by Peter Albano
“She’s on her way down,” Williams said. “In six thousand feet of water.”
The destroyers made two more halfhearted runs and then disappeared to the north. The breaking up sounds of the carrier finally stopped. Lieutenant Brooks Dunlap reported the port shaft bent, a shaft main bearing burned out and the propeller damaged. Shaft, bearing and propeller were unrepairable at sea. One machinist’s mate had a broken arm and another a concussion. The boat was capable of six knots submerged on the starboard motors only; perhaps, eighteen on the surface. Williams brought them to a northerly heading.
Finally, sixteen hours after submerging, Blackfin surfaced cautiously into the afternoon sunlight, complete sweeps by both periscope and ESM made before blowing negative. When Brent cracked the hatch, the blast of fresh air jolted him like a split of cold champagne. Then, standing at Reginald’s side, he stared at a flat sea covered with the “dust” of disaster: casks, lumber, empty aircraft fuel tanks, the wing of a JU 87 close aboard, bottles, barrels, stretching to the horizon astern and to the west. Williams muttered, “We’ve cut the odds.” He pointed. “Men.”
Brent focused his glasses — a life raft jammed with survivors, some even clinged to the sides. “Will you pick them up?”
“No way.” Williams gestured to the southeast, “Let ’em paddle back to Tomonuto. Good exercise and it’s a nice day.” The lookouts and Overstreet snickered.
Williams said to Brent, “Send a message — one carrier sunk, second enemy battle group departed Tomonuto on a northerly heading, one cruiser and five destroyers. SOA unknown. Blackfin damaged. Proceeding Tokyo Bay.”
“TACAMO?”
“Yes.”
“CISRA?”
“Not necessary. The whole damned world knows we’re here. Used standard encryption — Baker Three. It’ll take less time.”
Brent spoke into the speaker and gave his instructions to Cryptologist Simpson. Within a minute, Simpson reported the transmission made and receipted for.
Williams shifted uneasily. “I intend to hold a brief memorial service for Admiral Allen in the mess hall whenever conditions permit. I expect all off-duty personnel to attend.” He bit his lip and then continued self-consciously, “But I’ll leave your attendance up to you — make your own decision.”
Brent stared ahead silently. He was still angry at the admiral’s fate. Dropping his glasses to his waist, he said, “The samurai would say, ‘The sword must be taken from its sheath to have life.’” He gripped the rail with both hands. “I’m trying to think of him that way — unsheathed even in death — a useful end.” He clutched his glasses, brought them up. “I’ll be there.”
Williams nodded and smiled. Slowly, he made a sweeping gesture at the littered ocean. “We’ve cut the odds, Brent.”
Brent spoke without interrupting his search, “Yes. Now Fujita will go after them. One carrier, two cruisers, and ten cans against Yonaga. The odds are even.”
Williams laughed.
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