Charlie tasted bile and stood. “Hold that thought.”
With that, he staggered off to the head and emptied his guts.
He told himself he’d never drink too much again, especially on an empty stomach, especially when there was any chance of getting sucker-punched.
He’d fought hard, did some amazing things in the war, and earned the rank of captain. But that didn’t buy him any special favors. The Navy didn’t give a crap about him. He was starting all over, a simple fact.
The best lessons always hurt.
When he returned to the table far more sober and humble than he left it, Rusty raised his glass. “Welcome to command, Charlie.”
CHAPTER THREE
NEW BLOOD
From a pier at the Submarine Base, Charlie watched the Sandtiger steam across the harbor after her shakedown cruise. Once a destroyer officer, he’d considered submarines big, ugly sewer pipes, but now he admired her sleek superstructure. Her low profile and gray paint ensured virtual invisibility at night. Her modest size belied her ability to stalk and take down much larger prey. She was a hunter, a little shark with a giant bite, and she was his.
Evie had accused him of marrying the war and giving his heart to it when he should keep himself tethered to home. Charlie wasn’t sure she was right about that anymore, but knew he felt something like love for this boat. At sea, the Sandtiger delivered unparalleled freedom, power, purpose—the opportunity to test and prove himself. In a short time, he and the boat would fuse into a single predatory organism.
Manned by Relief Crew 202 of the AS-19 Proteus, which lay moored nearby, the Sandtiger blasted its whistle and warped alongside the pier. Captain Harvey bawled orders on the bridge.
“All stop! Cast the mooring lines!”
The able fifteen-man crew quickly secured the submarine to the pier.
The refit and relief crews played an important role in the war effort. They helped repair submarines returned to port while the combat crews enjoyed a few weeks of liberty. They cleaned the insides and scraped barnacles, which reduced fuel efficiency and speed, from the hull. And they gave the boats a thorough fitness test before returning them to sea.
Charlie was eager to know how the Sandtiger had fared in her shakedown. Before Saipan, he’d gone out with her, and manned by this very relief crew, the ship had nosedived nearly to the bottom. A piece of a Japanese destroyer had gummed up her works.
As sailors threw down the gangplank, however, he stayed put. Captain Harvey had no love for him, and today, he was in command, the master of the Sandtiger.
Wearing a .45 on his hip, the deck watch crossed the gangplank and took his post.
“How’d she sail today?” Charlie said.
The man smiled in the hot September sun. “Tip top, sir. She’s seaworthy.” His accent was pure Brooklyn.
“How did the countermeasures do?”
The Sandtiger had received a brand new upgrade during her refitting. Special countermeasures that would help the submarine escape enemy ships during a depth charging. Only a handful of boats in the entire Pacific had them.
Amazing technology. He hoped it worked.
“Can’t help you there,” the sailor said. “We were told to leave those alone. Hey, you’re that guy, aren’t you? Hara-kiri. You are, right?”
Charlie usually found the nickname startling and even embarrassing when said aloud, but today, it made him glower in a simmering rage.
“I’m Lt. Commander Harrison.”
“I remember you from that day we took a nosedive in this boat,” the sailor said happily. “That was a day.”
Captain Harvey noticed Charlie standing on the pier. Thinking Charlie’s scowl was for him, he scowled back. Apparently, he also considered Charlie bad luck, the reason he was still stuck in a relief crew instead of getting his own boat. Charlie was glad he’d stayed on the pier. He’d learned some humility yesterday, but he wasn’t about to take orders or abuse on his own boat.
Another officer emerged from the bridge hatch. Morrison was slim and tall, too tall for a submarine, red-faced and sweating after the morning’s angles and dangles.
“What’s your name, sailor?” Charlie said.
“Signalman Third Class Bernard Schwartz, sir.”
“Mr. Schwartz, kindly pass a message to Mr. Morrison I’d like a word.”
“The exec, huh? Sure.”
Like all relief crews across the Pacific, Relief Crew 202 comprised recent graduates from Submarine School. While some graduates lucked out with a plum assignment to new construction—becoming one of the “plank crew” on a new boat—many served on relief crews before assignment. Morrison hadn’t been able to transfer to active duty aboard a submarine. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Harvey was punishing him for taking the conn during the nosedive.
Charlie needed a new officer.
Morrison stomped across the gangplank. “You blew up the Meteor!”
Charlie growled, “A team blew up the Meteor, one of whom is dead.”
He’d seen the young officer in action. The man could think in a crisis. No further testing needed. Charlie wanted him on his crew.
But he wasn’t having any hero-worship stuff.
Whatever his accomplishments, their retelling made them sound far more incredible than he remembered them. For him, the assault on the giant coastal gun had been a blur, revisited in slow, painful detail only in his nightmares.
To his credit, Morrison took the hint and stiffened his posture. “Well done, anyway. What can I do for you, Commander?”
Charlie handed over an envelope. “You can come work for me, Lieutenant, and earn your own stories.”
The officer tore it open and scanned his orders, his lips moving as he read. “You’re kidding me. Is this for real?”
“You’re done with the Proteus. I’m hoping you can handle a deck gun crew.”
“It’s only my favorite part of the boat! We fire a few rounds every time we take a boat out for a test run. I bring a few barrels, and we practice on them.”
“With the torpedo shortage, we’re getting stiffed on fish.”
Cooper had given him the bad news this morning. The Sandtiger would go out with less than half her usual complement of torpedoes. Enough to fill the tubes but nothing to reload.
Morrison grinned as he got it. “So we might see some gun work.”
“We’ll be bringing extra ammunition for the deck gun,” Charlie told him. “As a junior captain, I can’t promise a lot of action on the next patrol. I doubt we’ll get a good patrol area. But we’ll look for trouble wherever we can find it.”
His next patrol wouldn’t be like the last two to Saipan and the Sea of Japan. The Navy was planning some big operation. He sensed it, but as a novice captain, he didn’t qualify for any special missions. After the Sandtiger refueled at Midway, he’d receive his sealed patrol orders and find out what ComSubPac wanted him to do and where. He had no illusions, following his sobering talk with Rusty, that they’d give him a busy shipping lane.
Still, as he’d said, that wouldn’t prevent him from seeking any opportunity.
Morrison squinted into the distance. “Boarding party. That’d do just fine.”
“Excuse me?”
“What we’ll need is a boarding party. A gang of volunteers. Men ready to support the gun crew with small arms. Commandos. We’ll make gasoline bombs.”
Charlie smiled. He’d obviously found the right man for the job. “Come up with a plan. We sail in less than a week.”
The lieutenant’s face lit up again. “The plan is we’re going to kill Japs.”
Charlie saw his own eagerness and ambition reflected in Morrison’s face, coupled with Moreau’s frank bloodlust. The Sandtiger was mean, she fought dirty, and she was a street fighter. Morrison and his commandos would fit right in.
“Welcome to the Sandtiger,” he said.
They shook hands.
“I thought I was going to miss out on this war,” Morrison said.
Captain Harvey called out from the bridge: “Commander!”
“Yes, Captain?”
Grinning like a shark, the captain started to say something but thought better of his choice of words because his crew was listening. “We have important work to do here! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pester my crew and waste their time!”
Charlie called back, “You mean my crew, Captain!”
The little things. They really did get you through a war.
“See you soon, Lieutenant,” he said and shoved off.
Behind him, he heard the relief crew cheer as Morrison shared his good news.
Next stop, the Royal Hawaiian, where he’d find John Braddock.
CHAPTER FOUR
HAIL TO THE CHIEF
A half hour later, Charlie approached the Royal Hawaiian Hotel with its Moorish architecture and concrete stucco walls painted a trendy coral pink. Once a luxury hotel catering to the well-to-do, the Pink Palace of the Pacific now exclusively served Navy personnel on R&R.
He found Machinist’s Mate John Braddock sprawled on a lounge chair at the swimming pool, nursing a pink drink with an umbrella sticking out of it. The chair sagged under the weight of the gorilla-sized sailor.
“It’s no use,” Charlie said. “You’re still white as a fish. You’re probably giving the sun a sunburn.”
The machinist shaded his eyes against the bright tropical sun and glared. “Here comes trouble. The answer is ‘no’ to whatever you’re selling.”
“You might want to hear what I’m selling before saying anything.”
Braddock stood and held out his drink. “Hang on to this for me for a minute.”
This done, the man stomped off toward the beach.
Charlie watched him go. Then it hit him. Braddock was ditching him. He shook his head and set off in pursuit.
Servicemen in bathing suits crowded the sands, sunbathing and playing volleyball and otherwise showing off for a few smiling Hawaiian girls. Concertina wire barriers separated the beachfront from neighboring civilian beaches. Braddock could try to swim for it, but otherwise Charlie had him cornered.
The sailor glanced over his shoulder and growled, “You still here? You already had your chance to kill me!”
“Can you hold up and hear me out?”
“Quit following me!”
With his fists clenched, Braddock marched toward the hotel garden, which was rich with coconut trees and bright red ginger blossoms.
Charlie sighed. “I’m not going to chase you all over this hotel.”
“I’m going back to my relief crew after liberty!”
He held up some papers. “See, that’s the thing…”
The sailor stopped and sagged. “God damn Navy. Promises don’t mean anything.”
“I’m—”
Braddock wheeled. “The Japs are using suicide torpedoes now! You know about the kaiten? They’re Type 93s with a suicide pilot. He sails it right into your hull. Maniacs are fighting the war now.”
“I’ve—”
“No wonder you made captain. I could see you piloting a kaiten yourself.”
“For crying out loud, Braddock—”
“Why?” the man pleaded. “Tell me that at least. You really want to get me killed, is that it? Or is it just revenge for some stupid jokes I pulled to pass the time? You want me doing shit work in your engine rooms, is that it?”
“Well, that’s what the chief machinist does,” Charlie said. “So yes.”
“That’s what I—what did you say?”
“When you return to the Sandtiger, you’ll head the engine department.”
The sailor glared even more ferociously at him. “Why?”
“Because I can count on you,” Charlie told him. “If you’re saying I take risks, you’re right. Those risks can pay off big, but they also make messes. You’re good at fixing messes. And I need chiefs like Smokey. Men who will tell me how they see it and make sure the crew doesn’t get hurt by my messes.”
His compliments only further enraged the sailor, and Charlie had to struggle not to smile.
“You got the wrong guy,” Braddock fumed.
“You helped me sink the Mizukaze at Blanche Bay—”
“That wasn’t bravery. That was self-defense.”
“And saved the boat when it was out of control when Hunter took on Yosai—”
“I stuck a wet toothbrush between two cut power lines, so what?”
“Mindanao, getting Sabertooth back on propulsion after we finally sank Yosai, Saipan. You may not like hearing it, but you earned your promotion.”
“Chief, huh?” A flicker of pleasure crossed his face before he scowled again. “Don’t think for a minute I’d be obligated or anything. To be nice to you.”
“If you respect the rank, especially in front of the men, you can talk man to man to me anytime. And one other thing. On my boat, shit rolls uphill, not down. You want to bitch, you come to me and do it to my face. I know if you step up—”
“All right,” Braddock said. “All right! Stop talking. You got yourself a chief.”
“Good. I never thought I’d have to talk a man into a promotion.”
“It’s just…” The sailor looked away. “Thank you, sir.”
For once, saying “sir” like he meant it.
“All right,” Charlie said, unsettled. God, the big gorilla had started to choke up, something he never thought he’d see. “Here are your orders.”
For all his misanthropy, Braddock didn’t want power, and he didn’t entirely want to be left alone, either. He wanted somebody to recognize his worth.
Charlie might have appreciated the moment if he believed it signaled a permanent change of character, but Braddock was still Braddock. If Charlie let his guard down, he’d pay for it. He was a risk-taker, though, and that extended to picking his crew.
He wanted the best he could get, period.
“Chief Braddock,” the sailor said, trying it on for size. He held out his paw for the drink Charlie still held. “If you don’t mind, sir.”
Charlie handed it over and watched him take a swig.
Apparently liking the sound of things, Braddock turned and puffed out his hairy chest in response to some imaginary interruption. “What? That’s Chief Petty Officer Braddock, if you please. That’s right. Chief Machinist on the Sandtiger.”
“We sail in one—”
Braddock raised his glass. “Hail to the chief!”
Confident he’d made the right decision, Charlie left the overgrown child to his imaginary conversation.
Submarining was a team sport. If you had the best team, you had the best odds of dealing with any variables and winning the game. Right now, the boat had a wise and capable exec, brilliant engineering officer, talented communications and plotting officer, fire-breathing torpedo and gunnery officer, and a department head who’d keep his engines running no matter what the Japanese threw at it.
A solid crew, and plenty of spare ammo for the deck gun, would make all the difference. He’d squeeze this patrol for every opportunity he could find.
CHAPTER FIVE
FINAL NIGHT
With her repairs complete, the Sandtiger was ready to welcome her crew back to the war. Charlie collected his officers in the O-Club and stood them a drink to mark their final night on dry land for the next two and a half months.
Morrison raised his glass. “To killing Japs.”
“I can see why you like him,” Rusty murmured to Charlie. “He reminds me of somebody.”
Percy belted his drink down and waved his hand at the waitress for another round. “You play an instrument, Morrison?”
The young officer shook his head. “I can’t even sing in the shower.”
“Maybe we’ll teach you something. The exec is a grade-A fiddler, and I play the banjo. We taught the captain the harmonica. It worked on him, it should work on you.”
“Work on me for what?”
The communications officer snatched Ni
xon’s beer, downed half of it in a single gulp, and came up for air. “Getting that rudder out of your ass.”
“Percy,” Charlie warned then turned to Rusty, who was laughing. “Rusty!”
“Definitely reminds me of somebody,” his friend said. “Morrison, you’re aggressive, and that’s good. A guy like you could go far in the submarines. But you—”
“Got to hang loose to make it in the submarines,” he and Percy said together.
“Wow,” Morrison said. “You really think I could go far?”
“Absolutely.” Rusty winked at Charlie.
“I’m planning to stay in after the war ends,” the torpedo officer said. “Command my own boat one day. I want to do something, make a difference.”
Before Rusty could rib Charlie further, Nixon said, “What about you, Captain? What do you think you’ll do after the war?”
“He’ll stick with the submarines too,” Percy said. “Win the next two wars for us. He’s got diesel in his blood, same as Moreau.”
Charlie dodged the question. “How about you, Percy?”
“I already gave it some thought. I’m gonna get a backpack and go wherever my feet take me. Keep walking until I sweat this war out of me. See the world without anybody trying to kill me. Go to Tibet, maybe. Learn some wisdom.”
The officers nodded, impressed.
“I still have dreams, you know,” Percy added. “The bad ones. I’m almost afraid to go home and find out how much I’ve changed. I’m more afraid I won’t make it back at all.”
“We’re in for a quiet patrol,” Rusty said, trying to change the subject. In his view, if you talked about the worst that could happen, it would happen.
Percy waved at the waitress to hurry it up, determined to drink like a fish his last night on dry land. “Yeah, well, watch out. I’m gonna live it up anyway, just in case.”
“Peace would be nice,” Rusty said.
“Yeah. That goes without saying.”
“I mean, I wonder how many people were killed in this war. People who weren’t even fighting and wanted nothing to do with it.”
“It’s why we’re fighting,” Charlie said. “I know it’s a strange thing to say, but we’re fighting to save lives. The sooner it’s over, the fewer people will have to suffer because of it.”
Hara-Kiri: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 5) Page 2
