Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War

by DiLouie, Craig

  “Cloudy. No moon. The stand of the tide. Still, it’s going to be dicey.”

  Cotten shrugged. “It usually is.”

  The surfacing alarm blasted three times. The soldiers followed him up the ladder to the hatch, where Smokey waited.

  Sandtiger rose on a zero bubble to break the surface with an even keel.

  “Open the hatch,” the captain commanded.

  The quartermaster undogged it with a rubber mallet and opened it a crack. A burst of water. The boat’s foul atmosphere rushed past the men and whistled out the crack. Once the pressure equalized, Smokey pushed it open.

  Charlie mounted to the bridge. The bay’s waters churned over the submarine’s decks, which were still awash. Sandtiger lay at a depth that allowed only her sail to rise above the water. Ready to dunk fast. The captain wasn’t taking any chances.

  He swept the darkness with his binoculars. The volcanic island loomed black all around. The night air warm and wet. A land breeze carried a thick jungle smell along with a brief tang of smoke. Not from Sandtiger’s exhaust but fires that had burned out after American planes bombed the airfield earlier in the day.

  No signs of life. The Japanese were out there, though, in their thousands. Dug in and waiting.

  “All clear,” he called down.

  The Alamo Scouts spilled out. Carbon dioxide hissed into the inflatable, which cracked loudly as it expanded. Three minutes later, it was ready to launch.

  The commandos piled their weapons and gear into the raft then climbed aboard.

  Charlie lowered his binoculars. “Godspeed, Jonas. Good luck to you.”

  The soldiers began to paddle in deep, clean strokes.

  “Remember!” Cotten called back with a grin, reciting his unit motto.

  A mile to go until they reached the talus piled at the base of the cliffs.

  “Think they can do it?” Smokey asked Charlie.

  “Are you a praying man?”

  “When the shit hits the fan, I get very personal with the almighty, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Then pray for those men,” Charlie said. “They’ll need all the help they can get.”

  “Bridge, Conn,” Rusty said over the bridge speaker. “Clear the topsides.”

  Charlie slid down the ladder. Above, Smokey called out he’d secured the hatch. Already, the boat felt lighter without the Scouts. Sandtiger was no longer a ferry. She’d become a deadly warship again, ready for a fight.

  “Dive, dive, dive!” the captain said. “Planes, sixty-five feet.”

  Sandtiger slid into the water on propulsion and leveled out at periscope depth.

  “Up scope!”

  The observation periscope slid smoothly from its well. Saunders slapped the handles down and hugged the scope. Swung it slowly until he froze.

  “I’ve got them. Paddling like crazy. Straight up shit’s creek!”

  The sailors smiled at their stations. The captain swiveled the scope.

  “No activity,” he added. “Goddamnit, they’re drifting. Cotten knows, they’re correcting. Paddling hard as they can against the current. They reached the cliffs. They’re anchoring to the rock. Two of them are climbing. Mr. Harrison!”

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “Get over here and stay on the Scouts. Let me know when they all make it to the top of the cliff.”

  As Charlie nestled his face against the rubber eyepiece, the captain ordered the attack periscope raised to scan for threats. Sandtiger circled in the bay. For the next hour, the men leaned against their scopes.

  At six times magnification, Charlie saw the team clearly. Two Scouts climbed the limestone cliff, hammering anchors into the rock and pausing to rest in two small caves. The next pair ascended using the ropes. They hauled up the gear.

  Then the last two made the climb with the deflated raft.

  His chest tightened. He realized he hadn’t been breathing. He took a deep breath and let it out nice and slow. “They made it, Captain. They’re at the top.”

  For the first time in the war, American soldiers stepped onto Japanese soil.

  “Let’s get the hell out of this mousetrap,” the captain said. “Down scopes! Helm, come right to one-two-oh. All ahead standard.”

  The helmsman steered Sandtiger onto the new course. The men stretched at their stations to release their tension.

  “Mr. Grady!” Saunders barked.

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “It seems you and MacArthur might actually know what you’re doing.”

  Rusty caught Charlie’s gaze and winked. Charlie touched his knuckle to his forehead in salute.

  “No more babysitting for us,” Saunders added. “Not it’s our turn.”

  Charlie: “Sir?”

  The captain grinned. “Now we go get that bastard, Mr. Harrison.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE CHASE

  No longer a ferry, Sandtiger became a hunter again.

  Her conning tower broke the surface. The SJ radar rose and spun on its mast.

  Captain Saunders leaned against the console and peered over the radarman’s shoulder to study the PPI scope. Concentric rings overlaid the glowing cathode tube screen, delineating ranges from 100 to 1,000 yards.

  A green smear swept around the screen and revealed the big fuzzy landmass of Saipan. No enemy ships. The target had reached the other side of the island, where it was now undetectable by the submarine’s radar.

  “He hightailed it,” the captain growled. “Skipped right on by while we were playing taxi. Probably safe and sound in Tanapag Harbor by now.”

  Charlie eyed the display. “Not necessarily, Captain.”

  “If you got a bright idea, I’m all ears.”

  “He might have steamed straight past Saipan and is now heading for the Philippines to take on cargo to bring back to the Home Islands.”

  Captain Sanders stomped to the plotting table and inspected the charts. He’d have to conn the Sandtiger around Naftan Point. Then cross the narrow stretch of water separating Saipan and Tinian. Once he cleared Agingan Point, he could order another radar sweep without Saipan blocking it.

  If the target were, in fact, on his way to the Philippines, Sandtiger would already be on an intercept course.

  Charlie glanced at the clock. Plenty of darkness left.

  “We won’t make it in time to intercept him,” Percy said.

  “Lots of time if we do it on the surface,” the captain said.

  “The water separating Saipan and Tinian is only a couple of miles across. This close to the shore, we’ll be visible to any coastal watcher who’s even half-awake. The Japs could have guns overlooking the passage.”

  “Even more reason to get through as fast as possible, Mr. Percy.”

  Rusty joined them at the plotting table. “Captain, he’s right. I recommend we do our hunting in safer waters. We have to rendezvous with the Scouts in forty-eight hours. Our first responsibility is to get them out.”

  “I know my responsibility very well, Mr. Grady. Because I’m the goddamn captain! A captain with a short shit list and a very long memory!”

  “I withdraw my comments, Skipper,” Percy said, looking sick. “It’s all good.”

  Rusty shot Charlie a look. “Yeah. Another bright idea.”

  Charlie shrugged. He and his friend always had a very different risk tolerance.

  “Helm, plot a course that will swing us around Naftan Point and directly between Saipan and Tinian,” Saunders said.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

  Saunders keyed the 1MC. “All compartments, rig to surface!”

  The klaxon blasted three times. Charlie still had his night adaptation goggles and binoculars around his neck. He put the goggles on, tinting the world red.

  “Maneuvering, stand by to switch from motors to diesels,” said Rusty, who was still acting as diving officer. “Answer bells on main engines on surfacing. Secure ventilation. Shut the bulkhead flappers.”

  “Lookouts to the co
nning tower!” Charlie said.

  The sailors returned to join him on the ladder, including Braddock.

  The machinist’s mate winked. “I hear we’re gonna give the Japs some target practice, sir.”

  “Put a cork in it, Braddock,” Charlie growled.

  “All compartments report rigged to surface,” the telephone talker said in the conning tower below.

  “Ready to surface in every respect, Captain,” Rusty said.

  “Very well! Take her up.”

  “Control, blow all main ballast tanks. Blow negative.”

  High-pressure air shot into the ballast tanks, pushing the water out. The planesmen angled the boat. Sandtiger lunged from the sea and righted with a mighty splash, her decks draining in waterfalls.

  “Depth, eighteen feet,” Rusty said. “We’re surfaced.”

  “Open the hatch!”

  Smokey undogged the hatch. Charlie returned to the bridge and swept all around with his glasses. No contacts.

  “All clear!” he said.

  The lookouts piled out and took up their stations. The engines fired in sequence, belching smoke. Sandtiger raced forward, pitching as she turned into the gentle swells. Briny spray filled the humid air. To the west, Saipan’s black hulk filled the horizon. Right now, the Alamo Scouts threaded through jungle and sugarcane fields toward their target, hopefully still safe.

  The captain hauled himself up and joined Charlie and Smokey on the bridge. “We’re having fun now, Mr. Harrison!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Saunders smiled while he scanned the cliffs with his binoculars. “Now let’s see if your instincts are as good as everybody says.”

  The captain certainly appeared to be having fun. Again, Charlie wondered at Rusty’s concern. From what Charlie had seen, Saunders had nerves of steel.

  “That’s Naftan Point,” Smokey said.

  “About seven miles, and we’ll be through the islands.” Captain Saunders laughed. “If we live that long!”

  Sandtiger knifed between Saipan and Tinian on all four mains. Again, a whiff of smoke. Fires burned out after American airstrikes.

  Charlie kept his binoculars trained on Tinian to the southwest. “I’m actually surprised we haven’t been spotted yet.”

  “We have, Mr. Harrison! They just don’t have any big guns here, and by the time the Japs get an artillery battery out of bed and shooting, we’ll be long gone.” The captain lowered his binoculars to shout into the bridge speaker, “Conn, Bridge. Warm up the Sugar Jig. Stand by to make an automatic sweep on the PPI.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” came the reply.

  “On the other hand, Mr. Harrison, if there are any warships in the area, we can expect to have company very soon.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Charlie said, though a part of him found the idea of tangling with a destroyer intriguing. The captain’s enthusiasm was infectious, making him feel invincible even though he knew he was far from immortal.

  The submarine cleared the islands, and the Pacific opened up.

  “Conn, Bridge,” Saunders said. “Let’s have that sweep on the Sugar Jig.”

  Overhead, the SJ radar spun into action.

  “Bridge, Conn. Contact, bearing two-one-oh. Angle on the bow, starboard fifty. Speed, twelve knots. Range, 20,000 yards.”

  “Very well!” The captain rubbed his meaty paws together. “Very well, indeed. We got him. Battle stations, torpedo!”

  Below decks, the general alarm gonged throughout the boat. Bearded sailors rushed to stations on sandaled feet.

  “Bridge, Conn. All compartments report battle stations manned.”

  “Conn, Bridge. Have Mr. Percy start a plotting party. Mr. Nixon will recommend a normal approach.”

  “Wait, Bridge.”

  “Yup,” said the captain.

  “Nixon says steer three-five-five,” Rusty said over the bridge speaker.

  “Yup. And?”

  “And that’s it, Captain. It’s a textbook approach. We’ll run right into him. We can shoot with a starboard thirty angle on the bow at a thousand yards.”

  “Music to my ears! How long?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Raise the scope and see if you can tell me what we’ll be shooting. I need eyes on him. Helm, steer three-five-five!”

  Rusty acknowledged the order. Sandtiger shifted slightly left on her heading. The observation periscope rose from its well.

  “Actually, I’ve got him,” Smokey said. “A single-stack freighter.”

  “Bridge, Conn. We’ve identified the target as the Myūru Maru, a cargo vessel, 430 feet long, 6,900 tons, draft 25 feet.”

  A flash of light.

  Charlie yelled, “Contact!”

  They all saw it now. A ship approached from Tanapag Harbor in the north, running lights blazing. A powerful searchlight swept the water.

  “That would be a warship,” Charlie said. “Looking for us is my guess.”

  “The plan’s the same,” Captain Saunders said. “Conn, Bridge. We’ve got company on the way. We’ll submerge at 2,000 yards. Advise on approach.”

  “Recommend steer three-five-oh,” Rusty said.

  “Do it. We’ll dive at 2,300 yards.”

  Charlie kept his binoculars zeroed on the distant beam of light. So far, the warship hadn’t spotted the Sandtiger. It steamed down the coast, zigzagging and sweeping the sea with its light.

  Then it darted onto a westward heading.

  “He’s changing course!” Charlie cried.

  The captain raised his binoculars to look for himself. “Has he seen us?”

  “He’s heading for the freighter.”

  The Japanese ship knew an American submarine operated in the area but didn’t know where. So he took the most practical course. Protect the nearest friendly ship.

  Rusty: “Bridge, Conn. Target is at 2,300 yards.”

  “Clear the topsides,” Captain Saunders barked. “Stand by to dive. That Jap skipper will get here just in time to see the show.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RUNNING HOT

  Sandtiger slid into the sea, holding steady on a course that brought her ever closer to her prey.

  “Range, 1,800 yards,” the soundman reported. “Target is on the same bearing. Angle on the bow starboard forty and closing.”

  “Where’s the warship, Captain?” Charlie asked.

  “Don’t worry about him, Mr. Harrison! Sound, stay on the freighter.”

  Percy fed the information into the TDC.

  “Forward Torpedo, make ready the tubes,” Saunders added. “Order of tubes is one, two, three, and four. High speed. Target is the freighter.”

  “Depth, Captain?” Percy said.

  “Twenty feet.”

  A dull thud vibrated in the hull as the outer torpedo doors opened. Water flooded the tubes. The torpedo compartment reported the tubes were armed and ready to fire.

  “Range, 1,300 yards,” the soundman said. “Same bearing. Angle on the bow, starboard thirty-three and closing.”

  “He has no idea,” Rusty said, shaking his head.

  “Target is slowing,” the soundman called out. “Eight knots.”

  “He’s starting to figure it out,” Captain Saunders said. “He sees the warship coming after him. He’ll turn soon. Nixon!”

  At the plotting table, the engineering officer jumped. “What?”

  “Give me a goddamn course correction!”

  “Steer three-five-six.”

  “Helm, steer three-five-six! Up scope!”

  Their textbook approach was quickly becoming complicated as real-world variables popped up one after the other.

  “Warship is pinging,” the soundman reported. “Long-range sonar.”

  The captain hugged the scope, humming his grating tune. “There you are, you good-looking bastard. We’re gonna get a shot off by the skin of our teeth. He’s coming on! Stand by, Forward! Final bearing, mark!”

  Charlie called out his reading from the bearing
ring on the other side of the periscope shaft. “Two-one-oh!”

  “Range, mark!”

  “A thousand yards!”

  Percy twisted the knobs on the TDC. “Set! Shoot anytime, Skipper!”

  “FIRE ONE!”

  Rusty pressed the firing plunger. “On the way!”

  After eight seconds: “Fire two!” Then, “Fire three! Fire four!”

  Sandtiger bucked as she unleashed her shots into the sea.

  “Stay on those fish, Sound,” the captain said, his face still pressed against the scope’s eyepiece.

  “Three of our fish are running hot, straight, and normal,” the soundman said. “The second torpedo’s out of action, sir. I can’t get a fix on it.”

  “How long?”

  Rusty looked up from his stopwatch. “Thirty seconds.”

  The captain continued to keep the periscope raised.

  “Captain! Where’s the warship?” Charlie said.

  “I said don’t worry about—”

  Thunder drowned out his last words. The explosions rocked Sandtiger.

  “Three hits!” the captain yelled. “The first right under his stack, the second abaft of the stack, the third clipped his stern! He’s going down in pieces!”

  The eerie sound of scraping metal filled the sea as the Myūru Maru plummeted to the bottom of the Pacific.

  And over it, the piercing pings of echo ranging.

  “Down scope! Pull the plug! Take her down, emergency!”

  Charlie grabbed a length of overhead piping as the boat tilted downward, delivering the submarine and her crew back to the depths.

  The crew had performed flawlessly. All the drills had paid off.

  Saunders said, “Give me a bearing, Sound.”

  “One-seven-five,” the soundman said. “Light screws, range 3,000 yards, thirty knots. Sounds like a destroyer. He’s heading to where the freighter sank. One-seven-four-and-a-half, one-seven-four—”

  “Helm, come left to two-double-oh,” said the captain.

  Standard operating procedure, keeping his stern facing the target. So far, so good, Charlie thought. They’d bagged their freighter and were making a clean getaway. The enemy destroyer didn’t have a fix on their location.

  They might get out of this without a single depth charge dropped.