00:48 Local, 21 August, 1945 (05:48 GMT, 21AUG)
SS-332, Hudson Strait
USS Bullhead glided silently through the arctic water, now powered only by its electric batteries. A rhythmic pounding was beginning to be audible without listening devices. Skipper Donovan poked his head into the sonar station.
“How many, lads?”
“Three, Skipper. Single screws, pounding away, those are our Canadian friends.”
“Okay. They know our position and plot. Listen up, guys: this Japanese skipper is top notch. We have got to find him.”
Donovan went to the plot on the bridge and was staring at it when his XO walked up next to him.
“Where do you think the bad guy is, Skipper?”
He tapped on the line of Corvettes.
“He is on a tight time line and needs to get out of these restricted waters. The bombers have already dropped enough metal out there to supply Detroit, but with zero results.”
The XO took in the entire chart. “There are still a lot of places to hide.”
“True, Bob, but he has to get to his launch point, and he’s behind on his time line according to Adak. And he damn sure isn’t going to sit on the bottom waiting for the rest of the Navy to get here. So how do you slip by without being noticed? What would you do?” The XO looked up, a dawning recognition on his face.
“Mr. Tojo is in the wake of one of our Canadian friends.”
Donovan smiled. “Let’s see if this guy is as smart as we think he is.” He maneuvered the Bullhead onto the predicted course of RCS Brandon, the southernmost boat and the one closest to the Japanese sub’s launch point, and then went dead in the water. He was going to let the Corvettes pass overhead and see what he could find trailing in their wake.
CHAPTER 32
01:28 Local, 21 August, 1945 (06:28 GMT, 21AUG)
I-403, Hudson Strait
I-403 had maintained position in Brandon’s wake for almost two hours when a sonarman appeared next to Tsukuba and bowed deeply. Tsukuba turned his attention away from the plot and whispered, “Report, petty officer.”
“Captain-San, we are receiving returns from the Corvette’s sonar that shows a contact ahead, a submarine.”
“Are you sure it is alone?”
“In this sector, yes.”
“Very well, track it and run a continuous firing solution.”
By being in the wake of the RCS Brandon, I-403 was receiving the same information the Brandon was. Its close proximity fed 403’s receivers the same returns. Wolf looked up from the plot.
“What do you intend to do, Captain?”
“Kill it, General.”
01:48 Local, 21 August, 1945 (06:48 GMT, 21AUG)
SS-332, Hudson Strait
Bullhead floated silently as the Brandon passed overhead. Skipper Donovan called for all ahead two thirds and went back to sonar. “Anything, gents?”
“Not really, I mean … never mind, sir.”
“No, talk to me. What’s up?”
“I swear I heard a second set of diesels behind the Brandon.”
“Plot that!” Donovan ducked out of sonar back to the bridge and whispered into the chief of the boat’s ear. “Chief, how many fish do we have in the tubes?”
“Two sir—”
The sonarman burst onto the bridge.
“Multiple tubes flooding!”
“Shit! Flood one and two, Chief. Make ’em hot!”
I-403
With their torpedo tubes flooding for launch, Tsukuba knew the Americans would be doing the same. The sound was distinctive and meant kill or be killed.
“All stop,” he ordered. “Switch to battery power and stand by for emergency dive.”
“Torpedo gyros stabilized and targeted; tubes one, two, three, and four flooded,” the report came back.
“Fire one and two at the submarine, three and four at the Corvette.”
“Torpedoes away.”
“Crash dive.”
SS 322
On the Bullhead, the report came: “Torpedoes in the water, constant bearing decreasing range!”
“Fire tubes one and two,” the captain ordered.
“Torpedoes away!”
“Very well, full right rudder, crash dive!”
I-403’s Type-93 torpedoes sped toward the Bullhead after turning 180 degrees. The large warheads struck the American sub, smashing into 332’s hull, breaching amid ship on impact. Frigid salt water flooded in. The tremendous weight pulled her lower.
I-403 plummeted to the depths of the Hudson Strait. The Sen Toku class submarines had a near fatal design flaw: the large vessel could lose control in a crash dive. If that were to happen, its oversized hull would collapse in on itself and drop straight to the bottom. I-403 was dangerously close to plummeting to its own death as the Bullhead began to sink toward the bottom of the strait.
But Tsukuba knew his ship’s strengths and weaknesses as well as he knew his own. Even with its immense size, and because the sail bridge was offset to the port side, the I-403 made an impressive turn to port. Its design allowed for sharp left turns but was nearly incapable of a turn to starboard. Having been launched for a target at periscope depth, Bullhead’s torpedoes sped by behind and above the 403.
“Full left rudder, target the middle Corvette,” Tsukuba said calmly.
“Steady up, heading zero two five. Fire tubes, five, six, seven, and eight. Reload all tubes. Set torpedoes for half speed and maximum range.”
RCS Brandon
A lookout ran in from his fly bridge post, as a panicked sonarman entered the bridge from his station just aft. Both men yelled the same thing simultaneously. “Torpedoes in the wake!”
Brandon’s skipper ordered a hard turn to port. I-403’s torpedoes were too close and did not arm, but Bullhead’s did. One of SS-332’s Mark 14 torpedoes struck Brandon amid ship splitting her hull. As Brandon floundered, her skipper got off a radio message to the commodore and then gave the order to abandon ship.
I-403
An explosion rocked the sub; as overhead, the Brandon began its journey to Davy Jones’ Locker. A secondary explosion confirmed Brandon’s fate was sealed; it was no longer a threat to Tsukuba’s command. He now had to save I-403 from itself.
“Up bow plane, level us at 100 meters—”
“Captain-San, the bow plane does not respond!” the helmsman yelled over the noise of battle.
“Give me a full blow on odd-numbered ballast tanks. Now!”
“Sir, we are losing control!”
“Calm yourself, helmsman. Ease the bow plane to neutral.”
“But, sir?”
“That is an order.”
SS-332
Waves swept up to the bridge, smashing sailors against bulkheads, knocking them out and drowning them as Bullhead took on water. Other sailors scrambled in a last-ditch effort to save her: hatches were sealed, an emergency blow to all tanks was ordered, and the bow plane was run to full bow up. It was all to no avail. At seven pounds per gallon, the ocean was winning. Its weight dragged the submarine lower and lower until, when it reached a depth of 423 feet, the Bullhead imploded. Compression of the air ignited the oxygen, and all hands had perished by the time the hull was fully crushed.
I-403
Complying with the suicidal order, the helmsman neutralized the bow plane. Tsukuba then ordered a few degrees of bow up and waited patiently for the input to take effect; 403 was reaching a dangerous depth. But the helmsman’s initial control input had been too large, and, in effect, he had stalled the flow of water across the plane negating the input.
“Depth approaching maximum,” the OOD called out.
“Helmsman, two more degrees of bow up, and no more,” Tsukuba demanded.
Because of its size, the I-400 class could carry the larger and more deadly Type-93, and, in anticipation of the other Corvette’s maneuvers, Tsukuba launched a full spread of eight directly at the Royal Canadian Navy’s Kamsack. His crew had performed magnificently
under enormous pressure, and he kept the pressure up, ordering another eight Type-93 torpedoes released at full speed, timed to arrive with the first volley of eight. Twenty in total had been fired at the Corvette. Now it was time to turn his attention to the task at hand.
As rivets and bolts popped around the ship and icy water began to spray into the sub, I-403’s hull was beginning to fail. Tsukuba calmly gave his orders: “Even ballast tanks, give me a slow blow.”
Atsugi and Wolf stood silently observing Tsukuba. He turned to them. “Get to your weapon systems. Prepare them for launch.”
CHAPTER 33
02:08 Local, 21 August, 1945 (07:08 GMT, 21AUG)
Commodore’s Flag Ship, RCS Kamsack, Hudson Strait
Commodore Howe watched as the Brandon burned and then disappeared on the horizon. Bedlam had broken out on his bridge—sonar reported a submarine breaking up and torpedoes in the water. Type-93, Japanese. His lookouts strained to see the tell-tale signs of approaching death. Yet, he had to get to the Brandon. The survivors would not last long in the near freezing water. An iceberg five miles off his starboard bow suddenly exploded. One of the Type-93 torpedoes had hit it.
Commodore Howe ordered a turn away, back to a heading of east—just as Captain Tsukuba had assumed before he launched the last full spread of eight torpedoes. Of the twenty that had been fired at the Kamsack, one found its mark.
Adak
Out of breath, Jonesy sprinted into the operations room with a message from Commodore Howe. Tears streamed down his face as he read:
“From the RCS Kamsack: Corvette Alpha and Bravo strike damage, sonar reports a submarine breaking up in the strait; confirmed to be SS-332 after another launch of Type-93 torpedoes. Corvette Charlie turning into the fight. Howe sends.”
Spike sank into his chair, stunned, silent. Everything in his brain screamed: We can’t lose! We can’t lose! This was the most crucial fight of his life. He hardly registered Irish yelling into the phone for the bombers to drop everything they had between the burning oil slicks from the Corvettes and the entrance to the Labrador Sea.
Chief Stenstrum scratched the Brandon, Kamsack, and Bullhead from the plot. He marked over them with red Xs. He stood over the chart, taking in the entire tactical situation. He plotted the new depth bomb grid; it was anchored just off of Akpatok Island in the mouth of Ungave Bay and stretched thirty miles toward Cape Chidley, the southern gate of the entrance to the Hudson Strait.
Long minutes wound around the clock. Seconds lost their definition of measurement. Defeat was now the only thing present. To the team’s utter disbelief, Corvette Charlie had been taken out of the fight by an errant bomber. It dropped too close to the small ship that was running midnight, with lights out. The concussion took out its rudder, and now the RCS Camrose was dead in the water. On top of the Camrose the chief marked DIW.
An hour passed. The patrol craft bombers, PB4Ys, had swept the area of the grid with their powerful spotlights and radar. There was no sign of I-403 or of any wreckage. Irish sent all of the bombers to NAS Brunswick to rearm in the hopes they might be able to catch I-403 at the mouth of the Hudson Strait, before it made open ocean.
Spike set down a cold cup of coffee and then dropped a cigarette into it. He walked to the plot and started a numbered list on the left side of it, in heavy black marker. Everyone watched as he shook the last cigarette out of a pack and then crumbled it. His Zippo backlit his eyes; a fierce determination glared at everyone in the room when he spoke.
“We start over now, from the beginning. What do we have? What are we up against? And what is our time line? I want all the details here.”
He pointed to his empty list. After ten minutes it was full: I-403 armament, aircraft range, etc. All the facts and assumptions were on the chart.
Avery mumbled to himself, “That’s the luckiest sub commander I’ve ever been up against.”
Chief Stenstrum stood up and with purpose moved to the list. “No, no, sir, I don’t think so. He planned that attack.”
Spike pivoted on his heel and demanded an explanation.
“Well, sir, look at the big picture. He waited for the Corvettes. He could have been to open sea. But he waited; why?”
Avery spoke up. “He guessed we had a gatekeeper. Like I said, lucky.”
Spike ignored him and turned his full attention to the chief.
“Not lucky, smart. He planned the attack for that exact spot, just off Akpatok Island. The island protected his southern flank. He killed not only 332 and the Brandon, but he shot the Kamsack on his northern flank, too. And—”
“That was a very lucky shot!” demanded Avery.
“And?” Spike asked.
“He shot all his fish, every torpedo he carried. This was his last play.”
“But he is nowhere near a launch ring …”
Irish cut off Spike with a cuss-laced explosion as he looked at the Seiran’s range annotated on the list. “Son of a bitch! That aircraft range has got to be combat range! Out and back! But those planes aren’t going back.”
“What?” Spike demanded and then spun to Jeff. “Double the range ring.”
Jeff quickly drew a 1,284 nautical mile semicircle from south of New York City to the Canadian coast just below the entrance of the Hudson Strait. Then another from Norfolk; he then highlighted the overlapping areas.
“Still a long way off,” Spike said.
“What are we missing, Chief?”
The chief turned away from the list and back to the master plot. He took the calipers from Jeff and finished a complete circle from New York and then asked Spike, “What is the most strategically important city to the American war effort?”
“Detroit, for its production of tanks, aircraft, everything. Why?”
Chief Stenstrum nodded as he drew a ring from Detroit. He shaded in where the two intersected—the bottom of Ungave Bay.
04:13 Local, 21 August, 1945 (09:13 GMT, 21AUG)
I-403, Ungave Bay
At flank speed, I-403 continued to move due south, deeper into Ungave Bay and away from the mayhem it had unleashed in the Hudson Strait. Wolf and Atsugi had readied the weapons and Seiran fighters. The M6A1 Seiran’s oil and radiator coolant were being preheated for immediate launch. Tsukuba touched a plotted point at the bottom of Ungave Bay.
“Gentlemen, a change of plans. We shall be within the launch envelope for our primary and secondary targets within the hour. No doubt you have surmised we are on borrowed time. A wave of Allied assets will be upon us by daylight. We have reached a logical conclusion. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of changing our second target from Norfolk to Detroit, America’s center of war production.”
Tsukuba pointed out each route and the target cities. Both men nodded in agreement. Time had forced a go/no go decision for Infamy. It would be go.
“Good luck, Atsugi.” Tsukuba bowed to Atsugi, knowing he would never see him again.
Adak
Adrenalin shot through Spike’s veins, pumping him full of renewed energy and focus. He barked orders and pulled together a tactical plan seemingly instantaneously.
“Jonesy, pass to the Suwannee in the clear: Target southern Ungave Bay LAT/LONG 57:00 north, 67:00 west. Submarine-launched fighters are targeting Big Apple and Motown. Proceed at maximum speed possible.”
TBM-3L Avenger, overhead Button Islands
Lieutenant Junior Grade Paul “Cue-ball” Bement circled over his station at the edge of the Hudson Strait. It was apparent that this mission had gone very wrong. SOS signals and fire on the horizon told him everything he needed to know. One squadron aircraft was at the northern end of the Strait and the other overhead the Corvettes looking for survivors. With only nine functional Avengers, they had been cycling three at a time. Most of the fighters were on alert waiting for an airborne threat to be declared. Only four at a time were airborne in a line stretching east to west. Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, a blast radio transmission to the entire air wing added to th
e night.
“Ninety-nine all School Boys. This is Red Crown. Target is 57:00N, 67:00W. Proceed at maximum possible speed and destroy.”
Cue-ball quickly plotted the position and then turned toward it as he pushed the prop pitch and throttle to maximum. He keyed his intercom system and spoke to the other two men in his crew. “We are forty-eight minutes out. Let mother know.” His radio operator passed the information to Red Crown on the Suwannee.
Lieutenant Kid Brennan, the furthest west Hellcat, turned to Ungave Bay and transmitted that he was ten or fifteen minutes behind Cue-ball.
CHAPTER 34
04:23 Local, 21 August, 1945 (09:23 GMT, 21AUG)
Ungave Bay
A lone F6F-5N Hellcat thundered across the Torngat Mountains fifty miles south of Cape Chidley. Kid Brennan powered up his AN/APS 6 radar as he crossed the shoreline of the eastern edge of Ungave Bay and keyed his microphone.
“Cue? Kid on Strike frequency, how copy?”
“Loud and clear, shipmate, say posit?”
Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) Page 19
