by a catastrophic roar. And another. And another. A shower of six-hundred-pound charges. Blackfin jerked and twisted, her hull creaking and groaning.
Holding on to the TDC, Brent’s mind whirled through the terror. Fourteen feet, he thought. One charge within fourteen feet and Blackfin’s pressure hull would collapse like a crushed egg before the mass of the Pacific absorbed the blast. They needed another two hundred feet of water and it was not there to be had.
More screws, another murderous shower, and the boat shuddered, the lights blinking off and on. “Here comes the third one,” Crog said.
Thumps, pings, screws clubbing the water. Then Brent heard a half-dozen clicks very close to the hull. This would be close. A convulsive, prolonged roar. The boat reverberated like a huge tuning fork, the interior a great sounding cavern. It convulsed, bounced off the bottom and back down again in a cloud of mud. The lights went out. There were cries of terror.
“Emergency lights!” Williams shouted, the hard authority in his voice restoring order. The faint emergency lights flickered on. He stabbed a finger overhead. “They’re exploding over us. We’re deeper than they expected.” He rubbed his chin. “Where are they?”
“In a column, sir. Bearing zero-eight-zero, lead ship at a range of one thousand yards and turning back,” Crog said.
Williams whirled to Davidson. “Tell Lieutenant Dunlap to stand by to release five-hundred-gallons of oil and call the forward torpedo room. Tell Ensign Hasse to flood tubes One and Two and to open the outer doors.” He turned to Brent. “Set both fish for gyro angle zero, depth one hundred.”
Brent was confused. “They’ll hit nothing — just sink to the bottom and probably self-destruct, if deep enough.”
“I know.”
Brent set his dials and Williams moved to the firing panel.
“TDC set,” Brent reported.
“Tubes One and Two flooded,” Davidson said.
Two windows glowed red. Williams pushed the firing key and the boat shuddered. “One fired electrically,” Davidson reported. The second plunger was pushed and Davidson made his report.
Crog looked up. “They’re making another run, sir.” Everyone could hear the sounds coming from the starboard side.
Williams continued. “Tell Ensign Hasse to stuff broken planking, life jackets, anything that will float, into tube Number One and fire at my command.”
“The Number Two tube, sir?”
Williams gritted his teeth, eyed Brent with a sidelong look. “Call Yasuda. Tell him to pump oxygen into the admiral’s lungs, into his intestines…”
“No!” Brent shouted, stepping toward Williams. Every head turned.
“Back to your station, Mr. Ross. I’m in command!”
“That’s unconscionable! Savage.”
“Do you wish to be relieved?”
Brent gritted his teeth. This was the second time he had been asked that question in an hour. He looked up as the sounds of the destroyers grew. “No, I’ll remain.”
Williams turned back to the talker. “Tell Yasuda to load the admiral’s body into tube Number Two.”
Several minutes passed and then the deadly shower resumed. Williams had been right; the depth charges seemed to be set just a trifle shallow. But as long as the destroyers remained, there was no chance the submarine could attack the carriers and eventually, a deep-set charge could crush the boat. Her pressure hull was taking a terrible pounding. Again the lights went out but were restored quickly.
Just as the third destroyer turned away, Davidson reported, “Tubes One and Two ready, sir. Outer doors open.”
“Tell Lieutenant Dunlap to release the oil.” The executive officer stepped to the firing panel and fired both torpedoes. Brent shuddered with the boat. Williams said to Davidson, “Call the forward torpedo room. Tell Ensign Hasse to load and fire three more loads of debris out of tubes One and Two manually, without my command and on the double.”
“At least two destroyers, a cruiser, and one carrier standing out,” Crog shouted.
“Damn!” Williams said, repeatedly slapping the periscope tube. “The other carrier?”
Crog shook his head. “A lot of noise, but I don’t hear her screws.”
“Good. Good.”
Several more minutes passed. The boat jarred as Hasse fired the tubes, and the heat in the boat grew. Finally, Crog said, “Funny, Mr. Williams. The cans that were attacking us are headed south — maybe two, three thousand yards and they’re laying to.”
Williams shouted down the hatch, “Mr. Cadenbach, what’s the current?”
“We’re in the Equatorial C
ountercurrent. The set is about two knots south.”
Williams rubbed his hands. “Good. Good. They’ve found the oil and — and the debris.”
“The trash,” Brent said bitterly.
“We’ll settle this later, Mr. Ross.”
“We have several things to settle, Mr. Williams.” Brent knew Williams had made the correct decision — a decision the admiral himself would have made. The preservation of the boat was paramount, took precedence over everything. Yet he wanted to pound Williams with his fists, break his jaw, punish him. When the admiral died, he felt as if he had lost his father. In a strange tragic way, he had felt the loss of a father twice.
“They’re taking off, sir,” Crog said. “Five cans, a carrier, and a cruiser on a northwesterly heading.”
“The other carrier?”
“Still in the anchorage with at least five cans and a cruiser, Sir.”
Williams clapped his hands together. “Good! Good! We’ll nail that other bastard.” He said to Davidson, “Damage control — I want a report.”
Yeoman Davidson made the request and everyone waited silently. Finally he reported: “Lieutenant Pittman reports two sea valves ruptured, at least four cells have cracked tops, the bilge pump under the aft battery room has been knocked off its foundation, and one air compressor has a cracked housing.”
“Very well.” Although the damage was serious, it was not disabling. The main engines, drive shafts, and bearings were intact, propellers not bent. The cells could be repaired by drawing a hot soldering iron across the cracks, melting the mastic, and resealing the cracks. The bilge pump was out, but its vents could be cross-connected to the pump under the forward battery room. The air compressor could still be used and, in an emergency, jury-rigged to the other compressor which was undamaged. Blackfin was still a viable fighting machine.
Williams pulled down the microphone. “We’ve given the cans the slip. They think we’re dead and we’ll show them this is a gross exaggeration.” There was a cheer. “Apparently the enemy has split his force into two battle groups. One has stood out and is headed northwest. I’m sure the rest of them will follow. They’re probably setting a trap for Yonaga — put her on the vice from two directions. Well, we’ll set one of our own. When the carrier sorties, those cans will come out full bore and pinging. We don’t want to be spotted again in shallow water so we’ll move to the northwest astern of the force that just stood out. I expect the second force to follow and probably split off to the east after clearing the northern end of the atoll. We’ll see to it she doesn’t get that far.” More cheers. He turned to Crog. “Take a full sweep around.”
Crog cranked the sonar handle. “All I get is the departing battle group. The other ships must’ve anchored — they haven’t stood out, sir — that’s for sure.”
“Anchored? I’ll be damned.” He turned to Davidson. “Secure from silent running and secure from ‘rig for depth charge.’ All ahead one-third. Control, bring her up to sixty-two feet — flat. Quartermaster, come right to two-nine-zero.”
Brent heard the hum of electric motors and then the boat rocked gently and began to rise. Sturgis put the helm over. The fans came on and the ventilation system began to blow air throughout the boat. Everyone sighed with relief.
Battle’s voice came up through the hatch from the diving station, “Request more speed, sir. She isn’t responding to the planes.”
“Very well. All ahead two-thirds.”
“Steady on two-nine-zero,” Sturgis said.
Brent knew Reginald was gambling. The force could exit and turn east, or, for that matter, steam south or not exit at all. Blackfin would have no chance. However, the odds were that the enemy would sortie and northwest would be their course. The executive officer, who was actually the captain now, had made the best decision.
At five knots, Blackfin inclined upward gently. Passing the hundred-foot mark, the angle of inclination decreased still more, Battle obeying the command to “Bring her up flat.” Within three more minutes the boat was at sixty-eight feet with zero inclination. Gradually, it eased up to sixty-two feet. “Sixty-two feet!” came up through the hatch.
“Very well.” Williams turned to Davidson. “Lieutenant Pittman to the conning tower immediately. Replace him with Chief Fujiwara.” Seconds later, Pittman, who was in charge of damage control when at general quarters, puffed up the ladder. “You’re on the TDC, Mr. Pittman,” Williams said to the tall, thin lieutenant.
“I’m relieved?” Brent asked incredulously. Every man in the compartment stared at Brent.
“Yes. You’re attack officer,” Williams said.
Brent was stunned. “Attack officer? But you’re officially the captain.”
“I know. That’s my decision. None of us have had much experience, but you had the best record during shakedown. I’ll be your assistant whenever that carrier sorties.” He punched the periscope. “Right now, I want that carrier more than anything else on earth, and you’re going to get her for us, Mr. Ross.” He slapped the Number Two periscope. “Up ’scope!”
Unable to believe what he had heard, Brent punched the pickle and the tube slid up. Bending low, Williams caught the handles and rose with the rubber cushion of the eyepiece pressed to his eyes. Quickly he swung around. He chuckled. “Some smoke to the northwest and the atoll is on the horizon off our starboard side.” He shouted down the hatch. “Mr. Cadenbach, we’re off the southwest coast of Tomonuto. I’ll get you two tangents on the atoll. You’ll have to cut us in with those two sights. That’s all I can do. There are no prominent points of land — just palm trees and we can’t surface.”
“Aye, aye, sir. My DR track has us ten thousand yards off the southwest coast.”
“Stand by, Mr. Ross,” Williams said, peering into the periscope. “Bearing mark!”
“Zero-nine-five,” Brent said, reading the azimuth. Davidson shouted the bearing down the hatch.
“Bearing mark!”
“Zero-three-two.” Again, Davidson relayed the bearing. “Down ’scope!”
In a few seconds, Cadenbach’s voice came up the hatch. “Good fix, sir. We’re ten thousand one hundred yards off the southwest coast.”
“Very well. We’ll hold her here and hope they come to us.” He turned to Brent. “Mr. Ross, send a message to Yonaga. Use CISRA and TACAMO — one enemy carrier, five destroyers, and one cruiser stood out at Tomonuto sixteen-thirty hours. Course two-nine-zero, SOA about twenty knots.”
Brent made his way down to his cabin, encoded the message, and handed it to Cryptologist Simpson. The message was sent in the usual millisecond burst.
It was a long wait. The ship secured from general quarters but the tracking party remained in the conning tower. For over three hours the submarine cruised off the western coast of the atoll waiting for her quarry, every man praying Lieutenant Reginald Williams had made a correct guess.
At eighteen hundred hours, with the sun dying in a welter of bloody scarlets on the western horizon, the enemy sortied. Crog was the first to detect them. “Sonar contact!” he shouted. “Exiting the atoll. Destroyers! And they’re pinging — ten thousand yards, bearing three-one-zero.”
“General quarters!” Williams shouted. And then to Brent, “Mr. Ross, take the con. Course one-one-zero, speed three.” He dropped the Is-Was around his neck and took the assistant attack officer’s station behind the periscopes.
“Aye aye, sir. I have the con.” Brent turned to the hatch. “Depth?”
“Sixty feet,” Battle answered.
“Control. Bring her up two feet — easy,” Brent said. He patted the night periscope. “Up ’scope!”
Williams punched the pickle. Bending low, Brent rose with the periscope and snapped the handles down as the instrument locked into place. At sixty-two feet, the periscope head would be well clear of the sea.
Battle’s voice. “Sixty-two feet, sir.”
“Very well.” Brent trained the periscope to the port bow, snapped to maximum magnification and then
back. In the gloom far to the southeast, he could see dark shapes moving. He said to the radar-man, Petty Officer Takiguchi, “ESM?”
Takiguchi squinted at his display on the WLR-8, tapped out a command on his computer’s keyboard, and studied the greenish display rippling like a waterfall across the tube. “Five Gearings, a Llandaff class cruiser and the Majestic class carrier — all in our threat library, sir. All vessels searching S and J bands, Mr. Ross.”
“Hot damn! The Majestic,” Williams exulted. “We want that son-of-a-bitch, Brent.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.” Brent shouted down the hatch. “Mr. Cadenbach, depth under keel?”
“Two hundred fathoms, sir, and it drops off to three thousand fathoms a mile to the west — the West Caroline Basin.”
Brent was pleased. They had plenty of water beneath them — a place of shelter, of safety where the depth charges would have a hard time finding them. Depending on Deflecton Four and luck, he kept the periscope up. The shapes grew. “I think you guessed right, Reggie,” he said. “It looks like the carrier and cruiser are in column with the carrier leading. There’s a can on the point and two cans on both sides. But they’re spread thin — covering both heavy ships.” He hunched close to the tube. “Damn! They’re swinging far to the west.” He turned to Williams. “We’ll have no chance if they maintain this course.”
“They must swing north — they’ve got to. That’s where Yonaga is,” Williams said as if he were trying to convince himself.
Brent returned to the eyepiece. The ships were hulled down and fast disappearing over the horizon. “You must be right. We’ll assume they’ll come to a northerly course. Anyway, we have no choice.” He turned to Sturgis. “Right standard rudder, steady up on two-nine-zero, all ahead full.” He said to Williams, “We’ll surface as soon as we’re on our new course, cut a cord across the arc of their swing north at flank speed.”
“A straight line — the shortest distance, Mr. Ross.”