by M L Maki
“Um, no, sir.”
Halsey, “I understand you locked horns with a couple of our female pilots. If you can’t respect the person, you God damned well better respect their uniform. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you two work together going forward?”
Cumberland looks at his XO, then back to Halsey, “We, uh, we can work together, sir.”
Halsey, “Morrison?”
“Yes, sir. Current issues aside, we’re working fairly well together at sea.”
Halsey, “Good, tomorrow, you go to sea. There are no friendly subs within five hundred miles of Sydney. We’re giving you two days to clear the harbor of Jap subs. When you give us the all clear, this group puts to sea. It will be the same order of battle, until you are cut loose in the Indian Ocean. That done, we want you to race ahead, clear out any subs around the Cape of Good Hope, and report in when that is completed. Then, hunt your way north. Pass through the Atlantic gap, then report to Groton on or about 26 March. You’ll get further orders in Groton. As I understand it, your job will be to clear out the wolf pack menace. Questions?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir.”
Halsey, “Now, gentlemen, I happen to have a case of whiskey on Wakefield, but I do wish you both the best.”
Morrison, “Who’s the bet with, sir.”
“Captain Johnson seems to think highly of modern submarines.”
They walk Halsey off the boat. When Halsey is gone, Morrison asks, “Sir, why did you tell Mallory he couldn’t marry?”
“I wanted to keep him from making a huge mistake.”
“You’ve never even met her.”
“It doesn’t matter. I know you have a thing for the ladies, Commander. As far as I’m concerned, every split tail is a whore after your bank account and your future. They are sirens designed to lead men astray. Men are better off focusing on their work.”
“Sir, you’re entitled to your opinion, but we both know officers cannot interfere with personal lives of the men. It’s unlawful.”
“Yeah, well, he got married and I dodged a bullet. I want E-6 and below aboard by midnight. Everyone aboard by two. We set sail by four.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 20
ROYAL PRINCE ALFRED HOSPITAL, SYDNEY, NSW
1610, 22 February, 1942
Morrison and Backes help Lt. Kichiro get dressed in his uniform. Kichiro, “So, I passed my board?”
Backes, “You did. You’ll have a lot to learn, but you know enough not to kill anyone.”
“Shit, man. This is awesome.”
Morrison pins on Kichiro’s gold dolphins, then his combat patrol pin. Petrea, from the door, asks, “The nurse is here. May we come in?”
Kichiro, “Yeah, sure.”
Petrea, “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The nurse walks in behind Petrea with a wheel chair, “Please sit down, Lieutenant.”
“I’ve been sitting and laying down enough.”
“You must be wheeled out of the hospital. It’s policy.”
Kichiro looks at the three lieutenant commanders, then back to the nurse, and sighs, “Yes, ma’am.” He’s wheeled out of the hospital. They put him into the Ford, and they make their way west. An hour later, they pull into RAAF Richmond. Morrison asks the gate guard for directions and they drive to the ‘O’ club.
Inside, they find a table and a Philippine waiter takes their orders. The bar is fairly full with RAAF and RAF officers. Liz attracts more attention than Morrison or Kichiro.
Kichiro, “Sir, when do I start getting paid as a lieutenant?”
Morrison grins, “You already are.”
“Cool.”
A USAAF captain approaches their table, “Are all of you flying out?”
Morrison, “Just Lieutenant Kichiro. Are you flying 2773?”
“Yes, I’m Captain Archer. You look like a Jap.”
“I’m American.”
“Okay, just saying.”
Petrea, “He’s Apache, Captain. Don’t become one of his scalps.”
Archer swallows, “No disrespect intended.”
Their food arrives and Archer returns to his table. Morrison, “Apache?”
“It’s an easier fabrication than having to explain yourself and your patriotism every ten minutes.”
“It’s a lie.”
Petrea, “Who the fuck cares, John. Everyone knows who the Apaches are, and no one ever wants to fuck with one. They also know Apache are Americans. There’s no further need to question your patriotism.”
Kichiro, “She’s right, sir.”
Backes, “I agree, John. It’s safer for you.”
“I don’t look Apache.”
Petrea, “Really? What do Apache look like?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m sure I’m too pale.”
“You live in a submerged tube.”
“My eyes aren’t shaped right.”
“Really? And what do Apache eyes look like? Practically no one from 1942 knows.”
Backes, “She’s right. Your last name doesn’t give anything away. In fact, it makes sense if you were part white. That would explain your pale skin, as well.”
“Just how far are you two co-conspirators wanting to take this?”
“I’ll talk to Johnson and have your service record changed.”
“Jesus Chris, Liz. I would be a fraud. I won’t do it.” He looks over at the table where the USAAF crew are eating. He gets up and walks over. “Gentlemen, are you drinking beer before you fly?”
Archer, “Only one, sir. We don’t fly for three more hours.”
He makes eye contact with each man using the senior officer stink eye, “In the 1990 military, there is no alcohol twenty-four hours before a flight. If I see a second round, your careers are over. Clear?”
The men look at each other and back to Morrison, “Yes, sir.”
“Carry on.” He comes back to the table and sits.
Petrea, “Did you just set the record straight?”
“No, but they aren’t buying a second round of beers before a flight.”
Backes and Petrea look at the USAAF crew. Petrea, “Did you ground them?”
“The flight isn’t for another three hours. I just chewed them out.”
Kichiro, “I have to wait three hours?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s actually typical of government flights. They’re never on time.”
The USAAF crew come by their table on their way out. The captain says, “We’re headed to the flight line for the preflight. We can take you, lieutenant.”
Kichiro, “My bags are in the car. If you’ve room, that’s cool with me.”
“Cool?”
Kichiro smiles, “I forget. Okay with me.”
Archer, “Are you guys those time travelers?”
Backes, “We are.”
Archer, “Hot damn. Do we win?”
Morrison, “We do, but with our presence, everything is changed. What do you fly?”
“C-47, sir. From here we hop across Australia, jump to Egypt, hop to Gibraltar, then up to Portsmouth, Iceland, Newfoundland, and finally, Washington. It’ll take three days, if we don’t’ have bad weather.”
Kichiro, “In twenty years, or so, we’ll be able to fly directly in air-conditioned comfort.”
Backes, “Yeah, but then there’s always the crying baby, stinky seat mate, or kid kicking the back of your chair.”
Kichiro, “Come on, Commander. Be an optimist.” He pushes his plate away, “I guess, I’ll be seeing you.”
They all get up and shake Kichiro’s hand. Morrison goes out with Kichiro to retrieve his bags. “Take care, Kiche. I know you’ll do well.”
“Yes, sir.” Kichiro salutes and Morrison returns it. He picks up his bags and follows the aircrew to their vehicle. Morrison watches the truck head for the flight line, then turns and walks back inside. A few minutes later, they’re on their way back to Garden Isl
and. They drop Backes off at the ‘O’ club and head out of town.
Morrison finds a quiet spot and pulls over, “Apache, Liz? What’s that about?”
“John, you leave tomorrow.”
“And you leave two days later.”
“Are we going to the same place?”
He smiles, “No.”
“Then you know.”
“Yeah, Halsey told us this morning.”
“I know you can’t say, and that’s fine. What I want to know is if you’ll be okay. If…”
John shakes his head, “If? If I’ll still need Liz the protector when we go our separate ways?”
“You need someone to help you out there, Cochise.”
“Is that where we are? I’m vulnerable and you’re afraid for me? Is that it?”
She looks away and takes a jagged breath. Finally, she turns and looks at him, “No. No. I’m making excuses for missing you.”
“I’ll still care about you, Liz. No matter where we go, no matter what we do, you’ll hold a piece of my heart.”
She chews her lip, “But is it a piece you can live without?” She slides closer to him.
He takes her in his arms and kisses her hair, “No, dear. I have no expendable pieces of my heart.”
“When do you have to be back?”
“Two. I should be back earlier than that.”
“I want you alone with me until one, okay?”
“Yes, dear.”
I-68, JAPANESE SUBMARINE, NORTH OF SYDNEY HARBOR
0440, 23 February, 1942
Lieutenant Commander Yahachi Tanabe hears the merchant vessel over their head, its screws slowly churning the sea. The water is shallow here, so it moves slowly. The sonar operator, listening intently, says, “Commander, I think I hear a vessel departing the harbor.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO, MOUTH OF SYDNEY HARBOR
0442, 23 February, 1942
Morrison shakes the pilot’s hand and helps him step across to the pilot boat. The sub is rolling a bit in the incoming swells. He uses a pen light to confirm that all the disappearing cleats are in the dive position. Then, he climbs up the sail, “What’s our depth?” Waiting for the answer, Morrison observes the dozen, or so, cargo ships circling outside the harbor waiting for daylight.
The phone talker, “85 feet, sir.”
“Good.’ He puts on his sound powered phones. He spots a flashing light from the darkness, “Captain, signal lamp at 085 relative. It’s a patrol boat requesting the code.”
Cumberland, “Ignore it. I’ll raise them on radio.”
“Roger.” In the dim light, he sees foam at the stern as the patrol boat accelerates. “Sir, he’s getting antsy.”
“Stand by.”
The bridge watch, “Sir, is the Captain signaling back?”
Morrison, “We don’t want a light to expose our position. He’s trying to raise him on the radio. What’s our depth?”
“Twenty fathoms, sir.”
There’s a bright light from the patrol boat and a splash of water about one hundred yards in front of the sub. Morrison turns on his pen light and uses his hand to flash the recognition code. Another round fires and lands long and behind. “They’ve got our range.” He keeps flashing the recognition signal.
Finally, he sees a response. “Interrogative. Unit?”
He responds, “SN. SN. SN.”
“Interrogative. No answer?”
Morrison responds, “Interrogative. Radio off?”
The patrol boat replies, “Sorry, SN.”
He sends, “Directive. Report Admiral H. for new assignment. Out.” He turns off his pen light and stows it in a pocket.
I-62, JAPANESE SUBMARINE, SOUTH OF SYDNEY HARBOR
Lieutenant Commander Riku Kobayashi waits. He has torpedoes already loaded in his four forward tubes.
Sonar, “Commander, I confirm vessel leaving Sydney Harbor is single screw. The patrol boat fired on her.”
Kobayashi, “Why? Why fire on your own vessel? Thank you. Do you have a blade count?”
“Many blades, sir. It sounds odd.”
“But, one screw?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make turns for three knots. Let’s continue using the cargo ship as a hat while we see what this is.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
The phone talker says, “Captain says we have fifty fathoms and to clear the bridge.” They pull their cords and install the caps. Morrison inspects the bridge, then climbs down, inspecting and closing hatches.
“Chief, last man down. Bridge rigged to dive.” They go through the dive procedure, open the ballast valves, and the San Francisco slips beneath the waves.
I-62, JAPANESE SUBMARINE, SOUTH OF SYDNEY HARBOR
Sonar, “It is sinking.”
Kobayashi, “Was it hit?”
“I do not think so. It is a submarine, Commander.”
“One screw? Odd.”
I-68, JAPANESE SUBMARINE NORTH OF SYDNEY HARBOR
Lt. Commander Tanabe leans over his sonarman, “A submarine? You are certain?”
“I can hear the air leaving and the sound of the screw changing as the water gets denser.”
“Load tubes one through four. The carrier groups first vessel to exit is a submarine. We must consider this.”
I-62, JAPANESE SUBMARINE SOUTH OF SYDNEY HARBOR
Lt. Commander Kobayashi sips his tea and observes his watch team. Sonar, “Sir the target is a submarine. I hear the air escaping.”
“Could it have been holed by the cannon fire?”
“No, Commander. I would have heard the explosion. The shells fell harmlessly into the sea. Also, Commander, the speed of the screw is changing.”
“Understood. Could it be one of our friends?”
“The screw is wrong.”
“Flood tubes one through four.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
Once they’ve settled at 200 feet with 100 feet under them, Cumberland asks, “What did you tell them? I caught their end of the conversation.”
Morrison, “I told them to report to Admiral Halsey for reassignment.”
Cumberland chuckles, “An inauspicious beginning. We need more water under our keel.”
It’s a slow process using sonar alone to avoid all the cargo ships as the work their way out to sea. As the sun rises, the cargo ships shift their headings as they jockey for position to enter the harbor.
ST1 Brown, “Conn, Sonar. Submerged contact bearing 167. Designate Sierra 1. Same bearing as Tango 9.”
Mallory and ET1 Andrew Brown are working the tracks. Tango 9 is sixteen miles to their south. Morrison, “Chart depth shows 300 feet.”
Cumberland, “The ship is going to pull in. No way the sub can sneak in submerged. The harbor isn’t that deep.”
“Conn, Sonar. Tango 9 has increased blade count.”
Backes, on watch, “Very well.”
Cumberland studies the chart and smiles, “Make our course 150. Load and make ready tube 1 and tube 2 with Mark ‘48s.”
The torpedo crew below race into action.
Ensign Harvey and Ensign Vaught are observing from the rear of control. Harvey whispers to Vaught, “Wonder why two torpedoes?”
Cumberland’s head comes up, and they shut up, “If there’s one, there are probably others. I don’t want to lose time later.”
The cargo ship turns toward the harbor, and the Japanese submarine stays on its course, creeping along the bottom.
“Conn, Sonar. Submerged target at 130. Designate Sierra 2.”
Cumberland, “Range on Sierra 1?”
“Eight miles at 182. Its course is approximately 320. Speed is 2 knots.”
Cumberland, “Very well.”
“Conn, Torpedo. Tube 1 and 2 are loaded with Mark ‘48s. Tubes dry.”
Cumberland, “Flood and equalize tubes 1 and 2.”
Mallory, “Sir, Sierra 2 is ten miles at 136. Course is 300. Speed is 3 knots.”
