Dive Beneath the Sun

by R. Cameron Cooke

  “We’ll soon find out, XO.” Keane turned to Mills. “Pass the word for Ensign Shelby. Tell him to come to the conning tower.”

  CHAPTER X

  Night descended on the Gulf of Davao. A full hour passed before the Wolffish’s periscope finally emerged from the black sea. In the conning tower below, the sight of the stars and the glittering waves through the tiny lens piece revived Keane after being submerged for so long. It was all he could do not to stare at it and relish the world above, but he forced himself to perform his normal sweeps. The dark shapes of the Japanese warships had faded to black spots against a massive field of stars, and it took some time for Keane to find them.

  He could only just barely make out the squat silhouettes, but they were there, their structures darkened like abandoned ghost ships. The nocturnal hunters were waiting to pounce on their prey, and he had to hurry, in the event that a keen lookout spotted the Wolffish’s periscope. The beams of the enemy searchlights combed the area, and would certainly illuminate the stick-like mast if he kept it up too long.

  “Mark this bearing,” he said.

  “Zero five eight,” McCarty, at the TDC, answered, reading the indicator on his panel.

  “Range, ten thousand yards. Angle on the bow…” Keane paused as he watched the dark shape contract into a mere sliver, and then expand again. “No angle on the bow. She’s doing circles.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The observation on the other ship was similar, only forty degrees to the right. Keane slapped up the handles, ordered the scope lowered, and moved over to the chart table.

  Ficarelli plotted the positions of each ship, not too far from the estimated positions given them by Jansen’s acute ears. The plot also contained a new line in pencil, which Keane and Ficarelli had calculated as the submarine's intended course through the minefield.

  “Your observation confirms it, Captain,” Ficarelli said. Those escorts are well to the west of us. I think we can transit the minefield without them picking us up on their sonar. They’ll be getting all kinds of background scatter from the shallows beyond us.”

  “Right,” Keane concurred, then looked up at the young ensign who had manned the FM sonar panel. “You ready, Will?”

  Ensign William Shelby was the youngest officer on the Wolffish and was on his first war patrol. He was something of a math whiz, and had scored high marks through all his training schools, not to mention his perpetual Dean’s List status when he was at Northwestern – a little more than a year ago. The college boy, turned submariner, was sharp, and was probably a bit too aware of it, not hesitating to correct other officers, even chiefs on occasion, whenever he caught them misquoting equipment specifications. The young ensign seemed to have memorized all of the technical manuals in his first few weeks aboard. Still, though his personal skills left something to be desired, Keane was glad to have him. Shelby picked up on things quickly, which is one of the reasons Keane had chosen him to go to the FM sonar school. Well, that was one of the reasons, anyway. The main reason was that Shelby had just reported on board when the edict came down from ComSubPac that the Wolffish and all FM sonar-equipped boats must have a qualified operator aboard, and Keane had sent the new ensign because he could not afford to send one of his veterans.

  Now, Keane shot a smile at Ficarelli as Ensign Shelby took his own sweet time answering his captain’s question. It was not impertinence, Keane had learned. The ensign was single-minded, and Keane surmised he had just interrupted him in his checkout procedure.

  After another few seconds, Keane prompted him again. “Well, Will, how’s it look?”

  “The unit checks out, Captain.” Shelby reported without turning to face him. “The transducer appears to be working.”

  “Great to hear it,” Ficarelli said, thick with sarcasm. “Now, are you ready to find mines with that thing?”

  “Yes, sir,” Shelby replied. “Request permission to begin my search, Captain.”

  “Go ahead,” Keane said, moving to look over his shoulder. The circular display in front of Shelby was annotated with compass markings showing the entire azimuth in relative bearings.

  “The minefield should be dead ahead of us, Willie,” Ficarelli called from the chart. “Anywhere between thirty degrees off either bow.”

  The speaker over the FM sonar panel crackled to life and hummed with each sonar sweep, represented by a green luminous line running from left to right across Shelby’s display. Keane instantly noticed an assortment of distorted green blobs, which faded quickly after Shelby dialed down the power.

  “I hold no contacts ahead of us,” the ensign finally reported.

  Apparently the green blobs were nothing to worry about.

  “To the maneuvering room,” Keane called to Mills. “Make turns for three knots. Helm, steady as she goes.”

  Keane half expected to hear a report that the main circuit breakers had blown, the Wolffish had sustained so much damage, but no report came, and the submarine began to move slowly ahead. Many of the systems were in a reduced state, as he was constantly reminded by the sight of the helmsman using the fold-out hand-grip to turn the steering wheel. The motor-driven hydraulic pump that normally provided power-steering had failed, and now the wheel required much greater effort to turn it. It was one of the many reduced capability systems throughout the ship. The first had been discovered when the diving officer had tried to raise the Wolffish off the ocean floor, only to discover that one of the air valves for blowing pressurized air into the trim tanks was not opening. It had taken a review of the schematics and an unorthodox valve line-up to get the air into the right tanks, such that the submarine came up level.

  “We’re in uncharted territory now, skipper,” Ficarelli reported, indicating that the dead reckoning trace now placed the Wolffish inside the suspected minefield.

  Shelby was quiet at his panel, as if he had not heard it, but he looked intent enough studying the green globs on the display and listening to the odd sounds coming from the small speaker.

  “Still nothing, Will?” Keane could not help but ask.

  The ensign did not respond at first, and then raised one finger as he stared intently at the screen. At the same time a distinct sound emerged from the other noise crackling over the speaker. Like a muffled gong in the distance. It grew steadily louder and clearer, until it perfectly resembled the crisp ding of a bell, as one might hear accompanying a church choir.

  “What the hell was that?” the normally silent Mills spoke up, the alarm clear on his face.

  “Hell is right, Jimmy,” Jansen replied thickly, looking up from his own sound gear. “That’s Hell’s Bells. Mister Shelby’s found himself a mine.”

  That was indeed the case. Keane could clearly see a pear-shaped return on the display, fine and distinct amongst all the others. A chill crept over him as he thought of what that tiny pulsating light represented – an explosive-packed, chemically-triggered mine that would crack open the Wolffish’s hull like a steamed crab leg if she strayed too close.

  “You got a bearing for me, Willie?” Ficarelli called with nervous impatience.

  “Zero three five, relative,” Shelby replied, never looking away from his panel. “Range, two hundred yards.”

  Ficarelli quickly drew a line and counted off the distance, but before he had finished marking the mine’s location, another crisp chime sounded.

  “New contact,” Shelby reported. “Bearing three five seven, relative. Range one hundred yards.”

  “That’s right in front of us, skipper,” Ficarelli reported after marking the mine’s location on the chart. “Recommend coming right fifteen degrees.”

  “Pass in between them?” Keane said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Right, sir. I think they’re too close for any other maneuver.”

  In the seconds he had to make a decision, Keane contemplated the data. The first mine had been detected at two hundred yards, and now this one, directly in the Wolffish’s path had not shown up on Shelby’s sc
reen until it was within half that distance. Something was different about the two, and Keane suspected he knew what it was.

  “We’ll hold course for the moment,” Keane finally said.

  A look of doubt on Ficarelli’s face was enough of a protest without the executive officer having to say anything. There was little time to spare with the mines so close, but Keane wanted to be sure the course correction was a good one. He had read in some intelligence report some time back that the Japanese like to plant their minefields in rows, with each row set at different depths, usually running deeper to shallower as the rows got closer to land. Neat rows allowed for an easy clean-up when the war was over, assuming each mine stayed attached to its tether, and did not get carried away by the ebbing tide.

  Were he to drive blindly between the two mines ahead, which he assumed were at different depths, based on the different ranges at which they were detected, he might inadvertently be aiming his ship directly at the next mine in the row. It was possible Shelby would not detect that mine until it was too late, leaving the Wolffish no room to maneuver. They needed another detection to be sure, to give them some idea of the network arrayed ahead of them. As he watched Ficarelli continuously extend the line representing the Wolffish’s dead reckoning position relative to the mine ahead, he counted down, knowing he would have to make a decision within seconds should the next mine not be detected. Working against him was the Japanese policy of setting their mines far enough apart from one another that a single detonation would not set off the whole field.

  “Captain?” Ficarelli said, evidently feeling that the mine was getting too close for comfort.

  But at that moment, Shelby spoke up.

  “Two new contacts!” he said, a bit more anxious than his normally unflappable nature. No doubt, he, too, had been sweating it as he watched the green sonar return moving closer and closer to the center of his oscilloscope display. “Contact three bears three five zero. Range one hundred yards. Contact four bears zero one zero. Range, two hundred yards!”

  “Left full rudder!” Keane said without hesitation, the helmsman pulling on the wheel handgrip before he had finished giving the order. Keane then glanced at Ficarelli.

  “I’m on it, Captain,” the XO replied with self-frustration as he quickly calculated a new course correction, evidently fully understanding the reason for the delay now. The new contacts confirmed that the mines slightly to the left made up one row, and the mines to the right made up another. Had the Wolffish taken the original recommended course, she would have indeed cleared the first mines in both the first and second rows, but it also would have put her on a direct collision course with the second mine in the second row. Undoubtedly this was the reason Ficarelli cursed under his breath as he inched his compass ruler up along the new line on his plot. “Recommend coming left fifteen degrees, Captain. New course one three five.”

  “Helm, steady on course one three five,” Keane said.

  As the tension in the compartment subsided slightly, all still mindful of the dangerous blobs that pulsed slowly across Shelby's display, Ficarelli glanced up with an uncharacteristic look of embarrassment.

  “Sorry, Captain,” he said, shamefully.

  Keane gave him a consoling smile. “Happens to us all, Tony.”

  As more mines were reported by Shelby, all well to the right of the Wolffish’s new course, Ficarelli returned to his chart and began plotting and tracking them. Keane kept a wary eye on him, not because he did not trust his XO's skill and judgement, but because he knew full-well what was going through Ficarelli's mind. Everyone made mistakes, but mistakes aboard a submarine could be costly. It was not easily shrugged off, the knowledge that your own blunder might have resulted in the deaths of eighty men, including yours.

  As the Wolffish’s three-hundred-foot hull crept along through the minefield, many more Hells Bells sounded, and more returns appeared on Shelby’s display, each one plotted and the course altered several times to carefully maneuver around them. The experience was hair-raising for everyone, not just to those in the conning tower who actually saw and heard evidence that the sub was surrounded on all sides by row after row of killer mines, but those below as well, who only heard gossip over the phone circuits. Keane had ordered repairs suspended for fear that a dropped tool might alert the enemy escorts, and so very few of them had anything to keep them occupied.

  Over the course of the intolerable wait, Ficarelli’s chart collected the positions of nearly three dozen mines, and the Wolffish successfully avoided them all.

  The FM sonar worked like a champ, Keane admitted to himself. Either that, or Shelby was incredibly adept at using it.

  After nearly three hours in which the battery slowly depleted, and the eye-lids of the men drooped from lack of oxygen, the bells finally stopped ringing, and the water ahead was clear.

  “I hold no contacts, Captain,” Shelby reported as the last mines fell out of range astern.

  Keane exchanged a weary grin with Ficarelli, and then patted Shelby on the back.

  “Nice work, Ensign. Whenever someone ridicules you for burying your head in the books all day, just remind them how you once saved our bacon by taking us straight through a minefield without a scratch.”

  “I’ll second that, Willie,” Ficarelli added, holding up crossed fingers. “I’ll never mess with you again. I promise.”

  Shelby seemed unfazed by the accolades and simply proceeded to power down the FM sonar equipment, as if he had just finished taking it for a casual spin.

  “Where are those escorts, Jansen?” Keane asked, making his way over to the periscope well.

  “Still where they were three hours ago, sir. Much fainter now. Bearing zero two zero and zero three five. They may be over the horizon.”

  “I put them outside of fifteen thousand yards, Skipper,” Ficarelli reported. “We’ve got good water here. Chart shows the bottom dropping off to nearly five hundred fathoms. If we’re lucky, there might be a thermocline down there somewhere.”

  “Very well. Up scope!”

  The world above was much blacker than it had been before, the stars even more vibrant. As expected, Keane could see nothing to the northwest, the periscope lens’s height-of-eye, only three or four feet above the surface, did not allow him to see the distant warships. Spinning the scope around, he looked at the darkened promontory to the west and the black expanse of the bay beyond. There was no sign of the destroyer, and Keane surmised she had probably already made it back to Davao by now, her crew drinking sake to celebrate the death of another Yankee submarine, confident they had avenged the air raid on their harbor.

  Drink up, boys, Keane thought with some sense of triumph. We’ll be back soon, and you’ll all be drinking with your ancestors.

  Keane inwardly reprimanded himself for letting the desire for revenge to take hold of him. But who could blame him? These were his men, his boys, and for the past hours he had witnessed them tortured to the extent that they little resembled their former selves, their fragile will to hang on dwindling before his eyes. The thought angered him, even though his rational self knew such anger made little sense. After all, he and his men had torpedoed many ships over the course of their many war patrols. They had certainly killed dozens, if not hundreds, of the enemy, quite possibly many of them civilian merchant sailors. How was anyone to make sense of it all? After all of this was over, if they survived the war, would they be proud or ashamed of what they had done?

  “Oxygen levels critical, Captain,” Alexander’s voice floated up from the control room, as if to remind his lethargic captain that there were eighty souls locked inside this steel tube who were at the point of losing consciousness.

  It was time. They could not wait any longer, no matter the risks.

  “Stand by to surface!” Keane commanded.

  A quick sweep of the radar was the normal routine, but this was impossible, the battle damage having jammed the radar mast in its stowed state. This deviation, however, did not seem to bo
ther the bridge watch and many of the off-watch hands, who were already crowding around the ladders with binoculars, eager to get topside where the air was fresh and the oxygen plentiful.

  Keane had once read a book by a World War One U-boat captain, in which the author chronicled several occasions when the oxygen levels had gotten so low that most of the crew had passed out by the time the U-boat was able to surface. The conscious hands had dragged the unconscious ones up onto the deck to revive them. Some had not woken up. Keane could at least be thankful that his own crew was not in that state – not yet, anyway.

  “Ready to surface, Captain,” Alexander announced when the valve line-up was completed.

  “Shut the conning tower lower hatch,” Keane commanded. “We’ve taken on enough water and vented enough tanks inboard in the last hours that there has to be a positive pressure inside the hull.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” responded one of the sailors in the control room below who climbed up the ladder and drew the hatch shut behind him, sealing off the conning tower from the control room. Had Keane not ordered this done, the entire submarine would equalize with the atmosphere the moment the bridge hatch was cracked. Depending on the pressure differential, the hatch might blast open, damaging the hatch, or worse, catapulting the men waiting by the ladder into the air like Old Faithful venting her steam. With the hatch shut, only the small volume of air inside the conning tower would equalize, and this would not be near as violent of an event.

  “Surface the boat!”

  “Surface, surface, surface!” the command went out over the 1MC speakers throughout the ship.

  Pipes hissed as pressurized air pushed the water from the ballast tanks, bringing the submarine to the surface in a matter of seconds. Keane was the first to the bridge, a half a dozen lookouts close behind him, their footfalls clanging on the ladder rungs even as the water streamed off of the gratings below. A wave of nausea passed over Keane, and the familiar headache, as his system was shocked by the sudden dose of oxygen-rich air. He ignored those feelings as best he could, and searched the darkness, binoculars pressed to his face. The escorts to the north were not visible, presumably still over the horizon.