Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War

by DiLouie, Craig

The island of Saipan.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ONE LITTLE THING

  Sandtiger cruised at twenty knots across the vast Pacific. Along the way, the crew settled back into routines interrupted by frequent drills. Crash dive, submerged approach, battle surface, silent running, fire drills. The greenhorns got it worst of all as the chiefs laid on the firehose treatment. Charlie worked as hard as the greenhorns and took the time to learn their names. Pushed himself until he forgot his self-doubts and his cleithrophobia dulled into the background.

  On the sixth day out from Pearl, he walked the submarine end to end for below-the-deck watch. He checked the valves, trim tank gauges, and bilges. Smelled for smoke, listened for dripping water, felt the air for proper ventilation.

  In the engine room, he paused and closed his eyes. Sandtiger’s four massive Fairbanks-Morse diesel engines growled in their steel chassis. They used a remarkable opposed-piston design that doubled the number of cylinders in a relatively compact unit. The snipes labored here in sweltering heat to keep them humming.

  Charlie rested his hand on a thick pipe, and the boat’s vibrations flowed through him. Her urgent rhythm throbbed like love in his chest. For a moment, he joined with the submarine and reached out with his senses, taking her pulse. As with gazing at the open sea too long, you could get lost in it.

  A voice close to his ear: “You all right, Exec?”

  He opened his eyes. He’d been approaching some realization. Thinking about love. He wasn’t like Moreau and Reynolds. It wasn’t hate that drove him but love. While he no longer sought the war’s brutal tests, he’d grown a deep and abiding love for the submarines. When the war pressed him, he fell back on it.

  Being back at sea was like being home.

  “Just listening to the music, Smokey,” he said.

  The quartermaster nodded. “She feels good.”

  “She does.”

  Sandtiger was in fighting trim.

  “Listen, that machinist’s mate you brought aboard. John Braddock.”

  “He’s difficult.”

  Smokey’s eyebrows shot up. “You think? He’s practically trying to start a mutiny against you.”

  “Okay, he’s an asshole.”

  “The boys won’t have any of his sounding off. At least the guys who served with you in the Japan Sea. They know who you are and what you did.”

  “Maybe he’s not busy enough,” Charlie said. “See to it.”

  Smokey grinned. “Always plenty of shit work, Mr. Harrison.”

  Charlie pictured Braddock cleaning the bilges and found himself smiling too. He shook his head. “He’s a hard case, but he’s good. Give him the hard stuff.”

  “He’s an odd duck even for a snipe. The boys call him ‘the doctor.’ Walks around the engine room with a stethoscope, listening to the diesels’ heartbeat. Anything goes wrong, even the littlest thing, he hears it. I have to give him that.”

  “You need something important done, go to him.”

  “Well, I’m sure you had a good reason for bringing him aboard.” From his tone, Smokey still wasn’t buying it.

  “I had a reason. Whether it’s good or not, we’ll find out.”

  Braddock was insurance.

  “Keep him busy, aye, aye, sir. As for the rest of the crew, well…”

  “Speak your mind,” Charlie said. “I’ll always take advice from you.”

  “Usually, my motto is a bitching sailor is a happy sailor, but I think you’re pushing them too hard. The newbies call you ‘the drill sergeant.’”

  Charlie snorted. He didn’t care what the men called him. It wasn’t that long ago that being called Hara-kiri was an insult instead of a compliment.

  “We may be in action soon,” he said. “We’re not as sharp as we were when we went to the Sea of Japan.”

  “The crew is as good as they’re going to get right now. Any more drills will do more harm than good to efficiency.”

  Charlie considered it. He trusted the old sea dog’s judgment. “All right, Smokey. I’ll give the men a few days.”

  He left the quartermaster and wondered how Moreau would have done it. By now, the fierce captain would surely have his crew whipped into shape. He wouldn’t care if the men were tired. He set a goal and went for it with everything he had. And the crew loved him for it. They’d followed him to hell because of it.

  Moreau had left very big shoes to fill.

  Charlie went to Saunders’ stateroom and knocked on the doorframe.

  “Enter,” the captain said.

  He pulled aside the heavy woolen curtain and entered the cabin. The Navy called it a stateroom, but really, it offered just enough space for a bunk and desk.

  A backgammon board lay on the desktop, an acey-deucey game in progress. Both players started with their chips off the table and rolled dice to bring them across the opposing player’s chips to win. As far as Charlie knew, the captain played solo. An endless series of games against himself.

  Rubbing a nap from his eyes, Saunders sat on the edge of the bed in his skivvies. He pulled on a khaki shirt. “Mr. Harrison. What news?”

  “Just letting you know I completed the below-the-deck watch, and I’m about to go off duty for chow and a few hours of rack time.”

  “Very well,” the captain said. “How does she head?”

  “Last check, we’re holding steady on 267 True. Percy is topside as officer of the deck.”

  Charlie and Saunders had developed a solid working relationship. For the past week, the captain avoided socializing with his officers but proved cool and competent. Saunders focused on the big picture, leaving the details to his XO.

  Nothing like Rusty feared. Rusty was seldom wrong, but he was wrong about the captain. Saunders struck Charlie as a man with nothing to prove to anybody but maybe something big he needed to prove to himself. He reminded Charlie of Bob Hunter, commander of the Sabertooth.

  “Anything else?”

  “I’m planning to ease up on the drills,” Charlie said. “The crew is about as efficient as I can make them.”

  “You do what you think is best, Mr. Harrison,” the captain grunted. “Remember to include yourself in that. You push yourself too hard.”

  “Just trying to do my duty, sir. The boat needs a lot of care right now.”

  “Makes a man wonder about your demons.”

  Charlie frowned. “Captain?”

  “I like to know who I’m sailing with and what drives them.”

  “I don’t have any demons, sir.”

  “No regrets?”

  He thought of Evie. Jane. “A few.”

  “All great men do. Every man makes mistakes. The more he tries to accomplish, the more he makes. Too many mistakes weigh a man down.”

  “I understand,” Charlie said.

  The captain still brooded over the loss of the Flagfin. The scuttlebutt was he’d surfaced in daylight to make an end-around on a convoy, exposing his boat to air attack. He’d then taken on responsibility for everything that followed, including the boat sinking in the Yellow Sea under another captain’s command.

  Charlie found it troubling. Battle debris blocking a valve. A single mistake in the rush of combat. One little thing could sink a ship or a man.

  “We can’t change the past,” the captain said. “But we can repeat it. Put ourselves to the same test. That’s how you change the outcome. Rewrite your history. Make it right.”

  Howard Saunders wanted one more chance at bat. One more shot at a homerun to erase his devastating strikeout. Charlie had to give him credit. Like everybody else, the man was tired. The war had taken something from him, but he kept fighting. He didn’t give up.

  The captain added, “Are you trying to correct a mistake?”

  “It’s the future mistakes I worry about, sir.”

  “You’re a lucky man. This boat and its bachelor officers. I envy you young hotshots. Your biggest potential and mistakes lay ahead of you.”

  “I’ve made plenty of mistakes, sir
. I just try to look forward, that’s all.”

  “Right.” Saunders waved his paw to dismiss him. “That’s enough philosophy before breakfast, Mr. Harrison. I won’t hold you up from your leisure.”

  “Thank you, sir.” On his way out, Charlie pointed to the backgammon game. “I hope you win.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SHIP

  On the bridge, Charlie and Smokey braced against the boat’s roll. They aimed their binoculars into the sprawling darkness ahead of the bow. Perched on the shears, the lookouts scanned their sectors. On a cloudy night like this, the black ocean stretched into infinity all around them.

  Soon, they’d make landfall. Saipan.

  And once they did, Sandtiger would dive for the final approach into Magicienne Bay. She was ideal for this kind of mission, one requiring stealth.

  This time, Charlie was determined to spot the landmass before the quartermaster, who had the best night vision among any man he knew.

  Lightning flecked the northern horizon.

  “Contact,” Smokey said.

  Charlie shook his head. Bested again. “I wish I had your night vision. I can’t believe you can see Saipan from here.”

  “I can’t. I spotted a ship. Relative bearing one-two-oh off the starboard quarter.” The man pointed. “Saw him right there in a lightning flash.”

  Charlie trained his glasses on the stretch of sea to the northeast. He was about to give up when he spotted it. A tiny black smudge on the horizon.

  “That’s what, 15,000 yards?”

  “More like twenty, and he’s closing,” Braddock said from the shears. “Try eating more carrots, sir.”

  “Shut your dick-hole, Braddock,” Smokey growled.

  Charlie ignored the machinist. “Escorts?”

  “None that I could see.”

  “He must be coming from Wake. A warship. Maybe a supply ship.”

  Wake Island. On December 11, 1941, Japanese forces attempted their first invasion of the fortified atoll. Marines, Navy personnel, and civilians fought together to repel the attack. Twelve days later, carrier planes supported another assault, and Wake fell. The Japanese still occupied it.

  “If he’s a supply ship, he’s brave coming out here by himself.”

  Charlie said into the bridge speaker, “Conn, Bridge.”

  “Bridge, Conn,” Rusty said. “Go ahead, Charlie.”

  “Contact, bearing one-two-oh relative off the starboard quarter, about 15,000 yards and closing. Unsure of ship type.”

  “Received. Wait.”

  “Land ho,” the quartermaster said.

  Charlie smirked. “You’re something else, Smokey. Conn, Bridge. Need to add we’ve just made landfall on Saipan.”

  “Got it,” came the reply.

  “Think the Old Man will go for it?” Smokey asked him. “If it’s a maru, it’d be easy pickings. We veer north a bit, and we’ll be in his track.”

  “I hear you. But there’s Saipan, and we’ve got a schedule to keep. The commandos have a date with a Jap gun.”

  “Bridge, Conn,” Rusty said. “We’re gonna do a Sugar Jig sweep.”

  “Roger,” Charlie said.

  The upgraded SJ radar, able to detect land and sea contacts up to 30,000 yards. The mast extended. The head rotated, sweeping the sea.

  Smokey said, “He’s thinking about it. The target’s practically coming right at us. We could swing north a bit, drill some holes in him, and be back in time—”

  “Clear the topsides,” the bridge speaker blared.

  “Ah, well.”

  Charlie swished down the ladder and landed on the deck. The lookouts followed. From above, Smokey called out that the hatch was secure.

  Captain Saunders said into the 1MC, “Dive, dive, dive!”

  The klaxon blasted twice.

  The ship had tempted the captain, but he was sticking with the plan. Getting the Scouts onto Saipan remained top priority.

  “Maneuvering, Conn,” Rusty said into the 7MC. “Stop the main engines. Switch to battery power. Rig out the bow planes. Manifold, close the main induction.”

  The main induction — the main air intake for the engines — clanged shut.

  “We’ve got a green board,” Rusty reported after inspecting the Christmas tree’s indicator lights. “All compartments report ready to dive, Captain.”

  “Very well, Mr. Grady,” Saunders said. “Dive! Planes, sixty-five feet.”

  The planesmen turned the big brass wheels in opposite directions, keeping their eyes on the inclinometer.

  “Manifold, open all main vents,” Rusty said.

  Seawater flooded the ballast tanks, making the boat heavy. Charlie braced his legs as the deck tilted fifteen degrees. The depth gauge needle slowly turned as Sandtiger slid into the sea.

  “That Jap doesn’t know how lucky he is,” the captain muttered.

  “Close all vents,” Rusty said. “Blow negative.”

  High-pressure air shot into the flooded negative tank to restore buoyancy, which would allow the boat to maintain her target depth.

  “Open the bulkhead flappers. Start the ventilation. We’re at sixty-five feet with good trim, Captain. Speed, three knots.”

  Sandtiger had returned to stealth mode, hidden under the water, able to approach the island’s coast without fear.

  “Very well,” Saunders said. “Take us to Saipan.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  D-DAY

  Five miles from the island, Sandtiger still cruised submerged. Sweating in shorts and sandals, the crew manned their stations.

  In the conning tower, officers and sailors tensed as the submarine knifed toward the lion’s den. Percy at the torpedo data computer aft to port, Rusty hunched over the radioman aft to starboard. Nixon near the sonar just forward of the TDC. Charlie and Captain Saunders at the plotting table by the periscopes.

  “Up scope!” the captain ordered.

  He leaned his bulk against the observation periscope, arm draped over the handle. Swiveled to gain a view of the island and surrounding sea.

  “Steady,” Saunders said.

  Charlie felt a shift in the boat. Saipan’s northern point extended into the north equatorial drift current, creating a southerly local current along the island’s east side. The current slackened as the submarine entered Magicienne Bay.

  Land now surrounded her on three sides. Once Sandtiger surfaced, coastal watchers would be able to see her.

  “Depth under the keel?” said Saunders.

  The echo sounder emitted a single ping.

  “Eighty-five feet,” Rusty reported.

  “Keep it coming, Mr. Grady.”

  Rusty called out fathometer readings while the captain tweaked their course. No idle chatter. Necks clenched with tension, the crew focused on the job. Charlie hated being here as much as they did.

  If spotted, an enemy ship might move in astern, boxing in the submarine in the bay’s shallow waters. Or the Japanese might call in an artillery strike. A patrol plane could roar over the cliffs from the airfield just a few miles away. The Japanese might even have coastal guns guarding the bay.

  Saipan was a fortress, and Sandtiger was sneaking right up to its back door. Nothing easy about it.

  Below the submarine, the sea bottom sloped sharply. Rusty’s next fathometer reading revealed just thirty-five feet below the keel. With each passing moment, Sandtiger came closer to running aground.

  “Helm, come left to two-double-oh,” Saunders ordered.

  “Come left to two-double-oh, aye, Captain.”

  “All stop.”

  “All stop, aye.” The helmsman selected ALL STOP on the annunciator, which responded with a bell chime.

  “Up scope!”

  The captain hugged the periscope, humming a grating tune as he scanned for landmarks noted on his charts.

  Sandtiger had entered Magicienne Bay. The captain knew where she was with a fair degree of precision. The dead reckoning tracer plotted latitude and longitude o
n a chart. However, right now, he needed to be exact.

  A coral reef girded most of the coastline here. A fringing reef close to the shore. Though concealed by the high tide, the coral might still be near enough to the surface to tear an inflatable raft to shreds.

  According to the charts, a small parcel of coast directly in the center of the bay shoreline had no reef. The only problem was it stretched about a mile along the coast. If the southerly current was too strong, it might push the rafts into the reefs.

  As a result, the officers had to choose the launch and landing points carefully. The ideal time to launch was coming soon, when tidal and wave energy slackened. During this period, the tidal stream stilled before ebbing toward low tide.

  They’d done what they could. After the launch, it was all on the Alamo Scouts, who would have to paddle quickly to cross a mile of water and reach the cliffs.

  Captain Saunders grunted, apparently satisfied. “Stand by to surface. Mr. Harrison, get the Scouts ready to go topside. We’ll be surfacing just high enough and long enough to get them off the boat. We’re a sitting duck here.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Charlie said and hustled below deck.

  The Alamo Scouts lined the passageway aft of the control room. Weapons slung over their shoulders, Lt. Cotten and three Scouts wore camouflage fatigues and utility caps. No insignia or tags. The other two, posing as sugarcane farmers, wore straw planter’s hats and civilian shirts and slacks. The giant Cherokee stared back at him with his gleaming black eyes, taciturn as ever.

  Charlie said, “We’re about to surface the boat, Jonas. Get ready.”

  The lieutenant removed his semiautomatic pistol, checked the action, and returned it to his holster. Cotten had shown Charlie the fitted suppressor, a remarkable innovation. With this device, the long-barreled pistol fired with a dramatically reduced sound and muzzle flash, ideal for commando operations.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “What’s that you got on your face?”

  “Red-tinted goggles. They help me adapt for night vision.” Since their introduction, boats no longer rigged for red.

  “Pretty neat,” the lieutenant said. The Navy had its own impressive gadgets. “What’s it like outside?”