Wires were guided through holes in the immersion chamber shell and hooked up to the horizontal antenna on the pontoon. The antenna was stretched between two ten-foot masts jutting up fore and aft of both outriggers.
The lowering sun informed them it would soon be evening. And they were only now prepared to begin the most dangerous part of the operation. The two warheads were brought up through the hatch. Many mouths went dry as the armorers bolted them to the propulsive systems. Packed with one hundred and thirty-two pounds of guncotton with twenty-five percent moisture, each was covered with a metal cone; these shielded tiny propellers at the tip of the warheads. Once in the water, the propellers would release the sleeves, uncovering the firing pins and putting them in position to strike the detonating primer when the target was struck. The cartridge primer ran through the center of the packed disks of guncotton. Without the improvised cones, the propellers might slip. Once the sleeves were off, the slightest misstep would blow them to hell. More than one seaman wished the cones were welded on, rather than fastened with loose‑looking iron bands. The metal dolly wheels squeaked eerily as the warheads were transported across the deck.
Even Singleton kept his peace.
There wasn't a man among them who was not almost dead on his feet. Every ounce of concentration had to be squeezed from their minds and bodies. The armorers frequently toweled themselves off, removing sweat and renegade grease. They had to maintain a firm grip. Not only were they tensed against mishap, but also any shouts from the lookouts. If the creature struck now, the warheads would be sent flying on their dollies.
When finished, the armorers stood back like gravediggers who could not leave the site soon enough. They grinned, laughed nervously, then scurried away. The torpedoes now belonged to the men who would use them.
"You'll have to stay on board," said Singleton, turning to Hart. "You're familiar with the wireless and you already know the signal commands."
The ex-soldier's eyes widened. "You're not going--"
"I have to go." The doctor removed his straw hat and fanned himself. "We're setting out to kill the prime specimen of all time. Its only crime is that it's hungry."
"You think we shouldn't kill it?"
"Oh no," Singleton chuckled. "Not that. If cattle broke out of the slaughterhouse and tried to kill us, who could blame them?"
"Oates won't let you go."
"I've showed the ensign how to operate the torpedoes. But what if something goes wrong? They'll need someone out there who knows how they work. The captain can't refuse. Besides… look at it, Hart. This will make my name. Considering how tarnished that's become, I must say I'm looking forward to a spot of fishing."
Hart understood this kind of thinking. After all, the serpents had also given him the chance to redeem himself. Anyway, he was too tired to argue. He could not remember when he'd last closed his eyes. Probably while he was trapped in the bunker, when there was little else to do but sleep. But there had been nothing restful in that cauldron of nightmares.
He waved to a yeoman standing on the bridge. A few seconds later, the eight‑bladed switch on both torpedoes clicked over once. The mercury in the bottom‑most switches dropped through the narrow serpentine tubes and connected with the power source. The rudders turned.
"Well I'll be damned," said the chief machinist.
"Yeah, but will they float?" said Ensign Garrett from the side.
It was a good question. The remaining motor launch was only a quarter the size of the cutters that had landed the marines and which were still pulled up on the beaches of Eastern Island. Even so, under ordinary circumstances it could have held over a dozen men, albeit crammed to the gunnels. But as the torpedoes were lowered into the water, then lashed to either side of the boat, it quickly became apparent no such crowd was possible. The pontoons were very large, over twice as big as the torpedoes. But their buoyancy was offset by their very size. Any attempt at high speed would instantly swamp the launch. The crew‑‑added weight‑‑would have to be kept to a minimum.
"Sad to say, this might very well succeed." Singleton wiped his brow. "In which case I have to pay my...."
"Respects?"
"No, Mr. Hart. My dues."
1730 Hours
Captain Oates was stunned by Singleton's demand to go.
"I've talked with the boatswain. He's of the opinion we need no more than a pilot and two men to release the torpedoes. Our torpedo officers are more familiar with the Bliss-Leavitt than you are." He glanced at the acting exec. "Are there any left in one piece?"
The first lieutenant answered with a brusque shake of his head. Oates found this silent response offensive‑‑even mildly insubordinate‑‑but decided to leave it be for the time being.
Oates was taken aback. What bothered him most about Singleton going was that it was so selfishly convenient. All his rotten eggs would be in a single lethal basket: the annoying civilian, the disaffected black, and above all the upstart ensign. Would someone notice?
He glanced at the first lieutenant.
There was an ugly practical side to Singleton's offer. Oates could not shake the belief that the doctor was fundamentally expendable; he was every bit as much a drag‑weight as the pontoons on the torpedoes. His wireless‑guided weapons were clever, no doubt, but someone else would have come up with the idea, given time.
Yet there was something also piquant about Singleton's request. He was the only man on board the Florida as old as Oates. They were both men who were writing the final chapters of their lives. Fame had bypassed each of them, and each of them had stumbled upon the philosophical curiosity that said fame did not matter. Now, by outrageous chance, the prospect of youth had suddenly become the prospect of old age. One way or another, Oates believed he would go down in the annals of naval lore. There seemed no good reason to deny Singleton the same opportunity. Mortality, after all, was only a secondary consideration.
Oates nodded.
The first lieutenant looked up and eyed both men coldly.
1830 Hours
Not five minutes after their sluggish departure from the landing stage, Singleton turned green and heaved over the side. "I don't understand," he gasped. "I've never been seasick before."
Waves that were small on a big boat were large on a little boat and the doctor was incapable of handling the drastic change in scale. A sick sheen coated the starboard torpedo as Singleton vomited over the gunwhale.
Garrett and Amos continued to look away until the old man had finished puking. Neither one of them could believe Oates had saddled them with the good doctor. For that matter, they were both finding it hard to comprehend that they were stuck with each other, too.
"You mean I'm going to die with a nigger?" had been Garrett's response when told Amos would comprise a third of the launch crew. This was Oates' lowest blow. It went beyond meaningless vengeance. It was a slap in the face to all the white men who had pooled their courage and talents for this endeavor. And for what? Spite against a common, lowly ensign.
Garrett stood in the cockpit, unwilling to hand the helm over to Amos. The launch wallowed between its awkward load and the ensign had a tough time maintaining her course. The motor launch had not been constructed for this kind of work. From a speedster of the sea it was reduced to heavy labor. The engine barked frequent protests. Two hundred yards behind them the Florida moved at a snail's pace.
They were, in effect, acting as external bow tubes for the Florida. Using a grappling hook, Singleton would reach out and flip the engine switch superimposed on the immersion chamber. The activated torpedo would be unlashed. From high on the Florida's signal bridge, Hart would take over.
"You going to be all right?" Garrett asked Singleton.
Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Singleton leaned back and nodded. There was little conviction in the gesture.
"We have enough gas to circle the island twice," said the ensign. He warily eyed a patch of coral and put some distance between them. The armorers had had to re
move the protective cones before lowering the torpedoes into the water. As soon as the boat started forward the warhead sleeves fell off. The firing pins were exposed. One wrong bump and the launch, with its heavy burden, would instantly become lighter than air. "When we go back to refuel I'm letting you off. All right? I can't take you back this moment. We can't waste what light there's left. All right? All right?"
The doctor nodded wanly, then leaned over for his hat, which had fallen behind the gear box when he became sick.
Amos dourly scanned the ocean. Garrett wondered what the captain had said to him after the wardroom door was closed. Later, as Singleton lectured them on operating procedures for the torpedoes, the black man had looked away as though bored. Not a good sign. He certainly did not act as if he was watching for brute death incarnate as he leaned against the gunwhale and glowered at the sea.
Turning north, Garrett spotted a knot of marines watching from the beach. They were not signaling or gesturing, so the ensign presumed they did not know where the serpent was, either. What if they couldn't find it?
Glancing back at Macklin, Garrett yelled, "Why'd they have that guard on you, lolly-banger? You take a shit in the captain's soup?"
Amos said nothing. He was too deep in the justice and injustice of the sentence that had been pronounced upon him by Captain Oates.
Fireman Gilroy had told him about the discovery of dynamite in the stokehold after they departed Buenos Aires, a fact that the Florida's officers had kept to themselves. This was the secret Gilroy revealed to Amos, while in the South Atlantic, in exchange for a fifth of gin--though of course most of the ship's sailors learned of the imminent danger via the usual rumor mills.
The plague of anarchism continued to dog the Fleet. More dynamite was found after they left San Bernadino. Once again, someone had planted the stick in the coal before it was loaded. Captain Oates again tried, and failed, to keep it a secret.
Then came the hurried midnight coaling in San Francisco. In a rush to answer the distress call from Midway, they had not had the opportunity to perform a preliminary search for explosives before the coal was loaded. Gilroy saw this as his main chance.
His minute search of the coal bins had born deadly fruit. He'd barely discerned the two soot-covered sticks of dynamite in the black heap. Of course, he did not report his discovery. Only one man knew the secret and the secret was power.
The temptation to toss them into the nearest boiler then and there was overcome by his thirst. There were others on board who felt as he did, even if they weren't cognizant of the omnipresent golden scarab. And Amos Macklin could be counted upon to trade fair.
Hiding the sticks in a canvas pouch, Gilroy passed them on to Amos. Winking, he told the steward: "Things get too bad, just pop it down the funnel and boom! All your troubles are gone."
"You're crazy."
"A fifth of conk-buster for each stick, now. A fifth for each."
"If I used these you would die, too."
"I don't care," the stoker had waved casually as he walked away. "I don't care."
Instead of reporting Gilroy to the Master-at-Arms, he had done the most foolish thing possible: stashed the explosives with his personal belongings. Later, he considered tossing them overboard at night, with no one the wiser. But as Gilroy had said, they presented an option. And he felt he had too few options to surrender even this one.
Gilroy never received payment for his deadly bargain. As Amos was bringing him his first fifth of gin, the stoker began his drug and heat-induced rampage.
The greater fool deserved the greatest punishment. Watching Singleton wipe vomit off his mouth, Amos concluded the captain was right. He belonged here every bit as much as Garrett and the doctor did.
Garrett sniffed and turned. Fumes were rising from the stern. The engine was already overheating. The resident genius had not calculated that into his plans, he thought sourly.
There was no signal from the Florida. She had not yet spotted the serpent.
1840 Hours
The same possibility exasperated Captain Oates. He stood next to Hart at the front of the pilot house, where the wireless had been moved.
"They can't circle all night. Once it's dark, I'll have every searchlight left spotted on the launch. But they're bound to hit coral, sooner or later."
"And then…" Hart said gloomily.
"Yes. 'And then….'" Oates glanced at the lookout phone, then thudded the binnacle with his fist. "Where could the damn thing be hiding?"
"We could always chum for it," said the first lieutenant.
"By Godfrey, you're right! Let the bastard come to us, instead of wasting fuel like this. Get down to the galleys and see what you can find. Even if it means going hungry‑‑"
"I don't think buckets of beans will do it, sir. I was thinking… we already have the chum we need, ready‑made."
Oates' momentary perplexity was replaced by hideous awareness. "I didn't think we had a monster on board, too."
"Why not, sir? We have to bury our dead some time. And soon. They might even have approved of the idea."
"Those poor dead lads… approve?"
"They can still help their mates."
A thunderous silence fell over the bridge as they contemplated sliding their too‑numerous dead overboard as bait. The worst thing about it was its plausibility. In their hasty departure from San Francisco they had not been properly vittled. They wouldn't starve, but in all probability they would be reduced to stiff rations before reaching Honolulu‑‑even with so many fewer mouths to feed.
Oates was saved from further grisly contemplation when the phone jangled wildly.
1841 Hours
The sea blurred, became a fuzzy nap on a blue-white carpet. Midshipman Beck drew away from the telescope and blinked to clear his eyes. They still burned from the salt water that had hit them after he'd broken the faceplate against the ram. He had not had much time to count his luck. After a nearly miraculous journey from the bow to the landing stage, he'd barely doffed his diving suit before he was ordered into Number One Turret.
Because of the severe casualties, many men found themselves reassigned to different stations. One of the turret's pointers had been transferred to the aft twelve-incher. This left Beck to take his place. He was only vaguely familiar with the periscope grid and wondered how in hell he was supposed to call out the range. Dare he ask the gun captain for instruction?
He would not get the opportunity. The man in the seat above him tensed suddenly and put a hand to his headset. He was receiving instructions from Central Station.
Which meant they had a target.
1843 Hours
"Signal from the bridge," said Amos.
Glancing back through the failing light, Garrett read the flags, then turned his attention north. Several minutes later he spotted the creature.
It was lolling on the waves, its wounded flipper jutting overhead. From this distance and angle, it looked like a gigantic, basking sunfish
"She's in range of the big guns," Singleton observed. "Why don't they try a shot?"
Garrett had no patience to lecture Singleton on the skittish art of ranging in on a target. Two or three salvoes were usually needed before an enemy could be bracketed. By which time the creature would be thrashing about at high speed, making a hit virtually impossible.
"Let's start the marbles rolling," he murmured. After a quick scan for coral, he brought the launch about. "Macklin! Get off your black ass! I'm closing to forty yards. You'll have to be quick with those lines. Doctor?"
Singleton raised the grappling hook to indicate his readiness. His eyes were wide with fear and wonder, but neither emotion paralyzed him.
A fine, fat sitting target.
Surely, the serpent could hear them coming…?
On the Cliffs of Time
The world was loneliness--the creep of distance without end and an absence of song.
Of course, the female heard the vessels approaching. She would have heard the massi
ve, clanking Florida a hundred miles off. Yet the noise did not annoy her so much as it had before. Almost any sound was welcome, now that the young ones were gone.
While she was finding it increasingly difficult to associate the dead giant below the reef as her offspring, the memory of her daughter alive filled her with a sense of loss. She ached for things that could never return. There was no hint of Tu-nel music in the murmuring of the waves. Only traffic and steam cacophony. But at least that distracted her from the profound grave-like silence of her kind.
It did not, however, keep hunger at bay. There was food on the big metal ship. And the food was coming closer. Overcoming the lassitude of sadness and the pain of her wounds, the female rolled on the long axis of her body and prepared to meet the Florida.
1848 Hours
There was always talk of inventions in the navy and indeed a great deal of inventing got done. There had been talk of fitting searchlights with shutters so that they could be used as signal lamps, making Morse a visual as well as electronic means of communication. But that particular invention had yet to be realized on the ships of the U.S. Navy.
Oates wanted desperately to let Garrett know of the ominous discoloration in the water off his port beam. The lookouts in the fighting masts could see it clearly. But to the men on the launch, low in the water, it would be invisible. The lookouts could not determine how close to the surface the coral reached, but all it needed was a bump to send their hopes up in a blast. The captain could run up all the signal flags he wanted, but it would probably be futile. Garrett would be too preoccupied to decipher their block patterns. The only message he could convey was a double flash from the light on the bridge, to be used if Oates thought the ensign delayed firing too long.
Hart braced himself over the wireless key. The battleship had swung out to starboard to avoid the reef, but he could still see the launch clearly. He had so much coffee in him his body trembled, though his hand remained steadier than the improvised antenna swaying over the bridge, the replacement for the downed radio mast. He wanted desperately for the strike to come off before last light. The remaining searchlights could illuminate the torpedoes and target well enough, but coral would be almost invisible. With only two bolts in their quiver, a premature detonation would be a disaster.
At the Midway Page 53
