by M L Maki
“It’s a reflection from one of the damaged ships.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
Sir, doors open. Bearings matched.”
Cumberland, “XO, fire the shots?”
“Sir?”
“Kill them. You call yourself American, so kill them.”
Morrison goes to the fire control board and pushes the button for tube 1, “Fire 1.” Thud, whoosh.
“Conn, Torpedo. Tube 1 fired electrically.”
Conn, Sonar. Torpedo 1 is running hot, straight, and normal.”
Morrison pushes the button on tube 2, “Fire 2.” Thud, whoosh.
“Conn, Torpedo. Tube 2 fired electrically.”
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo 2 is running hot, straight, and normal.”
Morrison, his face still, turns to Cumberland, “One has an 85 second run. Two has 78.”
I-5, JAPANESE SUBMARINE
“Control, Sonar. Two torpedoes in the water. Bearing 221.”
LCDR Takahashi, “Are they going ahead or astern?”
“Sir, the bearing is constant.”
“Ahead full. Give me a bearing for the nearest ship. Flood tubes 1 through 4.”
I-11, JAPANESE SUBMARINE
LCDR Moto shouts, “Flood tubes! Ahead full! Blow ballast! Prepare to start engines!”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
“Conn, Sonar. Sierra 8 and 9 are flooding tubes. 9 is blowing ballast.”
Morrison, “Very well.”
Thoreau, “25 and 32 seconds.”
Cumberland, “They don’t have time to flood, open, and fire.”
Morrison, “Yes, sir.”
Cumberland, “Are you worried you might have killed your relatives?”
Morrison, “No, sir.”
Cumberland smiles, “Was it hard to push that button?”
Morrison, “No, sir.”
Cumberland, “Did you like it?”
Thoreau, “10, 9, 8…”
Morrison, “It’s our job.”
Thoreau, “4, 3, 2, 1.” They feel the impact of the explosion through the hull. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” The second explosion hits and resonates.
“Conn, Sonar. Sierra 8 and 9 are breaking up. Good hits.”
Cumberland, “Well, Morrison, I doubt any of your family survived that.”
“Sir, none of my family could be out there.”
“You know what I mean.” He picks up the 1MC, “Gentlemen, we have just successfully destroyed two Japanese submarines with two torpedoes fired at the same time. Good kills. Carry on.” He hangs up the mic. “Morrison, take us to periscope depth so we can report in.” Cumberland walks forward out of control.
“Yes, sir.” He issues the orders. As they are working through the procedure, Morrison walks into sonar, “Gordon, Pritchel, how are you doing?”
Gordon, “I’m feeling sick, sir. How many did we just kill?”
“I don’t know. Likely over one hundred. Guys, this is what submarine warfare is.”
Gordon, “Yes, sir. It’s terrible.”
“I agree, but it’s necessary. If they sink the carrier, we’re out of business.”
“Gordon, “I’ll deal, sir.”
“Look, I know it’s hard. It should be hard. If you need to talk, come see me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you.” Morrison goes back into control. They perform the required circle before coming to periscope depth.
Thoreau, “I’m placing us between the kills so we might get some debris pictures.”
“Good call.”
Thoreau continues the maneuver and Cumberland walks in with the message and leaves. Morrison, “Up scope.” He does the quick 360 and takes the pictures. “Oil and debris in the water, Also, bodies.”
They get the reply back on their message, “Good job. Continue.”
CHAPTER 8
USS SAN FRANCISCO
0807, 15 January, 1942
The fleet slowly retreats, the San Francisco coursing north to south, protecting their eastern flank. Morrison wakes up naturally and rolls out of bed. He puts on his robe and flipflops and goes to the officer’s head to shave. Halfway through his morning ablutions, Miller comes in, uses the urinal, and washes his hands. Then, he looks in every stall. “John, do you know what’s going on with the captain?”
“I just woke up.”
“It’s been coming on for a while. He keeps hassling you about your Japanese heritage. He seems happy only after we’ve killed a sub. As soon as the kill is confirmed, he’s almost giddy. Then he leaves to rub one out.”
“You don’t know what he does.”
“Yeah, but it’s likely.”
Morrison finishes shaving and washes his face. Turning to Miller, “How are you and your guys dealing with the killing?”
“It has us kind of fucked up. We’ve sank five subs. Killed about three hundred people. It’s the job we signed up for, but shit, it’s hard.”
“It is.”
“How are you dealing with all the discrimination from the captain?”
“It thrills the shit out of me. No. But, listen, as long as he’s focusing on me, he’s leaving everyone else alone.”
“A point. I hope we get some liberty soon. This boat is turning into a pressure cooker.”
“We’re at war. We’ll pull in when we do. Keep a close eye on your guys morale. With everything else, we have to stay on top of it.”
“Yes, sir. Have you written your grandparents?”
“Yeah. My grandmother is living in New Jersey and my grandfather is the XO on a destroyer in the Atlantic.”
“Cool. My grandpa is building life boats and life rafts outside of Boston. What about your birth parents? Are they interned?”
“My mom, yeah. She’s in Utah. They lost everything they owned in California.”
“The whole thing was fucked up.”
“Hopefully, we can make a difference.”
On the 1MC they hear Cumberland, “San Francisco. I just got word that the USS Salt Lake City has succumbed to the damage inflicted on it by the Japs. Another loss. That is all.”
They look at each other. Morrison, “Damn it.”
MORRISON HOME, OFFICER HOUSING, CAPE MAY NAVAL BASE, NEW JERSEY
1320, 16 January, 1942
Elaine Morrison walks into her kitchen with the mail and the paper. Across the front page is a picture of the USS Carl Vinson and the headline, “1990 NAVY FLAT TOP HAMMERS THE JAPS!” She glances at the headline, then goes straight to the list of lost units. The USS Livermore is not on it. “He should be back soon.”
She puts the paper down and goes through the mail. A letter from the Navy makes her heart stop. She sits down, ripping the letter open:
LCDR and Mrs. Henry Morrison,
This letter is to inform you of a family member currently in Naval service. On December 19th, 1941, due to a time travel event, a battle group with the USS Carl Vinson, CVN-70, appeared in the Pacific waters north of the Philippine Islands.
You have a descendant family member in this battle group. His name is LCDR John Morrison. Currently, he is the executive officer of a 1990 ship named the USS San Francisco. According to our records he was adopted by your son, retired Rear Admiral Mitchell Morrison in 1956 after the death of his birth parents, Lt. Andrew Fallon and Kinuko Fallon. He has been given your address to write to you. Please write to him and support our new service member at the address below.
Sincerely,
Captain Donaldson
Assistant Director of Department of Naval Personnel
She reads the letter twice, then looks at the enclosed photo. It’s obviously his academy picture as an ensign. His Japanese heritage is obvious.
Her thirteen-year-old son, Mitchell comes into the kitchen, letting the door bang shut behind him, “Hi Mom, can I go…Mom, what is it?”
“Your father is fine, Mitchell. Where do you want to go?”
“That letter is from the Navy, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
&
nbsp; “Can I see it?”
“Your father is fine.”
“Okay, Mom. Can I see it?”
“Yes. You have a son from the future.”
“That’s not funny.” He takes the letter and reads it.
Elaine, “No, it isn’t.”
“I become an Admiral? Cool. Can I go to Bobby’s house?”
“Be back before dark, Admiral. You’re not cleared for night maneuvers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
1712, 20 January, 1942
The off-watch officers are quietly eating their dinner. The captain looks up, “This room is a mortuary. Don’t any of you have something to say?”
Morrison, “Sir, do you think we’ll be pulling into Australia?”
“I doubt it. They’ll need us to patrol.”
The supply officer, Lt. Ed Cameron, “Sir, it would be nice to re-provision.”
Cumberland, “How many days do we have left?”
Cameron, “Sir, we could make it another six to eight weeks, but we’re out of fresh food and who knows when we’ll be near a port again.”
Backes, “Sir, do we know where we’re going next?”
Cumberland, “We need to get cut loose to hunt Jap subs. Instead, we’ll be escorting the bird farm. I don’t know what Halsey is planning. Morrison, has your vaunted connections revealed anything to you?”
“No, sir, but I may have an educated guess.”
“Go on. I’ve no doubt our wardroom waits with bated breath for your scintillating analysis.”
Morrison stares at his commander.
“No, please. What are your thoughts?”
“Sir, we may be dropping off a squadron of jets to defend Australia. Unless they had a time transference that was conveniently next to a military airfield, they will need our help.”
Cumberland, “That’s not it. No way Nimitz would dilute the power of the carrier. When we get to Australia, we’ll not pull in. I don’t want to pull in until we are out of torpedoes and we have a broom on our mast.”
MM1 Mallory is eating in the enlisted mess with his watch team. He sees a radioman, “Hey Sparky, where are we going?”
The RM2 just smiles.
Mallory, “Radiomen. They know everything and say nothing.”
The RM3 says, “G’day, then.” He puts his tray in the scullery and leaves.
Mallory and Gustaf look at each other and smile. Mallory, “No way the captain will let us pull in. No way.”
Gustaf, “Have you been there?”
“Once. It was amazing. The people were really nice.”
“Any advice?”
“Don’t try to drink an Aussie under the table. It can’t be done. They don’t tip. When an Aussie buys a round, you need to as well. That, and don’t be the kind of ass that fucks it up for the next boat.”
“Are the girls pretty?”
“Oh yeah, and they have this amazing accent. And they’re nice girls. Be nice back, and don’t fuck it up for the next boat.”
MM3 Black, “Will we have to wear our uniforms?”
Mallory, “Wear it and don’t bitch. It’s a bit of a chick magnet. It really is. Just don’t be an ass and ruin it for the next boat.”
MM3 Black, “I detect a theme.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 400 MILES SE OF WAKE, 100 MILES WEST OF THE FLEET
0130, 29 January, 1942
Brown is watching the waterfall and chatting with Guthrie, “You doing alright?”
“Yeah, I guess. When I said all that about them leaving, it was like an intellectual exercise. Now that it’s real, I miss them terribly, especially Lorna. It’s like an empty ache in my heart.”
“That’s what love feels like. It’s hard dude. No making it easier.”
“What do I do?”
“Live through it. You have a right to grieve. Grief takes time.”
“Thank you, Mike.”
“No problem, if…” His hand shoots up.
Guthrie, “Man made. Shit, that’s a lot of boats.”
“Yeah.” Brown pushes the button, “Conn, Sonar. Multiple targets bearing 300.”
Morrison in control, “Roger.” He pushes another button, “Captain, multiple contacts at 300.”
Backes comes back from the head and Morrison quietly briefs him. Morrison heads for sonar. “What have we got, Brown?”
Brown points at a jumbled mess on the waterfall. “It’s a mess, sir. But, it’s positively a bunch of ships. If we were closer, we could itemize them.”
“Okay, good job.”
Morrison walks back in to the chart table and is joined by Cumberland, “What do we have?”
“Sonar just picked up a large cluster of ships near Wake Island.”
“That wasn’t included in the fleet movements we received. It has to be the Japs.”
“Report it and continue on, sir?”
“Hell, no. It’s a hunting ground and we still have torpedoes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cumberland announces, “Conn, come to 295. Make our speed 20 knots.” He walks into sonar.
Backes repeats his order, then goes to Morrison, “We’re going out of position?”
“We are.”
“We’re not checking in?”
“We’re not.”
Backes sighs, “Roger that.”
MM3 Gustaf snakes out of the shaft alley he was cleaning, “Fuck this shit.” The main shaft, just inches above where he was working, picks up speed. He goes to the upper level and tells Mallory, “The shaft alley is as clean as is it going to get at this speed.”
“Okay. It’s about time to end the field day, anyway. How are you doing on your upper level qual?”
Gustaf looks down, “It’s coming along.”
“Go get it. If you see any of the others working on their quals, collect them, too. I’ve warmed up my pen.”
“Aye, aye.”
TMC Kennedy is going over training with his watch crew when they feel the change in the ship’s movement. Kichiro, “Captain killer has found another victim.”
Trindle, “You think?”
“Yeah. That mother fucker only gets in a hurry when it’s time to kill.”
Kennedy, “Kichiro, Trindle, do you want to share your wisdom about the Harpoon missile?”
Kichiro, “Sorry, Chief.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 50 MILES SW OF WAKE ISLAND
0605, 29 January, 1942
Morrison carefully studies the many sea mounts in the area; charting and adjusting their course to stay as far from the undersea mountains as possible. Cumberland walks back in, straight to the table and studies it, “What are you doing, Morrison?”
“This area is littered with sea mounts, sir.”
“They’re all at least 1500 feet below the surface.”
“That’s their charted depth in the seventies, sir. We don’t know what they are now.”
Cumberland, “Ahead 1/3rd.” He walks back into sonar, “Thorsen, what do we have?”
“There are two groups of ships. One group close to the island, and a second group further to the east. The easterly group is a bunch of ships. As we slow, we’ll categorize and sort them out.”
“Are any of them carriers?”
“I think several have four screws.”
Cumberland, “Carriers, or maybe battleships. Focus on those.” Back in control, “Load and make ready tubes 1, 2, 3, and 4.”
The order comes down and the torpedo team gets busy. Kichiro, “Evan-san, I called it.”
Kennedy, “What’s that, Kiche?”
“When we went to that full bell during training, I told Evan-san that the captain had found something to kill. Hatch one open.”
ISOKAZE, FUBUKI CLASS JAPANESE DESTROYER
