Silent Sea

CHAPTER 15

The Eelfish surfaced after dark, creeping along the northern coast of the island of Mindoro, certain that any enemy radar would fail to detect the ship against the background of mountains. The night air was like warm velvet on the skin, the humidity so high that drops of moisture formed on the flat surface of the teak bridge railing. Overhead a canopy of stars blazed in the clear sky, but off to the east, where the Hatchet Fish and the Sea Chub were waiting, a line of clouds obscured the horizon. Lieutenant Jerry Gold stood in the bridge space, periodically sweeping the horizon with his binoculars.

Captain Brannon paced the starboard side of the cigaret deck from the periscope shears aft to the rail, waiting. Captain Mealey had taken up his position on the port side of the cigaret deck. He paced fore and aft, stopping occasionally to examine the horizon over which he hoped the task force would come. Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub had reported themselves on station shortly after Eelfish had surfaced, advising that in order to present less of a silhouette they would cruise with decks awash.

Down in the Control Room John Olsen had laid out the tools of the plot on the gyro table. He looked over at Jim Michaels.

“What’s the extreme range you could expect to get a solid contact on radar, Jim?”

“We’d get good clutter at about eighteen thousand yards, sir. But in this area, where we are with mountains on both sides of that pass those ships will come through, I’d rather say fifteen thousand yards. At that range we could be accurate.”

Olsen looked at the plotting hoard and the chart and did some quick calculations. “That would be in about another fifteen minutes,” he said.

Jerry Gold’s voice from the bridge sounded over the Control Room speaker.

“Bridge requests a radar sweep.”

“Order received,” Olsen said. Michaels and Rafferty studied the radar scope as the beam swept around.

“Bridge,” Michaels said, “I’ve got a lot of clutter. I’m sure there’s ships in there but I’d rather wait another ten or fifteen minutes. I think I could give you an accurate reading then.

Ten minutes went by, and then the port lookout coughed loudly and spoke.

“I see a rocket or something like a rocket bearing two six five, almost dead abeam to port, Bridge.”

Mealey raised his binoculars and saw the sputtering flare arcing and then descending to vanish. Mike Brannon, who had moved to the port side of the cigaret deck when the lookout reported, said, “A rocket, sir? Strange.”

“Yes,” Mealey said. “Strange, but perhaps not too strange. You mentioned earlier that this task force has a mix of Merchant Marine and Navy captains. It could be that the Flag Commander fired the rocket to signal a change of course to his sheep or to order them to form up. They should be almost through that narrow gut by now. Mr. Gold, tell Mr. Michaels what we saw up here and get a radar sweep.”

The radar antenna turned to the bearing the lookout had given and then began to search on either side of the bearing.

“Contact!” Jim Michaels’s voice was loud enough to be heard clearly on the cigaret deck. “We have a lot of pips bearing two six nine. Range is one six zero zero zero yards. Repeat, sixteen thousand yards, Bridge.”

“Plot, give me a course to our attack position,” Captain Mealey mapped. “Make turns for eighteen knots.”

“Recommend we come right to zero nine one, Bridge. Making turns for eighteen knots, sir.” Olsen’s voice was calm.

“Secure the radar,” Mealey said. “Plot, I want to run on this course for fifteen minutes, and then we’ll take another radar sweep on the targets.”

“Sir,” Olsen said. “If I may, sir, an observation.”

“Go ahead,” Mealey said.

“At this speed we’re running away from the targets, sir. We’re on a course that will take us into their base course, but I don’t think they’re making more than fifteen knots, sir. We’re opening the range. Recommend we slow to ten knots on this course. Let the task force come closer to us. Intersect time should be a little under two hours, sir.”

“Very well,” Mealey said. “Make turns for ten knots. We’ll take another radar sweep when your plot shows the targets to be within fourteen thousand yards.” He turned to Mike Brannon.

“They’re coming to us, Mike. They’re coming right to us!”

The minutes crept by slowly as Eelfish headed away from the coast toward a spot on the dark sea where it would intersect its course with that of the task force. Overhead a pale quarter moon blinked through the low, scudding clouds that had blown in from the east. Mealey studied the sky.

“I hope it rains,” he said to Mike Brannon. “Rain would give us a big advantage.” He looked at the dial of his wrist watch and then began to study the horizon through his night binoculars.

“Bridge,” Olsen’s voice came over the speaker. “Radar requests permission to make a sweep. We should have the task force well within accurate radar range by now.”

“Permission granted,” Mealey answered.

“Contact bears two zero five, repeat two zero five. Range is one two zero zero zero yards. Repeat. Twelve thousand yards. Target course is one four one. Repeat. One four one. Target speed is one four knots. Repeat. Fourteen knots, Bridge.”

“Very well,” Mealey said. He turned to Jerry Gold. “We’ll maintain the topside watch for a little while. When we reach our attack position we’ll secure the lookouts and the bridge watch. Please notify the galley to serve coffee now.” He turned to Mike Brannon.

“Let’s go below and look at the plot.” Brannon followed him down the hatch to the Conning Tower where Perry Arbuckle was standing with Bill Brosmer, the Quartermaster.

“When do you give the downbeat for the music to begin, Captain?” Arbuckle said to Mealey.

“I’d say two hours, little less. Stand easy. If you want coffee get it now. Send the cups back below when you’re through. I don’t want anything adrift in this Conning Tower when we go into action.” He went down the ladder to the Control Room. Brosmer turned to Lieutenant Arbuckle.

“That old S.O.B. doesn’t forget anything, does he? Send the coffee cups below so nothing will be adrift.”

“He’s all Navy,” Arbuckle said in a low voice. “And that might not be a bad thing on this night.”

Standing in the small bridge space Jerry Gold put his binoculars to his eyes and began a 360-degree search of the horizon. Eelfish was running out to sea now, away from the bulk of the mountains on Mindoro. He could see flickering pinpoints of light in the lowlands. The lookouts had reported those lights earlier, and Captain Mealey had decided they were the lights of cooking fires. Someone over there on the land, Gold mused, was living in complete ignorance of the fact that in a matter of two hours or so a battle would be joined within miles of them. A battle in which men would die. Some in the searing blasts of torpedo explosions, others more slowly in the dark waters where they would drown or be torn to bits by sharks. Better you should be a dentist in Chicago, Gold, he said to himself. Copping feels off patients who hope you will do just that when they’re stretched out in the chair.

In the Control Room Captain Mealey studied the plot and the chart. He picked up a pencil.

“We’ll take position here, a little west of where we had originally planned. I want to hit them while they’re still close enough to that narrow gut between Mindoro and Luzon so they won’t think about reversing course and heading back the way they came. It would take damned good seamanship to try that at night while they’re under attack, and they should figure that there’s another submarine in back of them waiting for them to do something like that.” He looked at the chart.

“I reason that when we start shooting and then get in among the convoy the ships will break out of their formation. The instinct of men under attack is to move in another direction. In this case I think they’ll move forward, and they’ll also veer north and south. That should put them in line with Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub.”

Mike Brannon studied the chart. “Sir,” he said. “We are going to be west of where we had intended to be, and that puts Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub farther east of us than before. Do you think we should move them in a little, say two or three miles?”

Mealey looked at the chart a moment and then nodded his head. He turned to Jim Michaels.

“Are we close enough together for voice communication?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Mauler One and Mauler Two to shift position. Mr. Olsen will give you the exact coordinates.” He waited until Olsen had worked out the precise positions and given them to Michaels.

“How long until the music begins, John?” Mealey asked. Olsen worked at his plotting board.

“We’ll be on station in thirty minutes, sir. The task force should be on our port bow at that time, moving to cross ahead of our bow about ten minutes after we are on station.”

“Inform Mauler One and Mauler Two that the music will begin in forty minutes,” Mealey said to Michaels. “Tell them that once the music begins there will be dancing and we’ll ask them to the ball.” He leaned down and picked up the canvas bag that held the two steel helmets he had brought aboard. He gave one to Mike Brannon. He fitted the other on his head and buckled the chin strap. He went to the ladder and began to climb to the bridge, followed by Mike Brannon.

“Clear the bridge, Mr. Gold,” Mealey ordered. He waited until only he and Brannon stood in the bridge, and then he bent to the bridge transmitter.

“Sound General Quarters!”

Eelfish waited.