Dust on the Sea (31 page)

Again, it was only their confidence in themselves and in each other, and each in all the others, that enabled this ever-present fear to be set aside. What, then, if the very basis of the tenuous fabric of cohesiveness were ripped asunder? Even if there were demonstrably no truth in the accusation against a crew member, what would be the effect of its having been voiced?

Richardson could feel himself shriveling inside as he contemplated the certain ruin that would result. No matter how carefully the thing was handled, it would be a disaster. Lichtmann might or might not have been able to create a secure position for himself during his short time with his new shipmates, but there was no way he could remain unaffected if the suspicion were to become known. Richardson must, somehow, at all costs, prevent the situation from progressing further. Certainly he must
get Blunt to explain the source of his suspicions and, if possible, allay them.

The greatest danger lay in the crew's becoming aware of what it was their officers were discussing so earnestly. Keith's action in ensuring that someone was with Blunt at all times had been the right move, but even this might become too obvious if continued much longer. Richardson would have to rescind the order soon, before either the crew or Blunt became aware of it. Perhaps he could take the surveillance duty himself—and then he realized he had already been doing so, up until the time of his enforced absence.

But he was undetermined, irresolute. What could he do? If the situation had continued to retrogress during his absence to the point now described, what could anyone do? Buck Williams was obviously waiting for a chance to say something. He might have some clue, suggest a direction in which movement was not yet foreclosed. “What do you think, Buck?”

“I'm out of it pretty much,” said Buck Williams. “All the commodore thinks and talks about is the hydraulic system, and that's not in my department. But I sure do agree that there's something wrong with him. He doesn't sleep. Sits around most of the time in the wardroom smoking his pipe. Then, when he does start wandering around, we all wish he'd go back and be quiet again. I think if he could only get some sleep and relax a little bit, he'd be a lot better off. I know we'd all be.”

The comment triggered a thought in Richardson's mind. “Keith,” he said, “who succeeded to command during my absence?”

Keith looked uncomfortable. “Well, he said he would, because he was senior officer present. But then he didn't do anything. At first I tried to carry on as I had for you, but he wouldn't make any decisions, except to turn us down on everything. So finally I just had to go and take care of things myself without telling him.”

“What Keith's saying is not exactly true, Skipper,” said Buck, interrupting. “All of us told Keith that he just had to take over. Things were going to hell fast. It was a pretty serious situation down there on the bottom, and with you and Oregon gone. Our morale was already about zero. The commodore was no good at all, sir. Besides, I don't think he even could qualify in this submarine if he took a test right now. Lots of the orders he gave we couldn't carry out because they didn't apply to this ship.”

“That's right, Skipper,” said Dugan, “we just said ‘Aye aye, sir,' to him, but then we'd ask Keith. He was the real skipper while you were gone.”

“All right, fellows,” said Rich, “I promised you I'd take care of him, and I will.” But it was an empty promise. He had no plan, no notion of how to begin or what to do. He was still covered with bandages and liniment. His mind was barely functioning. He was perilously close to admitting his inadequacy when the man on telephone watch in the compartment interrupted him.

“Captain,” he said, “there's an op-immediate coming in for us in the radio room.”

When decoded, the message said:

INDICATIONS ARE THAT ALL YELLOW SEA TRAFFIC IS MOVING CLOSE INSHORE X MANY SMALL TO MEDIUM SIZE CARGO SHIPS CONVOYED INSHORE OF ISLANDS ON WEST COAST OF KOREA X TRAFFIC ALONG CHINESE COAST MOVING INSIDE TEN FATHOM CURVE X SPECIAL FOR BLUNTS BRUISERS X GO GET EM BOYS

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7
  
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“C
ommodore,” said Richardson, “this message is a directive to get in as close to the coast of Korea, and maybe China too, as we can. This large-scale map of the area”—he tapped for emphasis a chart laid out on the wardroom table—“is an official Japanese Navy chart that we grabbed from that patrol boat. As you can see, there's a chain of small islands varying from five to ten miles off the west coast of Korea. We checked out the depth markings—it was simple; they're just in meters. There's at least two hundred feet of water all around them, all the way up to the mainland of Korea. That's almost as deep as it is anywhere in this area. The combined submarine track chart shows that most of our submarines have concentrated on the middle of the Yellow Sea. Once the Japs realized this, it made sense to stay close in to shore whenever they could. They probably do that whether or not they think there might be a submarine somewhere around, for the little they might save by heading straight across the Yellow Sea is nothing compared to the losses they would take if just one aggressive submarine got loose in a medium-sized convoy.”

It was a regular wardroom conference, unchanged from any of the preceding ones except for ComSubPac's recent message, a copy of which lay on the table. Blunt sat silently puffing on one of his several pipes.

Richardson and Leone had spent considerable time preparing for this conference. “Keith,” said his skipper, “show the commodore that depth-of-water overlay you worked out.” Keith produced a piece of semitransparent tissue from a folder of papers. On the tissue were outlines of some of the islands and mainland sections on the larger map, and a series of carefully printed numbers in what were obviously the water areas. “Here's where it fits, sir,” said Keith, spreading out the tissue, flattening it carefully. He slid it about until his land-contour lines fitted over those on the chart.

“These figures are the depth of water taken from our own best American chart of the area. They're given in fathoms, so we converted them to meters. You'll see, sir, how close the few depths on our chart correlate to the depths the Japs have on theirs. This area being so close to their home base, the Japanese Navy made a very thorough
survey, and there's a lot more data on their chart than we have. But even though they have twenty soundings for our one, every sounding we show agrees with what they have. This means the charts must be accurate. Look what they show for the depth of water around some of these outlying islands. . . .”

The advocates talked on and on, each in turn picking up his thread of the argument.

“So, we've got to go here, Commodore,” Richardson was saying; “the Maikotsu Suido has just got to be on the track of every one of their convoys. It must be practically like highway number one through there. The water is deep for the Yellow Sea, even though it is inside the island chains, and the strong northerly current that's supposed to be there can be used to our advantage.”

Blunt took the pipe out of his mouth. “One of our best boats was in there a couple of years ago. His patrol report said this was a bad place for submarines to patrol in.” They were the first words he had said for fifteen minutes.

“I know, Commodore. That was the
Wahoo
, and it was just under two years ago. Dornin took the
Trigger
in later and said the same thing. They were the only two boats to try this spot. But it doesn't make sense that an offhand comment, even by two of our best skippers, should prevent anyone else from ever trying this area. Their fish weren't dependable then, remember. Anyway, if both boats hadn't used up all their torpedoes and left the area early, they'd probably have been back in there.”

The pipe was back in Blunt's mouth. His eyes closed wearily, his head nodded. Suddenly he jerked himself upright again. Rich and Keith looked at each other. Inadequate rest was undoubtedly part of his problem.

“We'll patrol submerged in there for a day or so, Commodore. We could tell the
Whitefish
to patrol outside and to the north. If we get a chance to stir things up in there, maybe the traffic will shift outside, not knowing there are two submarines, and we'll be able to give them a one-two punch.”

Blunt's eyes were almost glassy. He took the pipe out of his mouth again. “Nothing doing! There's something strange going on aboard this boat, Rich! While you were working out your schemes, I've got into something a lot more important. Somebody is sabotaging the hydraulic system, and I'm going to catch him at it. When I do . . .” he looked significantly down and to the right, at his right hip, patted it with a slow deliberate motion. To his consternation, Richardson realized that under the submarine jacket he had worn all day he had
buckled a gun belt, and at that very moment, in the wardroom, was armed with a holstered automatic!

A deep calm settled upon Richardson. He had hoped, by heavily involving Blunt in tactics, to divert his mind from his suspicions. The message from Admiral Small had come at just the right time. The lure of action, the necessity to concentrate upon the orders Blunt would have to give his two remaining submarines, orders which Richardson would frame for him, discuss with him, would push everything else into the background where Richardson intended the hydraulic system henceforth to remain. But obviously the scheme had failed before it had been fairly tried. Something more drastic must be done. Buck's mention of Blunt's extraordinary wakefulness had suggested another idea, a second plan which had been discarded in favor of the one he had been acting on. Now the secondary plan must be implemented. He affected not to see the gun, continued the conversation for a few minutes, excused himself temporarily. The headache resulting from the beatings he had taken on the patrol boat was returning, he said, and he needed some help for it. It was not, however, about his headaches that he was talking to the tall pharmacist's mate a few minutes later.

“Yancy,” he said, “the commodore has driven himself to the point where he's completely exhausted. Can we give him something to make him sleep for a while?” Immediately thereafter he sought out Buck Williams. As he returned to the wardroom, Williams followed him, said to the exec, “Keith, I'm going to start routining our fish up forward, but first there's a change we want to make in the procedure. Can you come up there with me for a minute, so I can show it to you?”

When Keith returned, he said shortly, “It's all right, Skipper. He's got a good idea, and I told him to go ahead.” He gave Richardson an imperceptible nod.

When the wardroom steward entered a few minutes later with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, Keith accepted only half a cup, announced that he intended to get some sleep for the next day's work, placed it untouched on the table. Richardson and Blunt took full cups. Rich sipped his only lightly, cradling the warm cup in his hands. His eyes stayed on Blunt as the latter drank his right down.

“That was just the right temperature this time,” Blunt said. “If it weren't for coffee, none of us could function.” His eyelids grew heavy, his head nodded. He jerked it upright, but again it nodded. . . . They caught him before his head struck the table. Buck Williams reappeared at the door to the wardroom, and the three officers, plus Yancy who came up from the other direction, quickly laid Blunt in his bunk.

“He was so tired, Captain, the sleeping pill hit him right away, just like I said,” said Yancy.

“How long do you figure he'll be out?”

“Maybe twelve hours. The sedative will wear off pretty soon, but he'll sleep until his system wakes him up.”

“He needs a real rest, Yancy. He ought to sleep for at least three days.”

“All we gave him was a sleeping pill, Captain. He'll wake up in about twelve hours when he has to go to the head, and besides that, he'll be hungry. If you want me to keep him out for three days, he'll have to have intravenous feeding, bedpans, the whole thing.”

Blunt was completely relaxed, sleeping peacefully. The tense look about his face had almost magically disappeared. Remorse at the liberty he had taken with his old friend and superior was already troubling Richardson. “No intravenous business,” he said. “Yancy, you watch over him, and you be here when he's awake. No matter what's going on on board ship. You got that?”

The pharmacist's mate nodded.

“When he wakes up, you be sitting right here with something to eat—you tell the cook what to fix up, and be sure you have it ready on time—and tell him he's got to rest. If he has to go to the head, get him right back in his bunk. He's so tired, he'll sleep longer if we give him a chance.”

Yancy nodded again. “Okay, sir. I'll try to keep him from getting up.”

“Keith,” said Rich, having moved across the narrow passageway to his own stateroom, “tell all the officers that I want their pistols locked up in their safes so that nobody can get them. Most of them are probably locked up already, but make sure. Buck is already securing all our small arms. I'll put the commodore's pistol here in my safe with my own gun.” He twirled the dial on the combination to the tiny safe built into his desk, pushed aside papers and various other objects, including a holstered automatic wrapped in its gun belt, squeezed Blunt's gun in. Locking the combination, he turned back to Keith. “We've got twelve hours,” he said. “How long will it take us to reach the Maikotsu Suido?”