The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific

by Jeff Shaara

  “I swear … there are two ships, sir.”

  The captain slapped him on the shoulder, said, “All right, we’ll look for two ships. We’ll figure this out pretty quick.”

  He climbed the ladder to the open bridge, emerged out of the smoky heat into the soft warmth of the breeze, the exec, Gordon, making space for him.

  “Nothing to see yet, Skipper.”

  “Patience, Lieutenant.”

  To one side, Fallon had his hands clamped on the TBT binoculars, anxious, frozen in place, knowing his part in this elaborate operation. He was, after all, the eyes, would be the first man to actually see whatever it was that would soon come into visual range.

  The captain turned east, a hint of gray on the horizon, thought, all right. Time for some light on this show. He said to Gordon, “Go below, Lieutenant. Prepare to dive on my order. Sonar could be wrong about that thing being a freighter, and I sure as hell don’t want a surface fight with a destroyer. Maintain this course until we get a good look at whatever’s coming. We should intersect at about two thousand yards, but we’ll see him way before then. And sure as hell, they’ll see us.”

  Gordon moved to the hatch, descended, a clipped response.

  “Aye, sir. Preparing to dive.”

  Beside him, the young seaman seemed to jump, leaning into the mounted binoculars.

  “Got her, sir!”

  The young man knew the drill, immediately stepped aside. The captain leaned close, stared into the TBT binoculars, saw it for himself now, the low gray silhouette. He felt his heart beginning to thump, sharing the young seaman’s excitement. There was never a thrill quite like that first glimpse, when a target first appeared. The fox and the hound, he thought. Or better, the mountain lion and the deer. Yep, like that one better. Going for the throat. He kept his eye on the distant ship, reached for the microphone, said in a low voice, “Activate radar, but just for range. Make it quick.”

  He waited, then heard the words.

  “Four thousand, sir. Closing at ten knots.”

  There was a small tug in his brain, a hint of warning. Why so damn slow? A Jap merchant can make eighteen to twenty, most of ’em anyway. He could see the silhouette more clearly now, definitely a merchant ship. This is too easy. Okay, fine. Give us a gift. I’ll take it.

  He knew the calculations in his head, had been through this too many times before. The sub had approached east of the merchant ship, the light of the dawn at his back, the breaking sunlight acting as camouflage. Even on the surface, with the sub positioned straight at the merchant, it made almost no silhouette at all, and if a sharp-eyed Jap lookout saw her, it would be too late to do anything about it.

  He leaned away from the TBT, the young seaman taking over. He stepped back, stared at the horizon, the lightening sky betraying the Japanese ship to the naked eye. Now the instruments took over, the odd mechanics that had already plotted the target’s trajectory, range, and speed, and the ideal moment when he would give the order to fire the first spread of torpedoes. He knew that in the bow, the men had already received the order to load the six torpedo tubes, the training and the experience coming into play. He gripped the steel beside him with one hand, took the microphone in the other, waited, could see a hint of diesel smoke rising from the distant ship, her course taking her directly perpendicular to the sub’s bow, a perfect broadside. Yep, he thought. The deer, unaware, helpless, perfect.

  The voice came now, from below, Gordon, too loud, nervous.

  “Prepared to fire, sir. Optimum range in ten seconds.”

  He didn’t respond, thought, easy, Gordy. He ticked the seconds off in his mind, then said, “Fire one.”

  “One away, sir.”

  There was a slight lurch beneath his feet, and he stared past the bow, a hint of a wake, but little else.

  “Fire two.”

  “Two away, sir.”

  He felt the chill, the sweat in his shirt, the pure thrill. Come on, dammit. He had a stopwatch in his pocket, but his exec did as well, and he knew that Gordon was staring at it now, measuring, counting down, sweating, as he was. No radar needed now, no earphones on the sonar man, everyone on the sub doing exactly what their captain was doing, waiting, pulsing tension, feeling the seconds tick away. He kept his stare at the distant ship, thought of firing a third, no, not yet. Unless something screwy happens, this should be …

  The flash of light burst high, striking amidship, engulfing the ship quickly, and then another, close to the bow. He clenched one fist, punched the air, pure joy, heard a cheer break out below. Beside him, the boy kept his stare into the TBT, held his composure, still did his job. The freighter was hidden completely now by a fiery cloud of black smoke, and he slapped the young seaman on the back, said, “Good work, son.” He keyed the microphone, his words louder than usual, the momentary lapse in his composure.

  “Good shooting, boys! Cigars for breakfast.” He watched the fire, could see the bow of the ship rising, telltale signs that the ship was in pieces.

  “Let’s get over there, see if anybody’s floating around.”

  Below he heard the voice of the exec, still the loud excitement.

  “Ahead one-third, keep your eye on the prize.”

  Suddenly the speaker beside him erupted, the voice of Gifford.

  “Sir! Sonar contact! A second ship!”

  “Radar! Hockley, you got anything?”

  “No, sir! No contact!”

  He understood now, felt supremely stupid. The second ship, detected only by sound. Because she’s submerged.

  “Prepare to dive!”

  He yanked at Fallon’s shirt, pushed him toward the hatch, the young man obeying, dropping down quickly. The captain gave a last glance toward the burning merchant ship, thought, ten knots. Perfect target. Bait. It worked, and I’m a dumb son of a bitch.

  He dropped down through the hatch, his feet scrambling for the steps of the ladder, and with one motion he pulled the hatch closed above him.

  “Dive!”

  The order was repeated, the telltale whoosh of the ballast tanks, the ship immediately dropping her bow. He saw the faces turned toward him, Gifford and his earphones. The captain said nothing, thought, he was right. And I should have figured it out. Damn fool. All right, do your job. Let’s get our asses out of this mess.

  “We level out at periscope depth, go to silent running! Nobody sneezes, nobody farts! We’ve got a Jap sub on our ass!”

  The voice of Gordon came in a hard whisper, the exec speaking into a phone receiver, the word passing throughout the ship.

  “All hands. Silent running.”

  Gordon was still on the intercom, listening, a faint voice on the other end of the line, and the captain knew it was the helm officer down below, in the control room. His exec looked at him now, gave a quick thumbs-up. The captain nodded, thought, all right, periscope depth. Now we sit and see what this bastard is going to do. He moved to the main periscope, one hand resting on warm brass. The heat around him seemed magnified by the silence, and he felt the sub tilt slightly, rocking gently in the slow-moving current. He wiped the sweat from his face, looked at the others, some staring at Gifford, others at the instruments close in front of them. No sound, he thought. Nothing. Don’t let that bastard have any more advantage than I already gave him. He scanned the crew, looked down toward the hatchway to the control room, thought of the galley. That’s where it happens, he thought. Too much tin in too small a space, and the cook was probably getting breakfast together. He couldn’t avoid the slight cringe, expecting the sound of something banging the deck, a pot, any piece of silverware carelessly unsecured. But there was only silence, and he let out a breath, thought, all right, maybe an extra cigar for the cook.

  His shirt was soaking wet, and he fought the furious helplessness, looked again at Gifford. The sonar man was unmoving, his hands clamped against the earphones. After a long, deathly pause, Gifford looked up at him, wide eyes, a slow nod, and said in a whisper, “Five hundred yards to port,
bearing across our stern, sir. No change in course or speed.”

  The captain nodded, no orders, not yet. Gifford seemed to stare past him, his head turning instinctively, toward the port side of the sub. The captain waited, still angry at himself, thought, point-blank range. Dammit! But if he hasn’t fired at us, he may not know where we are. Nothing to do but … sit here. The sub was deathly silent around him, no other sound in the conning tower but the hard breathing of the men around him. He knew that conditions would get worse quickly in the tight space, no ventilation, the air growing more foul by the minute. The captain felt the dripping wetness in his shirt, stinging in his eyes. He cursed silently, kept his stare on Gifford. After a long moment, Gifford pointed out, forward to port, said in a whisper, “He’s … Jesus … he’s right there, moving past. Two hundred yards!”

  He felt Gifford’s excitement, acknowledged with a short nod, felt a burst of giddiness. Captain Nip has no idea where we are. None. He tried to imagine the conning tower of the enemy sub, their captain sweating in the stifling, smoky heat, giving his own orders, discipline and precision that came from the best training the Japanese could give their naval officers. But he doesn’t have our sonar, not even close. He’s pissed off, baffled, wondering where the hell we went. I’ll tell you where, you Jap son of a bitch. We just switched roles. Now I’m hunting you.

  He felt his breathing, hard and heavy, fought to silence it, but it didn’t matter now, the others in the conning tower watching him. He kept his eye on Gifford, who looked up at him from the small seat, one hand rising, pointing out to stern, mouthing the words, “Should cross our stern in about three minutes … no change, sir. Distance increasing.”

  The captain nodded, pointed to the young man’s earphones, the silent, unnecessary order: stay focused, son. He looked at Gordon, pointed to the intercom.

  “Load aft torpedo tubes. Quickly! Quietly!”

  The emphasis was unnecessary, his fingers curled into fists, impatience while the lieutenant gave the order. He felt the periscope against his back, had a burst of an idea, a short debate in his brain. It’s a risk, dammit, but I’ve got to see you, make sure you’re still moving off. I want to see it for myself. This is a shot of a lifetime, but if you’re too close, this could blow us both to hell. He looked toward a seaman, the young man’s eyes on him, his hand on an instrument panel, seeming to anticipate the order.

  “Up main periscope!”

  “Aye, sir, main periscope.”

  The switch was thrown, the hydraulics silently sliding the fat tube upward. The captain knelt slightly, wrapped his hands around the grips on either side, rose up with it, spun it around quickly to stern, stared, focused, felt a burst of cold, delicious surprise. He wanted to laugh, could see with perfect clarity a single spear pointing upward, moving slowly away from him. Well, hello, Captain. You seem to be looking the wrong damn way. Another whisper, a quick motion with his hand.

  “Down periscope.”

  He stepped closer to the sonar station, Gifford still wide-eyed, his ears full of the whining rotation of the Japanese engines. He looked up at the captain now, nodded furiously, and the captain touched the earphones, Gifford removing them. The captain leaned low, said, “Give me a thumbs-up when he’s thirty seconds from dead astern. Tell me if he changes course one degree!”

  Gifford nodded, his eyes staring again into the distance, his ears doing the work.

  He tried to imagine the scene on the Japanese sub, frantic orders, their perfect trap maybe not so perfect now. But you ought to be circling, you stupid ass. Unless you’re putting too much faith in your instruments. You have to think we hauled it out of here, that we ran like hell when we heard you coming. Why the hell else would you be moving off in a straight damn line? Especially after what you just pulled off. It was a hell of a good plan, Captain, I’ll give you that. Shadow your own merchant ship, trying to see if your enemy might come along and blow her to hell. Wonder what your merchant captain thought of that idea? Or did he even know you were there? Okay, so I obliged you. But you haven’t won anything yet. Right now, I’m the cat.

  He fought to breathe through the thick hot air, felt the pounding in his chest, that perfect moment coming very soon, the opportunity. He looked toward Gordon, who moved close.

  “Aft torpedo tubes loaded and ready, awaiting your order.”

  “Wait for it, Gordy.”

  “Sir.”

  He thought of the aft torpedo room, knew there was silent chaos there, some of the men sleeping in the bunks, packed in around the torpedoes. They’re awake now, that’s for certain. With the order for silent running, he knew the officers would have spread all through the ship, that even the sleeping day shift would be aroused with urgency, no chance of a loud cough, no chance a man would drop something from his bedding.

  The heat was increasing, driving the captain’s temper, and he stared hard at Gifford, no change, his breathing in hard, short punches. The captain did the same, thought, please don’t be too damn clever, you Jap bastard. Gifford caught his eye, gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.

  Good, very damn good, he thought. He leaned close to the TDC operator, the man staring hard at the gauges.

  “Got him?”

  “Got him, sir. If he maintains course, he’ll be dead astern in no more than thirty seconds.”

  If he maintains course.

  The cold chill ran through him, a stab in his stomach. He made one more glance toward Gifford, who stared back at him, sweat on the man’s face. Steak dinner for you, kid. He turned to Gordon, who held the intercom phone in his hand, no need for quiet now.

  “Fire one.”

  He heard the telltale swish from the tube in the stern.

  “Fire two.”

  He caught motion from Gifford, the sonar man hearing their own torpedoes, tearing the earphones from his head, and the captain nodded, thought, smart. We’re awfully damn close. He thought of the stopwatch in his pocket, no, we’ll know pretty quick … the sub suddenly rocked hard, a shock wave that seemed to roll her over to one side. He fell against the pipe railing of the periscope station, saw others staggering, some tumbling from their seats, reaching for pipes and bulkheads, scrambling back to their positions. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, ignored it, the sub still rolling like a slow-motion bucking horse, gradually righting itself. Gordon pulled himself upright, had blood on his face, and the captain ignored him, moved close beside Gifford, shouted, “Earphones! Anything moving?”

  The young man obeyed, the captain watching him, aching with the tick of long seconds. Then Gifford removed the earphones, said, “Nothing, sir. He’s gone.” Gifford seemed to grasp the meaning of his own words, the others as well, fists pumping, backslaps, and the captain said, “Stand down from silent running.”

  He looked toward Gordon, who wiped blood from a wound to his scalp, said, “You okay, Gordy?”

  The exec nodded, no explanation necessary. Every crewman knew the sub was one dangerous obstacle course, especially if you lost your footing.

  He reached for the intercom.

  “Dive control. Take her up. I wanna see some oil.”

  The order was given, and beneath his feet in the control room, the helmsman responded, the crew going through the routine again, the sub’s bow tilting upward. After a full minute the signal came from the dive officer, and he climbed up, spun the wheel on the hatch, pushed it open through a light shower of salt water. He shielded his eyes from the burst of new sunlight, climbed up quickly. Behind him there was a clattering of activity, gunner’s mates coming up right behind him, more of the routine, the men who would man the smaller deck guns and the anti-aircraft guns close to the conning tower. He stood upright on the bridge, sucked in a lungful of cool fresh air, the wetness in his shirt cool and sticky. He peered out to stern, nothing but dark blue ocean, wide soft swells, the sun just above the horizon to the east. He grabbed the microphone.

  “Right full rudder. Reverse course. Ahead slow.”

  “Aye, sir.
Right full rudder, reversing course, ahead slow.”

  The sub began to turn, and he saw it now, a spreading stain, the glistening sheen of oil on the surface, streams of bubbles. He raised his own binoculars, scanned the water’s surface, saw pieces of debris. Direct hit, he thought. Busted her all to hell. He glanced at the compass, thought of the merchant ship, gone as well, a debris field a mile out beyond the oil. We should check that out too, see what we can find. Could be survivors.

  “Exec to the bridge.”

  He knew Gordon was anxious for the order to come topside, to see it for himself. In seconds the executive officer was up beside him, scanning out with his own binoculars.

  “Not a thing, Captain. Just junk. Holy mackerel. He never knew what hit him.”

  The captain leaned both hands on the steel rail of the bridge.

  “Wrong, Gordy. He knew exactly what hit him.”

  Gordon looked at him, and the captain saw the bloody handkerchief held against the wound, the smiling face. Gordon said, “Pretty good day, eh, Skipper? Two for the price of one.”

  The captain said nothing, could see the second debris field more clearly now. Other men were coming up into the morning coolness, the rescue teams, led by another of the lieutenants. It was routine after a sinking, men spreading along the sub’s deck fore and aft, searching for life rafts or someone in the water. Beside him, Gordon said, “This calls for a hell of a party, Skipper. A merchant and a warship. Can’t get much better than that.”

  Gordon’s words sank into him, and he tried to find the thrill, to share the lieutenant’s enthusiasm. But there was a strange emptiness, unexpected, overpowering the man’s excitement.

  “Yeah, I guess. Give the crew some extra dessert tonight. Whatever.”

  “You okay, Skipper?”