Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II Book 3)

by James Young

  “You’d think that maru was carrying their entire payroll and their ancient ancestors’ ashes,” Commander Titus Emerson spat. If they were going to be this upset, they really should have guarded her better.”

  I swear to God, sir, I could punch you. Nick, having been the officer of the deck when the convoy was sighted the day before, had quickly determined the solitary maru with three destroyers as her escort probably wasn’t worth attacking.

  Should have known that Commander Emerson would feel differently. Normally that wouldn’t be a huge problem, as any sane man looking through the periscope would have done the same math I did.

  “Sir, I think three destroyers guarding her was more than enough,” Nick replied lowly. “Most people turn and run at that point.”

  “Good thing we’re not most people, XO,” Emerson said happily. “That maru sure did put on one hell of a pyrotechnic show when she went up.”

  Yes, I’m sure we just hit some really important target. Too bad none of us are going to live to talk about it at this rate.

  “Sir, they’re making another run,” the sonar man said resignedly.

  “We must be leaking something,” Chief Petty Officer Luke McClaughlin, Chief of the Boat, snapped. “Otherwise how are those fuckers tracking us?”

  Emerson gave Chief McClaughlin a disapproving look at the man’s language. Before the commander could say anything, the next batch of depth charges gently shook the boat rather than delivering the sharp jarring of near misses.

  “How many charges does that make?” Emerson asked, turning to Ensign Paul Griswold. The boat’s most junior officer, Griswold had been put in charge of tracking the explosions.

  “That’s two hundred charges, sir,” Griswold said, licking his lips as he consulted his notes. “The majority of them have not been close.”

  “Looks like we’re all still learning our jobs, even on their side,” Emerson remarked. “Continue on this current heading. Eventually someone’s going to decide those destroyers have another job.”

  We can only hope so. Looking around, he noted the condensation within the boat seemed to be increasing. In addition to simply making it hard to breathe, the declining air quality meant it was quite clear the Plunger was filled with unwashed, sweating human beings.

  I don’t even want to know how hot it is in here. Unlike his brothers, Nick was a very thin, wiry man. The Plunger was still more than humid and warm enough to make him uncomfortable without extra bulk. Some of the crew’s larger members looked perilously close to heat exhaustion, and he’d already informed the submarine’s officers to ensure they were forcing hydration.

  “Lieutenant Cobb, what do you think that vessel was carrying?” Ensign Griswold asked quietly. Nick had not been aware the young officer had slipped over from his spot near the plotting table.

  “Explosion that heavy? I’d guess it was some sort of ammunition. But that’s awfully odd for a single ship to have an escort of three tin cans.”

  Griswold looked thoughtful as he contemplated Nick’s comment.

  “You think we killed some big wig?”

  “One could only hope,” Nick replied. “But generally their admirals fly the same as ours do.”

  “Damn the luck,” Griswold replied with a smile. “Had a fantasy it might have been Hirohito himself.”

  Nick gave the junior officer a look while reminding himself to, as his mother would say, ‘be kind to those less intelligent.’

  “I’m reasonably certain he’d be on one of those big new battlewagons intelligence keeps going on and on about,” Nick replied. “Sure we’d be crazy enough to attack her still, but probably would have taken more than one fish.”

  “Strange that we only got one hit out of three. I thought for sure we had a good set up.”

  Well, that’s a conversation for another day. Probably not with you, either.

  Emerson, having conducted four patrols, was keeping track of how many of their torpedoes seemed to either miss or, worse, just bounce off the target. Nick’s predecessor had gone stark raving mad in part because Emerson’s attack on a destroyer had seen just such a dud. Rather than diving, Emerson had coolly remained at periscope depth and fired two more torpedoes down the throat. One of those had worked, blowing the enemy vessel’s bow off.

  Too bad Plunger hadn’t stuck round to finish her off. Of course, hanging around within aerial distance of Truk was probably ill-advised in any case.

  “Sir, I have two sets of screws moving off,” the sound man reported.

  “Hmm,” Emerson said, then double-checked the plot. “Well, I counted three cans when we opened this dance. Let’s increase speed to four knots, starboard sixty degrees.”

  “Starboard sixty degrees, aye aye,” the helmsman answered. The acceleration to four knots was hardly noticeable as Eric shifted over to the other side of the plot.

  “Read my mind, XO,” Emerson said quietly. Nick looked down at the plot, noting that they were at least thirty miles from land in water that had a reported depth of four hundred feet.

  “You’re seeing if there’s a destroyer that is now sitting silent just waiting for us to surface,” Nick said. “By turning from our current path, we’re going to figure out two things. One, if we’re leaking strong enough for them to see it on the surface, he’s not going to stay stationary long. Two, if that last run was cover for him to get into position, taking us to starboard hopefully opens up the range far enough for us to come to periscope depth and take a shot at him.”

  Emerson’s grin broadened.

  “We’ll make a submarine commander of you yet, Lieutenant Cobb,” Emerson said. “Starting today. You have the conn.”

  Wait, what?! Despite his sudden panic, Nick kept his facial features expressionless.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Turning to look at the plot one more time, Nick tried to visualize where the enemy destroyer might be.

  He wouldn’t want to be too close to where he’d think we might come up, Nick mused. Be too hard to depress the guns to give us a broadside and even destroyers don’t accelerate that rapidly from a standing start.

  “Sound, how fast did it sound like those tin cans were moving away?” Nick asked.

  “About the same as their runs, sir,” the sonar technician replied.

  “Tell me when you don’t hear their screws anymore,” Nick stated, then turned to look at Griswold. “When that happens, Ensign Griswold, you start a stop watch. Tell me when twenty minutes has passed.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Griswold said.

  Nick once more looked at the plot.

  Don’t want to get too far away if he’s where I think he might be. Just close enough for the torps to arm.

  “Set torpedo depth for three feet,” Nick ordered.

  “Three feet, aye aye.”

  Once more I am glad that Emerson took it upon himself to stop using the magnetic warheads. That decision had raised some eyebrows within the SUBPAC staff, but Rear Admiral Graham had backed it given the reports from the Philippines-based boats and his own submariners experience in the war.

  Too bad that asshole down in Brisbane won’t let his boats do the same. He pulled his mind back to the present, realizing that the lack of oxygen was starting to make it hard to focus.

  “Screws have faded, sir,” the sonarman said.

  “Thank you,” Nick stated, noting the clock. “All stop.”

  “All stop, aye aye,” the helmsman replied.

  It was an incredibly long twenty minutes in the silent submarine. Nick spent the time running and rerunning through how he wanted to conduct the attack, if there was indeed one necessary. He resisted the urge to look to Commander Emerson for guidance.

  The man wants me to run the attack, I’m going to run it. I just question the logic of having me earn my spurs against a destroyer.

  “Time, sir,” Griswold said.

  “Periscope depth,” Nick said.

  He barely heard the planesmen’s acknowledgment, listening as the submarine’s compre
ssors forced air into the water tanks. The Plunger lurched slightly as she began to rise, causing Nick to grab the edge of the plot table as he strode over to the periscope.

  That would be my luck. Fall and hit my head on the damn edge of the table during my first attack run. Reaching the edge, he knelt down on the deck.

  “Up periscope,” he ordered, extending his hands to catch the handles as the device rose. Putting his eyes to the scope, he rode it up as it extended to its full height. There was nothing but darkness initially, the Plunger still slowly making its way up from the depths. Nick heard the dive crew manipulating their controls, taking particular care not to broach the boat. Gradually, the waters began to lighten, then with a rush the Plunger’s periscope was through the surface into the dawn…and getting pounded by sheets of rain.

  That might explain why they moved off. He quickly rotated the scope, noting that he could not see more than one thousand yards, at best. Spinning once more slowly, he did quick calculations in his head and considered the changed situation.

  Weather forecast said there would be a front coming through our area today or tomorrow, Nick thought. Looks like it arrived early.

  “Standby to surface,” Nick said, not taking his eyes off the periscope as he continued to swivel. “Minimal bridge crew, keep the decks awash. Remain rigged for dive.”

  As the crew acknowledged, Nick felt someone push his binoculars into his side. Keeping his eyes on the scope, he took them, quickly slipped their carrying loops over his head, then resumed scanning. The rain continued to lash at the periscope, making it difficult to discern shapes in the gloom. He was continuing his second sweep when a bright flash nearly blinded him.

  “Goddammit,” he said, jerking back in shock. Blinking his eyes, he had a moment of horror as he realized the bright light may have been a searchlight scanning the boat. Just as he was about to order the boat back into the depths, two more bright flashes occurred just inside his field of view.

  “Lightning,” he said aloud. “We just got near missed by freaking lightning.”

  There was nervous laughter around the control room. Satisfied there was nothing within visual range, Nick brought his head back from the scope.

  “Take her up,” he said, then turned to Emerson.

  “Sir, do you wish to resume control of the boat?” Nick asked. Emerson smiled, and Nick belatedly realized the man was amused at him.

  Well, you’re the one who usually has me remain on the periscope rather than go topside whenever we do this drill. Emerson seemed to consider his choice for a moment, then broadened his grin.

  “I’ll take the scope,” Emerson said. “You’ve earned some fresh air.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Nick said. He climbed up to the conning tower’s hatch as Emerson took his place at the scope. The Plunger’s CO continued to scan the horizon as the conning tower broke the surface. Nick quickly pushed the hatch open, the rush of air like ambrosia even as he was thoroughly soaked. Pushing out onto Plunger’s bridge, he was swiftly joined by the lookouts and Ensign Griswold. After five tense minutes searching the horizon in the pouring rain and listening, Nick was finally confident that the intensifying storm meant all three of their assailants had moved off.

  “Rig for surface,” Nick said into the Plunger’s voice control. “All ahead flank on diesel.”

  As the Plunger finished blowing the last of the water from her ballast tanks, Nick was suddenly barely able to keep himself erect. Gripping the edge of the bridge, he took a couple of shuddering breaths as the strain of the last few hours lifted from him. The sound of the Plunger’s air conditioners and diesels starting up was a welcome one, and he took another grateful deep breath of sea air.

  “Good job, XO,” Emerson said as he came up from below. “We’ll get off a report to SUBPAC in an hour or so when we’re totally sure we’re clear.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nick said, his drawl pronounced.

  “You go ahead and hit the rack,” Emerson stated. “I’ll have someone wake you in six hours, then we can trade places.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Nick said, then yawned. “Do you still want to take her back south towards Luzon?”

  “No,” Emerson said. “I think heading the opposite direction of the destroyers might be a smarter plan.”

  What have you done with my commander?

  “The last orders we received before we started our attack were ordering us to head back to Midway immediately,” Emerson said lowly. “I was about to acknowledge before we attacked that ship. I’m going to see if there’s something else heading down towards the Philippines before I cut the patrol short.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Nick said with a nod. “No reason to go back with almost half our fish.”

  “Exactly my line of thinking,” Emerson stated, grinning again. “I think this pairing is much better than the last one, Cobb.”

  I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad, Nick thought. But two patrols in and we haven’t managed to get ourselves killed yet. Counting the vessel that they had just dispatched, Plunger had managed to sink three confirmed vessels and damaged another two. Although Nick imagined their German opponents laughing politely behind their hands, that score made Plunger the second most successful submarine behind Brisbane-based Wahoo at the moment.

  Speaking of crazy people, that ‘Mush’ Morton is a real wild man.

  “Thank you, sir,” Nick returned. He gave a nod, then left the bridge. As he slid down the ladder to the control room, his mind turned to the “other Mortons,” i.e., his sister’s roommate, Josephine, and her father, Jacob. The duo were no relation to Mush, but the common last names had linked them in Nick’s mind since he’d first heard of the latter.

  Small world, this war I wonder if Captain Morton has met Commander Morton in some capacity? News of her father’s promotion and the potential upgrade of his Navy Cross to a Medal of Honor had reached Josephine as Nick was headed to Midway aboard Plunger. She and Patricia had made it a point to keep writing letters to all of the Cobb brothers and Patricia’s fiancée, Ensign Charles Read.

  Mail call will be nice. Nick yawned as he began taking off his wet clothes. He dried off as much as could be possible in the still humid submarine, then slipped into his bunk. I hope those knuckleheads are someplace safe.

  God (and Lion) Save the Queen

  Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest

  Walter Raleigh

  Baron Flight

  0800 Local (2230 Eastern)

  Ceylon

  28 July (27 July)

  There are moments in a man’s life when it is appropriate to question one’s own sanity, Squadron Leader Russell Wolford thought to himself as the Mosquito’s engines roared loudly in his ears. Tooling around with a cyclone in the offing is probably as good as indicator as any that I’ve lost every last one of my marbles.

  Baron Squadron, as his unit of twelve Mosquitoes were known, had the unenviable mission of making sure a hostile Japanese force was not hoving over the horizon to catch Ceylon by surprise. To date it had been a fruitless mission, but the intelligence types kept swearing that the Japanese would be showing up any time now.

  Unfortunately, they’ve been saying that since the start of the war, apparently. Which is likely why there’s a touch of ‘cry wolf’ among the units that have been here since our former friends from Nippon got rather violent.

  He looked out over the Indian Ocean to the southeast, fighting down a sense of foreboding.

  Those of us who have had the misfortune of meeting the ‘other Imperials,’ on the other hand, are not so sanguine. It had been several months since the Dutch East Indies had fallen. More than enough time for the Japanese to reconstitute their forces and prepare for the next push.

  “Baron Leader, Portal Leader,” Russell’s headset crackled.

  “Who in the bloody hell is Portal Leader?” his pilot, Flight Lieutenant Carl Bellingsley, stated angrily, his Welsh accent growing thicker with the tension of keeping the Mosquito level in the growi
ng turbulence.

  I am certainly crazy for bringing Bellingsley with me when I formed No. 505 Squadron, Russell thought. He has a terrible temper, never pays attention to my briefings, and complains about everything.

  “The Sunderland squadron,” Russell said, hoping his exasperation carried in his voice. He looked at the map, then keyed his radio.

  “Portal Leader, Baron Leader,” he said.

  “I have attempted to send traffic to the Press Box twice,” came Portal Leader’s clipped voice. “Have sighted and attacked one hostile submarine, position follows.”

  Russell quickly took down the information, noting 4°56' N, 86° 41' E was well outside of any friendly submarine corridors. Looking out at the growing clouds and doing some hasty calculations, he realized that the Sunderland was much closer to the approaching typhoon than his own aircraft.

  “Roger, Portal Leader,” Russell replied. “Will relay. Bloody ballsy chasing a sub in this weather, mate.”

  “Roger, thank you,” Portal leader replied, chuckling. “Pretty sure we missed the bastard thanks to the crosswind.”

  “Understood, will pass along,” Russell stated. He checked the code book, reading over the different columns in the gathering gloom.

  “Tough racket flying those Sunderlands,” Bellingsley stated, his voice full of exertion as the Mosquito once more passed through heavy turbulence.

  “Especially in this mess,” Russell replied.

  Then again, he is the best stick in the squadron, if not the Wing. Russell regarded the other three Mosquitoes spread out in left echelon at half mile intervals, noting their movements looked much rougher than his own aircraft’s. Like fingers of an outspread hand, the Mosquitoes were the RAF’s swing to make contact with any Axis surface forces.

  “Baron Leader, Baron Three. I am low fuel.”

  Russell sighed. Baron Three was a former Lancaster pilot who was still getting used to the Mosquito’s quirks. As a result, he consistently managed to run out of fuel roughly forty miles short of their sector’s end.