whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh
“Right full rudder! All ahead, flank!”
The quartermaster continued counting off the seconds before torpedo impact. “One hundred—”
Hunter said, “Belay that counting.”
The other three torpedoes had missed.
He glared at the bulkhead above his head. “We blew it. Now it’s their turn.” The captain had missed a golden opportunity. He sagged, hands on his hips, head down. He looked like a broken man.
Bryant paled as the enemy screws got louder. “We should have taken the normal approach course.”
“Shut your trap,” Charlie said with disgust.
“Whatever you say, hotshot. We’re in for it now. We’re dead.”
Hunter had done the best he could with what he had, and Bryant knew it. The damn torpedo had exploded prematurely. Yosai had turned to starboard and evaded the other three.
Liebold was right; the torpedoes were rotten.
It wasn’t the captain’s fault, but Charlie knew the captain didn’t see it that way. He didn’t blame the torpedoes or just bad luck. Hunter believed a man made his own luck, and he never blamed the game even if it were rigged against him.
The captain had made one big mistake, though. He’d stayed in position, periscope raised, to watch his fish hit Yosai. With all that tin on the surface, Charlie would have pulled the plug as soon as his fish were in the water.
Maybe Hunter had wanted to see for himself if the torpedoes worked or if he was simply screwing up. Maybe he’d just wanted the personal satisfaction of seeing Yosai hit. Charlie didn’t know. But they’d lost precious seconds getting the hell out of there.
“Passing ninety feet,” Lewis said.
“Very well.” Hunter was still looking at the bulkhead. Waiting for hell.
whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh
Two destroyers straddled Sabertooth’s last known position.
Charlie took a deep breath and held it.
The soundman hissed: “Splashes!”
A single depth charge: Click-WHAAAMMM!
Water hammer rang the hull like a gunshot.
WHAAAMMM! WHAAAMMM!
Charlie grimaced as the boat shook from the impacts. The men in the control room kept their heads down. Each stared at some fixed point, avoiding eye contact. Withdrawing to some internal place until it was all over.
He had a feeling that, no matter how many times he went through this, he’d never get used to it. He grimaced again as the booms pounded his eardrums.
WHAAAMMM! WHAAAMMM!
The hull shuddered. The cork insulation coughed swirling dust clouds into the red light. Paint chips flew from the bulkheads. Gauges broke with a tinkle of glass. A hydraulic line burst, pouring water down the bulkhead.
“Rudder amidships!” Hunter ordered.
“Rudder amidships, aye, Captain!” the helmsman responded.
The destroyers were using sonar now. They broadcast sonic energy, looking for a reflection from the American submarine’s hull.
Ping … ping … ping
The ghostly pings drummed through the boat like a form of Chinese water torture. The frequency increased.
The Japanese had them.
WHAAAMMM! WHAAAMMM! WHAAAMMM—
The barrage of seven depth charges blasted close aboard like rolling thunder. One moment, the men stood glumly at their stations like prisoners awaiting execution. The next moment, havoc. The deck heaved as Sabertooth rolled to starboard. Charlie held on as men flew across the control room.
Something banged and scraped along the hull. Metal shrieked against metal.
“Jesus Christ!” Liebold cried. Like Charlie, he knew what the sound meant.
A depth charge had tumbled against the boat.
Keeping going, Charlie prayed. Just keep—
The grating sound stopped.
God, that was close—
WHAAAMMM!
The lights flashed and went out as fuses popped, plunging the room into darkness. Sailors shouted in fresh alarm as the world lurched. The deck, which had been slanted for the dive, trembled and rose under their feet. Charlie lost his grip on his handhold and was thrown against the firing board. A body fell on top of him and rolled off. The air burst from his lungs with a gasp. Pain flared across his healing ribs.
The emergency lights clicked on. Men coughed on dust. Charlie rose to his feet but quickly fell again as his sense of gravity became confused. He saw Liebold hugging his knees in the corner, head down and sobbing.
Something was wrong.
The deck leveled out under him.
Then tilted the other way, bow aimed at the surface.
“We’re rising, Skipper,” Lewis said in alarm. Blood flowed from the exec’s ear.
A depth charge had detonated under the boat and sent it hurtling toward the surface. The bow continued to rise. The men held on tight as the boat tilted. A loosened valve sprayed cold water against Charlie’s back.
“We’re going to broach!” Bryant howled in terror.
The bow would burst from the water, exposing them to the Japanese.
whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh
The men cried out as a fresh barrage of depth charges detonated outside the boat.
Lewis said, “Christ, we lost the bubble!”
“Get control of the planes,” Hunter growled.
One of the planesmen said: “No power, Captain!”
The big wheels spun on their own. The boat was out of control.
Thompson braced his legs and spit in his hands. The crewmen called him Tarzan because of his size. He made a grab at the wheel.
The force flung him against the far wall with a crunch.
Charlie shouted, “Captain, we need a trim party!”
Hunter didn’t waste a moment deciding. He keyed the 1MC and said, “All hands aft of the control room, go forward!”
Sailors were already on the move, opening the watertight doors. If the hull broke now, they were dead men. They rushed up the incline of the groaning boat, which shook as another string of depth charges burst in the water. Chunks of cork insulation and stinging glass flew through the air. Somebody screamed in pain. Water from a score of leaks poured down the incline toward the after torpedo room.
Charlie felt the boat righting. The trim party, shifting weight from stern to bow, was working. He gripped the handholds with both hands now, his feet sliding on the slippery deck.
That eerie sense of gravity reversing again as the bow plunged. The depth gauge needle spun as Sabertooth went down fast.
Lewis: “Passing 230 feet—”
“All hands aft!” Hunter roared.
The panting sailors made their second climb.
The boat groaned and shuddered.
And began to tilt the other way, her bow high above her stern.
Depth charges continued to detonate as the third pair of destroyers passed overhead. The explosions were too shallow. They did nothing more than rattle the boat.
Right now, the Japanese destroyers were the least of Sabertooth’s worries.
“Depth, 260 feet!”
The boat had been tested to a depth of 250 feet.
Hunter’s eyes widened. The stern was even deeper than that. The pressure hull groaned and creaked around them.
If they kept sinking at this rate, the pressure would crush the boat like a hand squeezing an egg until it popped. And Charlie, Hunter, Liebold, and the rest—they were the yolk.
Charlie gaped at the captain, hoping he saw a way out of this.
Hunter sagged as he considered his lack of options. “Tell the electricians they need to restore power now.”
The telephone talker relayed the order.
Then Sabertooth’s commander said, “Thank you, men. Thank you for everything.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STORM
The lights snapped on.
Power, Charlie thought. We’ve got power!
Hunter: “Take control of the plan
es!”
Charlie lunged and grabbed one of the wheels. The other planesman did the same. Together, they regained control of the boat.
Hunter mopped sweat from his forehead. “Goddamn. How’s our trim?”
Lewis said, “We’re heavy, Skipper. We’re heavy by about three tons.”
Sabertooth still had a lot of water in her torpedo tubes. That, and the depth charging had sprung leaks all over the boat. More than fifty depth charges, by Charlie’s rough count. He glanced over his shoulder at the Christmas tree board. A few red lights burned among the green ones, which were compromised hull openings. They couldn’t pump the water out because the noise would draw the destroyers. For the same reason, they couldn’t increase speed. Sabertooth drifted with a fifteen-degree up angle on the bow, barely maintaining depth.
“How are you, Walt?” the captain said. “You look like you took a hell of a whack.”
The exec touched the side of his head. His ear was still bleeding. “At the present, I’m managing.”
The temperature gauge had broken during the attack. Charlie guessed it was approaching a hundred degrees in the boat. In the weak glow of the few surviving electric lamps, the men’s pale faces glistened with sweat. Feet splashed in the inch of grimy seawater that covered the deck. Men coughed on dust that hung in the foul air. Somebody vomited into a bucket.
“Where are my damage reports?” Hunter growled. “We’re not out of this yet.”
But the depth charging tapered off. The echo ranging switched from short to long scale. The sporadic booms sounded distant.
“They had us on the ropes,” Lewis said. “Why are they letting us off so easy?”
“We might be under a thermal layer,” the captain guessed.
The sea contained layers of water that sometimes differed in temperature. It played hell with enemy sonar.
“That, or they thought they sank us,” Lewis said. He offered a grim smile. “For a minute there, I thought they did too.”
Charlie remembered something Captain Kane had told him. Sometimes you get lucky. Boy, did they ever.
The pharmacist’s mate arrived to tend to Tarzan. Two sailors hustled in, hoisted him up, and carried him aft. Another man took over the plane wheel from Charlie. He let go reluctantly. It had given him something to focus on other than the sweltering, oppressive atmosphere of this tiny metal coffin.
Bryant returned to make a breathless report. “We’ve got damage across the board, Captain. The engines, motors, and propellers are operational, though. The main problem is we’re leaking in three compartments. I’ve got a bucket brigade moving water from the motor room to the after torpedo bilges. Repair parties are hard at work. We’ve got to surface soon.”
“Very well. Get to it.” The captain had a second thought and called after him. “Who restored power? It looks like I owe somebody a beer and a shot.”
“It was Guts Farley and John Braddock. The breakers kept tripping as fast as they could throw them in. Guts threw in each breaker and held the control lever while Braddock wedged it closed with a piece of wood.”
“In the dark?”
“That’s right, Captain.”
“It’s a miracle they didn’t electrocute themselves.” The captain shook his head in disbelief. “Well, they saved our lives.”
“That’s what I said, and then they started complaining about their hours.”
The captain chuckled.
There were a lot of jerks on this boat, but they definitely knew their business.
“Screws fading astern,” the soundman called out. “Bearing, oh-five-oh.”
The men let up a ragged cheer.
“All hands, secure from battle stations,” the captain ordered. “Secure from silent running. And splice the mainbrace. Bryant, can I surface my boat?”
“It’ll be hard going, but yeah. We can do it.”
“We’ll go to relaxed battle stations on surfacing. Harrison, you’ll take first watch with the exec and quartermaster.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Charlie helped Liebold to his feet. “You all right, Jack?”
Liebold said, “I don’t know yet.”
They were both shaking.
“You don’t seem to be hurt. You look all right.”
“Yeah. The good thing about sitting in a couple of inches of water is nobody notices you pissed yourself.”
Charlie smiled. “You wanted to know what it was like fighting the Mizukaze, didn’t you? Brother, you just lived it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m having second thoughts about trying to be a hero.”
Hunter said, “Planes, sixty-five feet.”
“Sixty-five feet, aye, Captain,” the planesmen answered numbly. They were shell-shocked after the severe shellacking the boat had gotten. They went about their tasks like robots, acting solely on their training.
Sabertooth blew compressed air into her ballast tanks to gain buoyancy. Heavy as she was, she clawed her way to periscope depth.
The boat began to rock as she rose in the water. In the deep, the ocean was the essence of stillness. Closer to the surface, it was a vast muscle. When it flexed, it released colossal forces.
“Storm, Captain,” Charlie said.
“What’s that, Harrison?”
“Why the Japs gave up. There’s a storm on the surface. It played hell with the Jap sonar, and they probably can’t see much up there. So they beat it.”
Hunter nodded. “I feel it too. We’ll find out in a moment.”
By the time the boat reached a depth of sixty-five feet, she rolled heavily in the water. Charlie put on a sou’wester hat and oilskins and hung a pair of binoculars around his neck.
Then he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, just breathing as the stress of the battle caught up to him at last.
God, but that had been a close one. If it hadn’t been for Braddock …
He snorted. Braddock didn’t want a medal. He wanted to work shorter hours. The submarines had all kinds of men serving, though most were capable, thank God.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HEAVY WEATHER
“Up scope.” The captain crouched, pulled the handles down, and pressed his face to the rubber eyepiece. He straightened his legs as the periscope rose.
“Saved by the weather,” he muttered as he clapped the handles back in place. “Down scope. All compartments, rig to surface.”
The telephone talker said into the phone, “Maneuvering room, stand by to switch from motors to diesels. On surfacing, answer bells on main engines. Put one main on charge.”
Once on the surface, Sabertooth’s battery would disengage from the electric motors. After firing up, two of the big diesels would power the motors while the other two recharged the battery. Air compressors would replenish the air tanks. And sweet, fresh air would flow through the boat.
“Forward engine room, secure ventilation,” the exec said. “All compartments, shut the bulkhead flappers.”
The telephone talker said, “Ready to surface in every respect, Captain.”
“Very well,” Hunter said. “Surface.”
The surfacing alarm blared throughout the boat. The manifoldmen blew the main ballast tanks to buoy the boat in the water.
“Lookouts to the tower,” Charlie said. He grabbed the ladder and climbed up. Lewis and Gibson followed, both wearing oilskins and Mae West life jackets.
Right now, he was itching to get out the hell out of this wrecked sub with its foul air, gale or no gale.
The pharmacist’s mate arrived and passed up some bottles. “Down the hatch.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Gibson said. He wrenched off the cap, poured the brandy down his throat, and sighed.
Lewis tossed his back and grimaced in the aftermath.
“Down the hatch, aye,” Charlie said and drank his shot. It burned his throat and took the edge off his nerves. He passed the bottle back.
Sabertooth broke from the sea and rolled as a wave swamped her topside.
“Twenty-five f
eet and holding,” Liebold told the captain.
“Open the hatch,” Hunter said. “Open the main induction.”
Gibson cracked the hatch to release the air pressure that had built up inside during submergence. Hot wind and bits of trash roared past them. Moments later, a torrent of freezing water splashed down. Sputtering, Charlie heaved himself up and out. The cold bit his skin as he scanned the water with his binoculars.
The ocean raged with waves big as mountains. The submarine rode one of these like a rollercoaster. White foam sprayed across the deck. Charlie vented the last of his stress by howling into the gale.
Right now, he didn’t give a damn about the refugees. He wanted Sabertooth to go back and finish what she started, regardless of the lousy torpedoes.
“What the hell are you doing up there, Harrison?” Lewis demanded.
“All clear!” Charlie shouted back. “Lookouts to the bridge!”
He hoped, he prayed, he’d meet Yosai again.
Lewis and Gibson took up posts with Charlie on the bridge. The other men hustled to the lookout platform.
Charlie spared a glance over his shoulder as the diesel engines started in sequence. The boat exhaled a puff of smoke swept away in the wind. He noticed dents in Sabertooth’s sail from the depth charging. Some of her paint had been stripped off. She’d be going home with battle scars. Otherwise, the periscopes and radio antennae seemed undamaged, a small miracle.
The exec looked out upon the sea in spate and muttered:
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s cheek,
Dashes the fire out.
“You all right?” Charlie asked him.
The man sighed. “I was quoting Shakespeare, Harrison. The Tempest, to be exact.”
“If you say so, sir. I was asking because you aren’t looking so good.”
The exec looked terrible, in fact. His face had gone white as a sheet. He was still bleeding from his right ear.
Lewis scowled. “Mind your own business, sport.”
Silent Running: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 2) Page 6
