“We still need their range, course and speed,” Navarro said.
“One problem at a time,” O’Toole began. “We will be able to fire as soon as we hit our mark. If this rain keeps up, we’ll be able to fire from a thousand yards without them seeing us.”
“We still need to know where they are,” Mock said.
“Okay, take one sweep with the radar as soon as they move out and another single sweep every minute until we fire the torpedoes. Will that work?” O’Toole said.
Both men nodded.
“You two figure out how we’re going to do this. Mock, you will need to give me course and speed to reach the firing position.”
Navarro and Mock headed to CIC to talk, and O’Toole headed to the bridge wing and the driving rain.
Behind him, Skittle said, “Only two cruisers and a destroyer? I thought it would be worse than that.”
31
Kukuta stood on the bridge wing of the Kamikawa ignoring the tropical downpour. He kept the Kamikawa and Okikaze off shore while the Atago anchored and sent in a search party. The flashing light message from the Atago reported they had retrieved a large locked box, and it was still intact and safe aboard the Atago. They made quick work of it, and now he needed to retire to avoid possible enemy ships.
Turning to Commander Itou, he said, “As soon as the Atago weighs anchor, proceed at twenty knots in a column formation. I will send a message to the high command and inform them. I will be in my cabin.”
The driving rain beat the blue ocean flat with dancing dimples. He was happy for the rain and the cover it provided for the recovery.
Better wet from the rain than wet from swimming.
He turned and headed to his cabin to draft the message and dry off.
§
Skittle approached O’Toole with the gun belt, helmet and life jacket. O’Toole took the gun belt and life jacket but waved off the helmet; he thought he would be swimming within an hour.
He returned to his captain’s chair and contemplated the butterflies in his stomach. The Farnley waited dead in the water. He hated sitting still. He hated waiting. He hated the waiting, and knew the crew hated the waiting more than he did. The only thing he liked was the rain and the thousand-yard visibility it gave him. At least there was the radar, that is, if it decided to work. The Farnley would be invisible in the rain, and he would have the element of surprise.
A good day for a fight? I hope so.
A voice crackled over the radio, “Second teenager has a baby. They’re headed southwest at about twenty knots.”
O’Toole slid out of the captain’s chair. “Pass the word. They think they recovered the crypto machine. Now there is only one mission: sink the second cruiser and the box. Radio, any strong message signals on the Jap frequency yet?” O’Toole said to the phone-talker.
The phone-talker repeated the question into his mouthpiece. After a second he said, “They said no, sir.”
O’Toole bit his lip, “Plot, do you have them yet?”
“They think so. Maybe at eight thousand yards, almost dead ahead. Course and speed will take a minute.”
O’Toole patted the phone-talker on the back. “You’re good at this. Don’t paraphrase what they say to you; it will be quicker and more accurate if you report verbatim.”
“Yes, sir, I keep forgetting,” came the reply through a quavering voice.
“You’ll do fine.”
In the distance, Skittle’s voice intoned:
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
“Skittle!” O’Toole yelled.
“Sorry sir.”
§
Lieutenant Commander Wallen swung his head from side to side in a vain attempt to snatch a glimpse of land or ocean through the low gray cloud cover. His sixteen Hellcats should be above Ubella now, but the cloud cover blocked his view.
Wallen looked at Olaf his good luck charm. “This one’s going to be worse than our last trip, buddy, just stick with me.”
He divided his sixteen Hellcats into three groups. Four Hellcats carried torpedoes, four carried 500-pound bombs, and eight without hanging ordnance would provide air cover to protect the attacking Hellcats from enemy aircraft.
Wallen couldn’t see anything without getting below the clouds; at altitude, his Hellcats were useless. Over the radio he called to his torpedo-armed Hellcats, “Zipper-one, we’re going down to give it a once over. Follow me.”
Wallen rolled out and headed for the deck. He worried the cloud cover could go all the way to the deck, so he cut his descent rate when he entered the clouds. After what seemed like forever, he broke through the clouds at about two hundred feet and flew into a heavy rainstorm.
“Can’t see anything in this damn soup,” his wingman said over the radio.
A spit of land materialized to his left, and Wallen turned toward it.
“Come on Olaf, find me some ships,” he said.
§
Kukuta entered his cabin and sat at his large wooden desk to draft his message. When done, he pulled the sash next to the bulkhead, and a steward entered. He handed the message to the steward and said, “Give this to radio and tell them to send it. It is most urgent.”
Kukuta stood and unbuttoned his blouse. The wet-smelling linen stuck to his skin, and he tugged his way out of it. Kukuta relaxed and felt no need to change uniforms and dry off in a hurry. Perhaps he could steal thirty minutes to read before returning to the bridge.
§
“Strong message on the Jap frequency.”
O’Toole nodded to the phone-talker and mentally thanked the Japs for their punctuality.
So far, so good.
Now he needed the information from plot. What was taking so long? He pulled himself up short. His best men manned plot; he would get the information as soon as possible, and when he did, he could bet his life and the lives of his crew on it.
O’Toole couldn’t stop the mental rehearsals streaming through his mind. Plot would get a fix on the Japanese ships and guide him to firing position where they would fire two torpedoes at each ship. He would loop behind the enemy ships, reverse course, and attack again at five hundred yards. In the rain and chaos, the Japs won’t get a clean shot.
It can’t be this simple.
“Enemy contacts at six thousand yards, bearing two-two-eight, speed two-five knots, course zero-four-eight. Intercept course one-nine-five.”
“All ahead two-thirds, come to course one-nine-five.”
O’Toole stepped to the port bridge wing, binoculars in hand. The rain drenched his light khaki uniform giving him a chill despite the burn in his nerves. He hoped the quiver in his spine was from the chill of the rain.
“Gun action to port. Wait for orders to shoot,” he said.
He hoped the guns wouldn’t be necessary. The attack would be quick; the approach would take about two minutes, and the torpedo run time to the Japanese ships would be eighty seconds.
He turned to the wheelhouse, and called to Skittle, “Once the torpedoes are away, give me a time count every ten seconds.”
All he could do now was keep his binoculars forward and wait. The plot and torpedo crews would do the rest.
“Enemy bears two-two-six, range five thousand yards.
“Enemy bears two-two-three, range four thousand yards.
“Enemy bears two-two-zero, range three thousand yards.”
Still no visual contact.
“Torpedoes away.
“Ten seconds.
“Twenty seconds.
“Torpedoes away.
“Thirty seconds.
“Torpedoes away.
The last salvo targeted the destroyer. “Fat’s in the fire now,” O’Toole called out.
“Forty seconds.”
T
he curtain of rain vanished. A heavy damp mist hung in the air, but not enough to hide the three Japanese ships steaming a mere thousand yards to port. He hadn’t foreseen this. His wall had blocked him again. Everywhere his body tingled. Men were going to die.
Lord, let me be the last to die.
“Gunnery, fire! All ahead flank. Radar on,” O’Toole said.
Mission.
“Torpedo battery, maintain firing solution on the second cruiser.”
§
Wallen and Zipper-one buzzed the ocean surface toward the spit of land. Zipper-three pilots attacked a flight of zekes, filling his headphones with chatter. The clouds were too low and visibility too poor for Zipper-two’s planes to bomb surface ships. They needed to drop their ordnance and join Zipper-three’s attack.
“Zipper-two, this is Zipper-one. Skin ‘em and get ‘em.”
“Roger, Zipper-one.”
Wallen refocused on his mission: lend support to a single American destroyer.
Dumb bastard. How’d he get so deep into injun country with no backup?
Wallen rocked back and forth in his seat, searching the rain-covered surface.
“Come on, Olaf, I need some help here.”
Olaf smiled back. The rain vanished, and through the haze four ships appeared to their right.
Three in column formation and one American destroyer headed the opposite way.
“Zipper-one, up and over,” Wallen said into his radio. The hard climb threw him back in his seat, and he checked his tachometer: the engine held at 1,200 RPM.
§
Kukuta fingered the top button on a dry uniform blouse. The Kamikawa shook from an explosion aft.
Kukuta bolted for the bridge.
“What happened?” Kukuta asked as he joined Itou on the bridge wing.
“American destroyer,” Itou responded.
The Kamikawa’s guns swung to port to return fire. The fast-moving American ship would be a difficult target even at a thousand yards.
The Kamikawa’s port guns exploded into action, sending a short jerking shockwave through the ship. Fire and smoke from the forward eight-inch guns blinded Kukuta, and the caustic gas tore at his throat and lungs. He wondered if the flash had burned him.
Stupid mistake.
He dashed for the safety of the wheelhouse. The wheelhouse windows shattered. Shells exploded on the aft bulkhead. Three men fell.
The deck rumbled and thumped from the Kamikawa’s eight- and six-inch guns, but the concussions felt different; they were taking hits. With his head down to avoid the hail of incoming fire from the American’s anti-aircraft guns, Kukuta yelled, “Tell the anti-aircraft batteries to target their bridge!”
§
“Fifty seconds.”
Blooms of smoke burst from the cruisers eight-inch guns. O’Toole projected his mind to the bridge of the lead Japanese cruiser to visualize what was happening there. He took a deep breath to calm himself and control his voice. “Get your heads down. They’ll open up on the bridge.”
Shells slammed against the forward bulkhead of the wheelhouse; windows shattered. Everyone on the bridge crouched or dropped to one knee and ducked their heads.
Spires of water erupted to port, and geysers exploded skyward less than fifty feet to starboard. The Farnley was bracketed.
Evade.
“Come right fifteen degrees.”
O’Toole scrambled to the aft section of the bride wing to avoid the incoming gunfire and peeked over the railing. The Farnley’s guns scored hit after hit on the two lead ships and took out a waist gun on the lead cruiser.
In the corner of his mind, O’Toole heard a voice, “Sixty seconds.”
§
Kukuta crab walked to the port bridge wing to check on his waist six-inch guns. A spume of smoke swept across the bridge wing, burning Kukuta’s throat. Fire parties pushed forward to bring the fire under control. Several smaller fires burned, but none as bad as that from a six-inch gun mount.
The mount exploded in a flash of white light consuming the smoke, the mount, and the fire parties. The column of smoke and fire collected itself with new ferocity. One lost gun was not a fatal blow; two port waist guns continued firing. Kukuta was thankful the American’s five-inch guns couldn’t pierce the Kamikawa’s hull armor.
§
“Seventy seconds.”
The Japanese destroyer entered the fight, and shells ripped the ocean a hundred yards ahead of the Farnley. Now abreast of the first cruiser, the Farnley took a hit aft, throwing everyone to the deck.
Supine, the phone-talker yelled, “Aft Bofor battery hit.”
O’Toole clambered upright and helped the phone-talker to his feet. Still crouching below the fire from the Jap’s anti-aircraft guns, O’Toole said to the phone-talker, “Aft batteries target the second ship.”
A wall of water burst upward off the starboard bow, rising double the height of the bridge, and the Farnley sailed into it. Water splashed through the openings where the windows used to be, dousing O’Toole. Those weren’t six-inchers. The cruiser almost hit the Farnley with her eight-inch guns.
Evade, evade.
“Come right forty degrees,” O’Toole yelled, spitting the last of the seawater from his mouth.
They had fired their torpedoes and taken their best shot. Now he needed to get away. The Farnley was able to outrun either Japanese ship. Now the trick was to get away alive.
To be heard, O’Toole pulled the phone-talker toward him until their noses almost touched. “Tell engineering to suck it up. I want everything they got.”
The air shattered from an explosion aft. The impact threw O’Toole backward. When he tried to catch himself, his hands screamed with pain from the shards of window glass gashing into his hands.
§
Wallen drew a mental map of the ship positions. He plotted a right turn followed by a U-turn to attack the three Japanese ships. Still in the lead, he banked right to follow the imaginary track in his head.
§
Another explosion aft. The Farnley shuddered and jerked sideways, throwing O’Toole into the bulkhead. He leaned against the bulkhead and collected his senses. His mind raced, making events around him move in slow motion. The continuous roar of gunfire, the odor of cordite, and shouting voices flooded his senses. After what seemed an eternity, his mind snapped back to the present.
The phone-talker screamed into his mouthpiece, “One at a time.” He paused to listen to the report. “Main control reports shell damage. Lost the aft boiler room. Still running on two engines but only two boilers.” He paused. “Fires in the aft Bofor clipping rooms.”
Geysers, high and wide, splashed in front of them from the cruisers’ eight-inch guns. A split second later, shells burst the water to port, and eight-inch shells fell behind them. The Japs had bracketed him again right to left and front to back. Something bad was about to happen.
“Emergency back flank. Everyone hang on.”
§
Kukuta stood and faced the hail of incoming anti-aircraft fire. He blocked it out. What does the American want? His peripheral vision registered a hit on another waist six-inch gun. He ignored it. The American wanted the box. It is the only thing that would bring them together like this. Another explosion. He glanced aft. His last six-inch port mount disappeared in a ball of flame. He shook his head to clear it and wondered why the American was so close when he appeared out of the rain.
A chance happening or an ambush?
Another shell hit the Kamikawa aft the bridge and drove him into the bridge railing, enveloping him in burning black smoke.
He shook himself out of his thoughts and trained his binoculars on the American ship. Plumes of smoke blocked his view. Between two plumes he glimpsed a red-headed officer on the American’s bridge.
Ambush! Torpedoes!
“Left full rudder,” he said. After pausing a split second to calculate his torpedo evasion course, he said, “Steady on course zero-one-eight.”
�
�
O’Toole clenched the bridge railing, waiting for the Farnley to start backing down. At first, nothing happened until a small tremor started. Within a few seconds, the tremor built to an earthquake, throwing everyone forward from the rapid deceleration. The Farnley’s speed dropped. Four shells hit the water one hundred fifty yards ahead, right where they would have been.
“All ahead flank, come left twenty degrees.”
O’Toole turned his attention to the second cruiser. Two of the Jap’s six-inch gun mounts disappeared in flashes of smoke. Another shell hit aft the cruiser’s bridge. The entire center section of the cruiser’s port side bled smoke and fire. It wasn’t enough against an armored cruiser.
The Farnley came abreast of the lead cruiser, and the bows of the three Japanese ships swung toward the Farnley. That didn’t make sense unless it was a torpedo-evasion tactic.
Damn.
“Eighty seconds.”
§
The Kamikawa’s bow swung slowly, and Kukuta permitted himself a glance aft to view the damage. The Atago was also ablaze, but he couldn’t see the destroyer Okikaze. The wake of two torpedoes streamed down the side of his ship. Relieved, he could focus on crushing the American.
§
“Sir, Jap destroyer hit by two torpedoes.”
Two heavy cruisers charged toward the Farnley at close range. The battle was all but over.
Mission.
“Fire all remaining torpedoes at the second cruiser.”
The phone talker’s response came in less than a second, “Torpedoes away.”
The head-on torpedo salvo against the cruiser was a desperate and futile gesture, nothing more than a final act of defiance.
Escape.
“Right full rudder.”
§
Wallen punched through the cloud cover and pushed his propeller power level to the combat position for maximum power. The Japanese ships weren’t where he had thought they would be, and their comma-like wakes gave away their course change. Too close for a complete adjustment, he juked to the right and yanked the torpedo release lever. He immediately regretted it; his torpedo would miss. He snapped his head right then left. The other three Hellcats had dropped their torpedoes as well.
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 27
