Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Brent nodded. “And hope we guessed right. Anyway, as I said, we have no choice.”

  Within five minutes, the boat had swung to her reciprocal course and surfaced. Brent and Reginald Williams took the bridge with the four lookouts and the official OOD, Ensign Frederick Hasse. Seaman Jay Overstreet manned the helm and annunciators.

  Williams had resumed command. Before coming to the bridge, he had dropped down into Plot and studied the charts with Cadenbach. Staring into his binoculars, he said, “If I’m right, we should intercept them very close to the intersection of the one hundred fortieth meridian and tenth parallel — about eighty miles.” He punched the windscreen. “Damn! I’d give my right ball for a radar search.”

  “They’d pick us up for sure.”

  “I know, Mr. Ross.” He looked up at the lookouts. “Keep a sharp eye! Radar’s secured. You’ve got to spot them.” He waved and pointed although none of the lookouts could see his finger in the darkness. “They should be out there — off the port bow!”

  For over three hours the boat charged and slashed through the sea at twenty-four knots. The sky was almost clear, the moon full, visibility good. With a southerly set to the swell, the bow rammed its way through the seas in a regular rhythmic pattern, sending spray and sheets of water as high as the periscope shears. Brent, Hasse, Overstreet, and Reginald were protected by the windscreen, the lookouts by nothing but a rail. Within minutes, the lookouts were drenched.

  Hasse tapped Brent’s shoulder and pointed astern. The tropical sea churned by the whirling screws was flashing and glowing with phosphorescence as if fires were being ignited in the turbulence. “The Japanese would say sea kamis were following us,” Brent said.

  “With torches,” Hasse added.

  They were shocked by a lookout’s shout, “Object bearing two-one-zero, range eight — ten miles.”

  All glasses swung to the port quarter. Brent focused on the black upper works of a destroyer, clearly delineated by the moonlit sky behind it. It looked unearthly, two dimensional like a painted matte in a cheap Hollywood movie. “You were right, Mr. Williams,” Brent said. “Must be the point can, but we’re farther ahead of them than I expected.”

  “They must be doing twenty knots. I figured twenty-four.” Reginald let his binoculars dangle at his waist. “Take the con, Brent. You’re the attack officer.” He turned to the ensign. “Remain here, Mr. Hasse. We need your eyes.”

  Brent leaned over the hatch. “Station the tracking party,” he shouted. “Torpedo surface!”

  “They have good radar,” Williams said.

  “I know. We’ll track from ahead and then submerge.”

  “A couple of cans may steam right over us.”

  “Pray to Deflecton Four and bored sonarmen,” Brent said. He pointed to the north. “Force four wind, maybe twelve knots. Good chop to hide our ’scope.” He locked his binoculars into the TBT.

  With the courses of the battle group and the submarine converging, the carrier came into view within fifteen minutes. Brent studied the big, hulking black shape through his glasses and his stomach dropped out of his body. The enemy had changed course again to the west. The range was at least eight miles and opening and Blackfin would have no chance unless he could cut across to the west and set up on the enemy’s track. “Left to two-eight-zero,” he shouted. “All ahead flank!” He yelled into the speaker, “Engineering, give me every turn you can get out of those engines!”

  The boat swung to the left and he felt the rhythm of the engines pick up in the steel deck under his feet. A voice came through the speaker. “Twenty-six-knots, sir. That’s all she has.”

  “The shaft bearings?”

  “Cool and smooth, Mr. Ross.”

  Pittman’s voice came up through the hatch from his station at the TDC. “Shall we track, sir? I’m getting readings from your TBT.”

  “Not yet. Let them ride.” He stared at the shapes on the horizon. They were larger again. “Seven, eight miles,” he said to himself.

  “They’ve changed course, Mr. Ross. They’re closing fast,” one of the lookouts shouted.

  “Very well.” Brent leaned over the hatch. “ESM?”

  Takiguchi’s voice came back. “Sevens and D-band searches.”

  “Are they ranging?”

  “Negative, sir. They’re sweeping right over us.”

  Brent sighed with relief. But he knew they would be sighted soon — even the phosphorescent wake could give them away. “Lookouts below! Clear the bridge!” The lookouts and everyone except Brent scrambled down the hatch. After a last look around, he dropped down the hatch and hit the diving alarm with the palm of his hand. As the alarm honked through the boat, he dogged the hatch and then dropped to the hatch over the control room. “Torpedo attack submerged, take her down to sixty-two feet.”

  Turning to the attack periscope, he said to Sturgis, “Quartermaster, left to two-seven-five, all ahead one-third.” He could hear the soft whine of the electric drive in the soothing quietness of the increasing depth, feel the pressure begin to build against his eardrums, shouts of crewmen reporting their stations “manned and ready.” He acknowledged “Green air,” “Green board,” and “Pressure in the boat.”

  Battle’s voice: “Level on sixty-two-feet, sir.”

  Sturgis’s voice: “Steady on two-seven-five, sir.”

  Brent patted the attack periscope. “Up ’scope.” The tube rose and Brent came up with the eyepiece. A quick look told him the lead enemy destroyer would pass well to the west, but the two starboard escorts would pass very close. He said to Crog without moving his eyes from the lens, “Sonar, turn on the speaker.” The only man seated, Crog reached over the Mark IV and threw a switch. Immediately, the pings came through — strong, forceful, and penetrating. However, no one was ranging them yet.

  Brent swung the periscope head to the carrier. Still over four miles away, she appeared as a big black hulk slashing through the moonlight. He was well ahead of her with an angle on the bow of no more than ten degrees starboard. An attack from ahead at a sharp angle would be a difficult firing problem because the target length was shortened by the angle. Ideally, the best torpedo track angle was one that intersected the target at ninety degrees. With a little luck he might get his right angle. “There’s a can leading, then the carrier, and then the cruiser. Four more cans are off the beams of the carrier and cruiser,” Brent said. He spoke to Reginald Williams. “Check me on the Majestic — length, seven hundred feet, height of mast, one hundred fifty, she draws twenty-five feet, maximum speed twenty-four.”

  Williams glanced at a chart taped to a bulkhead behind Davidson. “Correct.”

  “Stand by for first observation. Bearing mark!”

  Reginald read the azimuth. “Two-seven-eight.”

  Brent grasped the wheel of the range finder, turned it until the two halves of the split image merged into a coherent whole. “Range mark!”

  “Six-three-zero-zero.”

  “Angle on the bow, starboard twenty. Course zero-one-zero.” He snapped the periscope handles up to signal the observation was completed. Williams punched the pickle. Stepping back from the tube, Brent said to Sturgis, “Right to two-eight-zero.”

  Brent heard Bernard Pittman muttering to himself as he cranked the information into the TDC. Fidgeting nervously, perspiration covered his forehead and he swallowed hard, his pointed Adam’s apple working up and down as if it were a meal that had stuck in his throat. Pittman said, “Initial range six-two-five-zero, speed nineteen, distance to the track three-nine-five-zero.”

  The pings grew louder and Brent was sure they would be spotted, but the leading Gearing continued on its plodding track and began to pass their bows. But the destroyer off the carrier’s starboard side posed the mortal danger. When they fired their torpedoes — and Brent hoped to fire after the lead Gearing passed — the lead destroyer would be forced to make a complete reversal in course before attacking. By that time, he hoped to have a cushion of at least four hundred
feet of ocean above him. But, of course, there was still the other destroyer, off the cruiser’s starboard side. He put it out of his mind.

  Brent glanced at his watch. Two minutes had passed. He said to Randy Davidson, “Flood tubes One through Six. Up ’scope.” Quickly, he focused. “Bearing mark!”

  “Two-eight-zero.”

  “Range mark!”

  “Five-one-three-five.”

  “Angle on the bow, zero-three-zero.”

  Williams keyed his Is-Was, Pittman worked his cranks furiously. Pittman said, “Range five-one-three-zero, speed nineteen, course zero-one-zero, distance to track two-five-seven-zero.”

  Crog spoke. “The lead can is crossing our bows from port to starboard, there’s another can bearing three-zero-five, range on my rim at five thousand yards.”

  Brent had no choice, he ignored the destroyer. “Turn off the speaker. Open outer doors tubes One through Six. This will be a shooting observation. Up ’scope.”

  “Bearing mark!

  “Three-three-three.”

  “Range mark!”

  “Three-five-zero-zero.”

  “Angle on the bow sixty-five. Down ’scope.” They could hear the pinging of a destroyer and even the thump thump of her screws penetrated Blackfin’s hull. “I have a solution light!” Pittman shouted as if he were staring at a miracle.

  “When will the distance to the track be under two thousand yards?”

  There was a long silence. “Damn it, man, answer! The whole western hemisphere is waiting.”

  Pittman sputtered and then managed, “In thirty-five-seconds, Mr. Ross.”

  “Set depth twenty feet, speed fast, one-hundred-fifty-percent spread.” Pittman looked confused. Brent shouted angrily, “The first astern, four into the hull, and the last to pass ahead. Seven second intervals. Crank it in!”

  Pittman gulped, looked up in confused helplessness. Williams pushed him aside and turned the cranks. “Set!” he said. “Gyro angle last fish right twenty-three degrees.”

  “Very well.” With a spread of one-hundred-fifty-percent, Brent hoped to compensate for any errors — hoped for at least three hits which should be fatal.

  Williams moved to the firing panel where six windows glowed red while Pittman looked like a man who would have liked to have vanished into thin air.

  Brent took a deep breath. The survival of Yonaga, Fujita, Matsuhara, and all of the others who were so dear to him depended on what happened in the next three minutes. He shouted down the hatch, “Watch your trim, Mr. Battle. We’re going to fire six fish in the next forty-two-seconds and be ready to take her down fast.” He turned to Williams. “Up ’scope!”

  A quick look. The set up looked perfect, but the destroyer off their port side was bearing down. “No change!” He snapped the handles up and the tube slid down. He looked up. “Shoot!”

  Williams threw a switch and pushed the firing key. There was the sound of compressed-air blasting followed by a thump and the boat lurched. “One fired electrically,” Davidson reported, starting a stopwatch. Five more times the order was given until all forward tubes were empty.

  “Torpedo run?”

  Pittman stared at the TDC, spoke in a tremulous voice. “One-nine-seven-zero, sir.”

  A quick calculation. About a minute and ten seconds before the first impact. Brent shouted a barrage of orders: “Take her down fast to four hundred feet. Right full rudder, steady up on one-zero-zero, all ahead flank, rig for depth charge!”

  Battle yanked the handle of the tank vent and Brent felt the rush of air as the negative flood valve opened wide, tons of water pouring into the forward ballast tanks. Blackfin angled sharply downward.

  “Passing one hundred, sir.”

  “Time to target, first fish?” Brent asked.

  Sturgis glanced at his stop watch. “Seventeen seconds, sir.”

  “Turn on the speaker.” Crog threw the switch. The pings of the destroyers came in loud and clear, the escort off their port bow drowning out the others. Even the thrashing of her screws was audible and distinct. And there was a high pitched whine like a flock of mosquitoes. The torpedoes. They could hear their torpedoes.

  Suddenly there was a tremendous roar as the first warhead exploded against the side of the carrier, eight hundred pounds of torpex ripping frames and tearing strakes of plates like paper, hurling a column of water and debris two hundred feet into the air. The shock wave shook the boat. Then another and another and the men cheered.

  “We’ve hit the son-of-a-bitch,” Williams shrieked. He waved a fist at the overhead. “You just fumbled on the one-yard line, you dicks.” Everyone chuckled.

  “Can’s changing course, sir. She’s making a run.” The laughter stopped.

  “Very well,” Williams said. He turned to Brent. “Great job. At least three hits. I have the con. Take over the TDC. Mr. Pittman, return to your duties.” Pittman dropped down the hatch like a frightened gopher going to ground.

  “Passing one-fifty,” Sturgis said.

  Through the pings of the advancing destroyer they could hear the shriek of tortured metal followed by crashing bangs, hissing, rushing sounds of water. “Ship breaking up sounds,” Crog announced. More happy yells.

  The noise of the churning screws, the powerful pings bouncing off the hull grew in strength and became more rapid, silencing the boisterous spirits. Soon the whole boat echoed with the sounds and the Doppler began to drop. “Here they come.”

  There was a flurry of clicks, and the depths were ripped by a barrage of charges. Four exploded under the boat’s stern and at least two above her bow. Leaping and twisting like a harpooned whale, Blackfin’s bow was hammered down into a steep dive of over thirty degrees. Writhing, groaning, the boat plunged down into the depths, more charges exploding above her. Those men not clinging to supports were hurled from their feet. There were cries of fear and pain. Crog was knocked from his seat and Takiguchi fell across him. Brent held onto an overhead pipe. Then the lights went out and the vibrations began.

  “Blow negative! Emergency lights!” Nothing happened. Either the commands were not heard, the crewmen injured, or equipment damaged. The lights remained out and the descent continued.

  The vibrations increased, Blackfin shaking and trembling like the victim of an epileptic seizure and a fearful rhythmic, clattering sound of metal pounding metal filled the boat. One thousand five hundred twenty-six tons of steel with her ballast tanks brimming with nine hundred tons of water, the boat was a pitch-black steel coffin plunging steeply into depths that would crush her like paper.

  Brent could feel the pressure building in his eardrums and the specter of collapsing compartments and compressed air heating to hundreds of degrees, searing his lungs, and drowning him in his own blood before the onrushing water reached him, filled him with horror.

  The dim red lights flickered on. “Damage report! Damage report!” Williams shouted. Davidson yelled into his mouthpiece, but there was no answer.

  While Brent helped Takiguchi and Crog from the deck, the vibrations stopped suddenly and the whine of electric motors faded.

  “Passing two hundred fifty,” Sturgis said calmly.

  Williams shouted down the hatch, “Mr. Battle, our trim, for Christ’s sake, our trim.”

  “I’m blowing negative, sir, and the planes are full up.”

  Brent felt the angle begin to flatten, but he knew the boat’s downward momentum would be hard to stop before fatal depths were reached. Apparently, Battle had started to blow negative on his own initiative before hearing Williams’s command in the bedlam. The young man’s resourcefulness might save their lives.

  Davidson said, “Damage report. Port shaft and screw bent. Chief Fukumoto shut down the port motors. Seals intact. Two saltwater valves were ruptured, but they’re being repaired. Auxiliary engine Number One has been knocked off its foundation. Two machinist’s mates are unconscious and a third has a broken arm.”

  “The battery?”

  “No report, sir.” />
  “Very well. Silent running.”

  The inclination of the boat became less severe. “Passing four hundred.”

  More blasts, however, they were far overhead and wide. Gradually, with the pumps forcing air into the ballast tanks and water out, Blackfin’s plunge slowed and the angle of descent approached zero. But their sanctuary could still become their grave.

  “Passing five hundred.”

  Brent glanced at the pressure gauge. The white needle was passing two hundred twenty pounds — two hundred twenty pounds of pressure on every square inch of hull and increasing. He felt a cold electric prickle race up his spine to his neck.

  The heat had become unbearable, air stagnant and foul, and the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies was overpowering. Brent’s hair was matted and his soaked shirt clung to him as if glued. And someone in the control room had obviously lost sphincter control, the smell drifting up through the hatch.

  “Tell that man to clean himself up,” Williams shouted. There was an embarrassed babble.

  “Five seventy-five and holding,” Battle announced calmly as the boat flattened to zero inclination.

  “Can you hold her here?”

  “Yes, sir. No problem.”

  Brent heard Williams mutter, “I’m going to promote that man.”

  There were sighs of relief and the men looked at each other like condemned men reprieved at the last minute. They had survived because two men, Ensign Battle and Chief Fukumoto, had acted quickly on their own volition. Now they should be safe in their sanctuary. The lights came on.

  “Starboard ahead two-thirds. Come right to one-eight-zero. And Crog, turn on the speaker.” Over the fading sounds of the destroyers’ screws, they could hear the death throes of the dying carrier. The gurgling of rushing water, hiss of escaping air, the bang and crash of collapsing bulkheads, and Brent thought he heard high-pitched shrieks. Men screaming. Was it possible he could hear the death shouts of men dying hideously in flooding compartments — a fate he had expected for himself? He tried to shut it out, put his mind elsewhere. But it was impossible. The boat was very quiet and the men kept their eyes fixed on their equipment.