Wolfpack, page 7
“Very well. Stand by to surface.”
We are from another world. There can be no similarity between us and the men up there whom we will try to kill and who will try to kill us in return. It is impossible that like creatures should want to destroy each other. It is not the weird red goggles, or the fact that we are beneath the water that makes us from another world. We are from a world where war and killing is not a way of life but a means of preserving life. We are from a world that has an Elizabeth in it, and they are from a world which would destroy ours. That is why we try to kill them. That is why . . .
“All right, Turner,” he muttered to the quartermaster. The sailor cranked the alarm, and, as the third blast of the klaxon horn died away, Reardon’s voice called into the intercom.
“Surface! Surface! Surface!”
The Hagfish gave a convulsive shudder as the high-pressure air shot into her ballast tanks, forcing the water out. Below in the control room, the men on the diving station were spinning wheels, tilting the bow and stern planes to point the submarine’s way to the surface.
“Four oh feet!” Bill Persons was handling the surfacing procedure. “Three five feet—three oh feet!”
Reardon put one hand on the quartermaster’s shoulder. “Crack the hatch!”
The sailor was up the ladder quickly, undogging the hatch handwheel. Air began to blow in through the slightly open hatch. A few drops of water sprayed through.
“Pressure one-half inch.” This from Persons. Then, “Two five feet, Captain. Holding steady.”
“Open the hatch!”
As the quartermaster finished undogging the hatch and snapped open the safety latch, Reardon was up the ladder behind him. The heavy bronze hatch cover, propelled by the action of a large coil spring, heaved open with a loud rush of air as the latch was released by the quartermaster. Reardon, followed by the two lookouts, gained the dripping surface of the bridge a moment later.
Slowly and deliberately, he scanned the horizon. It was a clear night, with no moon. He quickly made out the Japanese ships off his port quarter.
“All clear aft, Captain.” The lookouts’ first job had been to search the after one hundred and eighty degrees sector.
Reardon acknowledged. He was not surprised. He knew what lay astern. Land was there. The Japanese would not have to worry about his escaping in that direction. He knew also that beneath him there was less than one hundred feet of water. There would not be a very good chance of escaping in that direction either. He recalled his conversation with Roger Lewis that morning. Was he going to be afraid? It was a possibility.
Leaning over the intercom, he called, “Open the main induction. Start the low pressure blow.”
The routine procedure of surfacing had to go hand in hand with the preparation for battle. He heard the main induction valve through which the air for the diesels came into the boat open with a loud thump. It seemed illogical that such a noise could not be heard by the men out there on the Japanese ships.
Another, and even louder, sound now came from below—a screech like some wild beast in mortal pain, wavering, swelling. The turbo blow had commenced. Reardon bent over the speaker again.
“Run the blow five minutes.”
The sea was moderate. The Hagfish, her decks almost awash, rode sluggishly in the water. Now, as the turbo blow forced large amounts of air into the ballast tanks, the submarine gradually lifted herself to a more seaworthy attitude. Five minutes was not really a long enough time, but Reardon did not want to delay any longer than that.
“Quartermaster to the bridge.”
In a moment, the quartermaster, Dave Tanzi, stood beside him. Tanzi would be Reardon’s voice throughout the surface attack, using the battle telephone to relay all orders to the men below decks. Reardon noticed that Tanzi was wearing his steel helmet. He had forgotten all about that bit of gear. So had the lookouts. He ordered the steel hats sent up. He felt rather foolish somehow with the thing on his head, like a small boy playing soldier.
He grinned to himself. Don’t be sorry, be safe. What the devil was that for? Soap or underarm deodorant?
“Battle stations, surface.”
Dave Tanzi repeated the order into his battle phone, and below, Reardon heard the alarm sounding its clanging message throughout the boat.
“Battle stations manned and ready, Captain.”
“Very well.”
The wail of the turbo blow subsided, then died away to silence. Reardon took a long look at the dim shapes of the Japanese ships on the horizon. Radar had been feeding him information which indicated that the bulk of the convoy must be gathering quite near him. There was no longer any further need in relying on radar, he decided. He had plenty of shipping where he could see it without having to worry about radar.
“Come left to two two five.”
He had been running on a course which was roughly parallel to that of the ships. Now it was time for him to close. He still felt remarkably calm, but there was a slight throbbing in his left temple. He tried to ignore it in his concentration on the task at hand. As the Hagfish’s bow swung to port, he drew a deep, long breath. This was no longer the classroom or the drawing board or the carefully considered calculations on a sheet of paper. This was real. The throbbing increased.
“Steady on two two five.”
“Very well. All ahead two thirds.”
They were on their way! What do you do to stop the throbbing—to keep the palms from sweating—to keep the mind from panic? Terence Reardon knew only one thing to do. He thought about the problem. His mind calculated distances and times like a singer doing vocal warmups or an athlete loosening taut muscles before a contest. Torpedo speed—torpedo run—at flank speed the Hagfish would cover one thousand yards in how many minutes—turning radius—this is the work the brain must perform automatically in a little while . . .
The picture on the horizon was coming clearer now. He could make out several ships in silhouette, and there were at least three escorts dashing about. One of these looked to be a destroyer. The other two were probably frigates. One of the latter was off the Hagfish’s starboard bow now. The other frigate and the destroyer were to port between Hagfish and the convoy.
“There’s one of them ships heading this way, Captain!”
The lookout’s shrill cry broke off his mental gymnastics. He sought for the escort—it was a frigate, and she was heading directly for the submarine. It was doubtful that the Hagfish had been sighted, but on its present course, the frigate would soon take care of that.
“Left twenty degrees rudder!”
The maneuver would swing the sub inside the approaching escort and, at the same time, continue to close with the ships of the convoy.
“Rudder is twenty left, Captain.”
“Very well.” He watched the frigate through his glasses as the Hagfish’s bow swung more and more away from the enemy craft.
“Meet her!” The swing slowed. “Steady as you go.”
“Steady on one seven four, Captain.”
“Steer one eight oh.”
“Aye, aye.”
The new course would take Hagfish in between the destroyer and the convoy if she continued undetected. The bow wake was a brilliant phosphorescence, and Reardon could not imagine its remaining unseen for very long. He considered reducing speed, but time was as vital a factor as was anonymity.
“Captain, those ships are beginning to pick up speed!” It was true. In the time Reardon had used to avoid the frigate, the convoy had apparently received its orders to head for home. The ships were moving more rapidly, and their course had been altered in Hagfish’s direction. They were now closing the sub. The time factor had diminished suddenly. Reardon glanced behind him. The destroyer was off his starboard quarter now, well astern, but he realized that he would need a pair of eyes back there he could trust.
“Executive officer to the bridge!” Roger Lewis’ usual battle station was in the conning tower, but this was a new situation. It called for new tactics. In a moment, Lewis stood beside him, and Reardon gave him the picture quickly.
The exec nodded. “I have it, Captain.” He grinned. “Remember what I said about being scared? Forget it. This looks like fun!”
“If that destroyer pins us in here, it won’t be fun. Keep loose back there, Roger.”
The sound of his own voice startled him. It was harsh. It sounded frightened. Was he frightened? He did not know.
With Roger Lewis on station aft, Reardon turned his attention back to the approaching ships. The nearest one looked to be a medium-sized freighter. It would be his first target.
Fitting his binoculars into the TBT, he took a bearing. Radar data would be too confused now for any sort of accuracy on individual targets.
“Bearing—mark!” His finger pressed the button, and the information was relayed to the TDC operator below. He studied the freighter quickly. “Make the range to be one thousand yards. Angle on the bow is ten port. Estimate speed at eight knots.”
He was aware of the throbbing again.
“Stand by forward tubes. Open outer doors.”
Beside him, the quartermaster was repeating his orders. Now he bent over the TBT again.
“Bearing—mark!”
He studied the ship. Something was wrong. It looked bigger than he had thought. The range! He had misjudged the range! The ship was looming up ahead of him now. The range could not be much over four hundred yards!
“Right full rudder! All ahead emergency!”
Now was the time for the heart to stop and wait. Slowly, like a reluctant schoolboy dragging his way to class, the Hagfish’s bow swung. He could see the freighter’s bow wake, could see in detail the high masts, the bulky superstructure. There was one moment in the turn when the freighter’s bow was pointing directly at the men who stood rigidly on the submarine’s bridge. Then they slid away from it, and the Japanese ship crossed their wake a scant two hundred yards astern. There was no chance now that Hagfish could be undetected.
“Ease your rudder to twenty right!”
He wanted some distance between him and the ship. The submarine continued to turn, less sharply now.
“Stand by tubes one and two!”
“One and two tubes standing by!”
He watched as the freighter swung slowly back into his path.
“All ahead one third! Steady as you go!”
The range was now about five hundred yards. It was too close, he thought, but the die was cast.
Wait . . . wait . . . wait . . .
“Fire one! Fire two!”
The streaks of foam diverged from the submarine’s bow. One of the fish was running erratically. Reardon watched it broach like some wanton game fish. The other one appeared to be running true, but it was to no avail. The freighter’s commanding officer was alerted. He was swinging around to put his stern to the Hagfish. Both torpedoes missed.
“Now we’re in for it!” He was talking to himself, and the throbbing was gone. The battle was joined.
“Two big ships off the starboard bow, Captain!” Suddenly the sky ahead of the Hagfish burst into flame. A flare had been fired, and its unexpected glare almost blinded Reardon. The two ships were clearly visible about five thousand yards ahead.
“Right full rudder! All ahead flank!”
As the Hagfish started its turn, Reardon looked back at the freighter which had escaped the first torpedoes he had ever fired as a commanding officer. There was something personal about this failure, he thought grimly, and he found himself trying desperately to recall in detail the exact conditions which had prevailed when he fired. Why had he missed? He would need the data in trying to evaluate the problem later on. The freighter was still changing course radically, her captain obviously not yet satisfied that his escape was complete.
“Rudder is full right, Captain. Engines answering all ahead flank.”
He had fired when the freighter was bearing . . .
“Captain! How about a stern shot? Look at her!”
Roger Lewis was pointing frantically. Reardon stared uncomprehendingly for an instant, then the exec’s meaning struck him. The freighter was now about one thousand yards astern to port. Its course change had put it on a heading which would take it directly across the Hagfish’s stern.
“Stand by tubes aft!”
He gave the order without any clear idea of what he was going to do. One lightning thrust of realization swept over him. Carefully planned attacks did not take into account the variables of battle. His decisions must be here and now, without the impediment of detailed analysis.
“Ease your rudder! Ease it!”
The submarine’s swing slowed. Reardon watched the freighter closely.
“Steady as you go!”
The Japanese ship’s captain was making his decisions on instinct also. He chose this instant to zig away, and his time of crossing the Hagfish’s stern was delayed by perhaps two minutes. It would be enough.
“Stand by eight and nine tubes! Set gyros zero, depth ten feet!”
He watched as the two adversaries’ relative positions adjusted, then . . .
“All stopped! Steady as you go. Steady—steady . . . Stand by to shoot . . .”
The instant was now!
“Fire eight! Fire nine!”
The Hagfish shuddered in her after parts as the fish were away. Reardon turned forward to locate the ships ahead of him. He had done all he could about the freighter.
“All ahead flank!”
He would not allow himself to look back yet. The new prey lay ahead, and he must seek it out and destroy . . . WHAM!
“You got her, Captain! You got her!”
The sky lighted suddenly and violently. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, Reardon thought as he spun to watch the freighter in its death agony. Could he look back and escape the punishment that had befallen Lot’s wife? The freighter was sinking rapidly. Compassion struggled briefly with the joy of victory in Terence Reardon and lost.
The two ships ahead of him were now just off the port bow. Someone else was shooting off flares, and he caught their silhouettes clearly. They looked to be tankers, big ones, riding low in the water.
“What’s our course?”
“Three one four, Captain.”
“Come left to two nine five.”
Somewhere behind them he could hear what sounded like gunfire.
“There’s an escort back there, Captain,” Roger Lewis yelled at him. “I can see his guns, but I don’t think he’s spotted us. The freighter got in between him and us.” The exec laughed boyishly. “He’s just shooting for the fun of it.”
Reardon bent over the TBT.
“Stand by for a new setup. Bearing—mark!”
He studied the nearest tanker. “Make the range three thousand—no twenty-five hundred yards. Angle on the bow—twenty port. Speed ten knots.”
Now he turned his attention to the second tanker and planned rapidly how he would attack it. It was astern the first ship to starboard, probably about five hundred yards. Unknowingly the two Japanese captains were presenting Hagfish with a perfect attack setup.
“How’s the reload coming forward?”
“All tubes ready, Captain.” The response was immediate. He glowed with pride for those men down below. He could imagine the taunts that had passed forward from the after torpedo-room gang, rubbing the fact of their torpedoes’ success into the salt of the wounds of failure of the fish from the forward tubes.
“Stand by all forward tubes. Conning tower, we will fire four torpedoes at this target. Stand by for a quick change of targets as soon as we have fired.” He drew a deep breath. “And I mean a quick change!”
“I can see that escort, Captain. Looks like a can, but he’s running right on by. Hasn’t seen us yet!”
He nodded at Lewis’ words. There was no time to think of escorts now.
“Stand by for a bearing! Stand by—mark!”
The leading tanker was a big one; probably it would go about twenty thousand tons.
“Angle on the bow is ten port. Make her speed twelve knots. Range two thousand yards. Stand by for a firing setup!”
The silence hung like a pall for one endless minute.
“Bearing—mark!” His finger pressed the button. “Mark . . . mark . . . mark . . .”
“Fire!”
Four times the Hagfish trembled as she spawned her deadly fish.
“Left full rudder! Stand by for a new target!”
He tried to ignore the four phosphorescent streaks that marked the courses of the torpedoes. Swiftly he fed the data on the second tanker to the TDC operator below.
Seconds crawled by . . . twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . .
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
From cutwater to wake, the leading tanker collected the salvo of torpedoes. The first one must have missed, Reardon realized, but the second one blew the ship’s bow to pieces, and the third and fourth fish hit amidships and astern.
“Bearing—mark! Fire!”
Tubes five and six disgorged their fish, and the men on the Hagfish’s bridge watched in awe as the first tanker disappeared, leaving only a patch of blazing oil to mark the spot where it had been.
WHAM! WHAM!
Reardon had a chance to observe the second tanker just before it was hit. It was a medium-sized ship, but it took the torpedoes better than had its larger companion. Both fish hit near the bow, but the tanker did not go under immediately. It settled in the water for a little, then burst into flames, lighting up the sky with a brilliant orange glow.
“Left full rudder!” He was screaming, he knew. So was Roger Lewis. So were the lookouts. The fury of battle and killing was upon them like a mantle of fire.
Hagfish drove ahead, past the stricken tanker deeper into the heart of the convoy. By now the scene was one of the wildest confusion—a Dante’s inferno of ships milling around, firing indiscriminately. Two more ships were attacked—a large cargo vessel was left listing heavily to port—a smaller freighter went down in a matter of ten seconds after taking three hits.
Reardon and Lewis watched a Japanese frigate take a direct hit from some ship’s deck gun, and they roared with laughter, pounding each other on the back like small boys enjoying some indescribably funny joke.
