Dust on the Sea (41 page)

It would take careful planning, the right arguments to make to the commodore, and a considerable degree of luck to bring it off. It made no demands on anyone, except himself and Blunt, and required only a little cooperation from the enemy. It was worth a try.

Eel
dived before dawn, with the outline of a peninsula and the relatively large island directly to the west of it clear on the radar. Keith had not had time for his customary morning star sights, but these were unnecessary since the radar range on land provided an accurate position. There was still some distance to go before
Eel
could reach the position selected: in the center and deepest portion of a small body of water, roughly defined by the peninsula to the north, the outlying island to the northwest, the coast of Korea on the eastern side and, far to the south, the northernmost island of the chain demarking the Maikotsu Suido.

Richardson had gambled on his certainty that Blunt could not resist the bait if offered in the right way. Finally, a conditional acceptance in his grasp, he had managed to talk Blunt into turning in. In a short time he, too, would lie down and seek a couple of hours' rest. It had been an exhausting night with an exhausting day preceding. His knees and thigh muscles ached from the combined effect of the bruises inflicted by Moonface and his own rigorous stint on the periscope less than twelve hours before. There was still blood in his urine, and the yellow, blue, and purple bruises all over his body were still as vivid as ever. He gave careful instructions to Keith, Al, and Buck for running toward the selected spot and, once there, setting a periscope
watch. Then at last he sat on his bunk, removed his shoes, lay back with a sigh of relaxation.

Someone was pounding on the aluminum bulkhead of his stateroom alongside the green baize curtain. “You're wanted in the conning tower, Captain,” said the messenger. “Smoke on the horizon!”

He hadn't expected it this soon. He was instantly wide awake, yawning nevertheless, glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. Both hands stood straight up and down. He had been asleep—or rather, totally unconscious—for at least five hours! It was good of Keith to let him rest so long. Swiftly he pulled on his shoes, knotted the strings, stepped into the passageway, through the watertight door, around the control room table, and up the ladder into the conning tower.

“What is it, Keith?” he said, as his head came up through the hatch.

“Smoke, bearing southeast,” said the executive officer. “It's coming this way, I think.”

A quick look through the periscope showed a faint brown smudge in the indicated direction. Rich spun the periscope around rapidly, settled back to inspect the smoke one more time. Alongside him Keith said, “We're running at sixty-five feet, with only about a foot and a half of periscope out. It's almost a flat calm out here, as you can see. And so far this morning, we've seen the same airplane three times.”

Rich lowered the periscope. “What bearing?” he asked.

“To the south. Some distance away. It's patrolling, I think.”

“Good,” said Rich. “If they're patrolling south of us, it means they don't think we've come this far north.”

“I figure the same,” said Keith. “So I let the current carry us up inshore of that outlying island. We're about eighty-five hundred yards off the tip of the point now, but there's plenty of sea room north and south, and to the west. The island bears southwest, but it's out of sight unless we come up a couple of feet.”

“Good,” said Rich again. “When did you see the plane last?”

“About an hour ago. He came up from the south, turned around, and flew back.”

“Good,” said Richardson for the third time. “If we're lucky, his coverage won't extend this far to the north. Maybe there won't even be any coverage over this ship if he comes up this way.”

“That's a lot to hope for, Skipper,” grinned Keith. Then, with a more sober expression, he asked, “Are you going to try that business with Captain Blunt? Isn't this rather soon after yesterday?”

“This may be the chance. Maybe it is a little soon, but that might just be the best way.”

Another periscope observation confirmed that the source of the
smoke was approaching. Soon, several looks later, three masts could be seen.

“Send for the commodore, Keith,” said Rich, the upper part of his face still pressed into the rubber periscope eye guard. “This one is for him.”

The periscope down, Richardson gravely reached over the TDC, where, around one of the knurled knobs securing its face, the white celluloid “Is-Was” hung on a string. Only a few years ago, this and the now obsolete “banjo” had been the only fire control instruments available to a submarine. The Torpedo Data Computer had replaced it in the so-called fleet boats, of which
Eel
was one of the newer representatives. By consequence, the Is-Was had become primarily a badge of office for the assistant approach officer (usually the executive officer), whose duty it was to assure that all matters relating to the approach were properly carried out, that the check-off lists were executed on time, and that the submarine commander was instantly apprised of all the information required to bring the submarine into a successful attack position. This had, of course, been Keith's function; and Richardson himself had performed it many times in drill, first for Joe Blunt and later for Jerry Watson in the
Octopus
.

As he passed the loop of the cord attached to the Is-Was around his head he felt a curious melting away of the years. Symbolically, with the donning of the badge of office, he had traveled backward in time.

The wolfpack commander was hurrying up the ladder into the conning tower. “What is it, Rich?” he said.

“Smoke on the horizon, Captain. Bearing is one-five-oh. I think we see masts of two ships down there.” Richardson had deliberately used the old title of long-ago memories. “We've put the boat on course one-five-oh, so they're dead ahead. I've just taken a look around. There's nothing in sight on any other bearing. We're four miles off the beach, but there's plenty of sea room except to the east. The ship is obviously rounding this point of land. Also, we've sighted aircraft three times to the south this morning. It was last seen about an hour ago, evidently carrying out an antisub sweep. Estimated closest point of approach was about ten miles, and I think we're outside the limit of his search pattern. It looks like two ships up ahead, one smoking fairly heavily. The other one is smaller and is probably an escort of some kind.”

As he spoke, Richardson had been fumbling with the dials on the Is-Was, putting the setup on it. He held it out so that Blunt could see. In the meantime Keith had slipped behind them to the rear of the conning tower, where he busied himself with setting up the situation statically on the TDC, not yet turning it on.

“The periscope is on the bearing of the target, Captain,” Rich said. “It's been three minutes since the last observation.”

The inference was too strong, the hint too obvious, the playing of the role too natural and direct. Almost instinctively, and obviously without giving it any analysis other than that the situation seemed to call for, Blunt gave the order which was so strongly indicated. “Up periscope,” he said.

Richardson arranged himself on the opposite side of the periscope, squatting on his heels, flipped the handles down when it came out of the well, carefully kept his hands well inside the control ends of the periscope handles. Almost from reflex action, Blunt also squatted down, put his hands on the outer ends of the control handles as Rich flipped them into position, fixed his eye to the eyepiece, and rose with it to a standing position.

“Masts in line,” said Blunt. “One escort. Bearing, mark! Main target!” Swiftly he spun the periscope completely around, snapped up the handles. It disappeared into the well. “Angle on the bow zero, estimated range twelve thousand,” said Blunt. “I can just see the tops of his bridge. He's belching occasional clouds of black or brown smoke. A single escort patrolling ahead.”

“Anything else in sight, sir?” said Rich.

“No. I took a look around. All clear. No aircraft in sight.”

“Captain, we have two fish left forward, and a full set of tubes aft. Recommend we try for a stern tube shot.”

Blunt's face suddenly looked younger as he curtly acknowledged the information. “At fifteen knots, how long will it take them to get here?” he asked.

A ship making fifteen knots goes 1500 yards in three minutes, or 500 yards in one minute. Rich was accustomed to making the calculation. “Twenty-four minutes, Captain,” he said. “But he's probably not going that fast, and he's probably zigging besides. At twelve knots it will take him a half hour to get here. We're moving toward him at two knots, however, so if we don't maneuver, it will cut the time down by about four minutes.”

Keith had started up the TDC. The familiar whirring filled the conning tower, receded into the background of their notice. Blunt and Richardson crowded into the after part of the conning tower with Keith to look at it.

“It sure was a good idea to move this thing up here,” said Blunt. “I never did know what you fellows were doing with it down in the control room.”

“Doing our best to keep up with you up here in the conning tower,
Skipper,” said Rich. “Remember those letters you used to write recommending it be moved to where the approach officer could also see it? Well, now it's been done, and you've got one. Shall I sound the general alarm, sir?”

“Time since the last look?” rasped Blunt.

“Two minutes.”

“I'll take another look first. Up 'scope.”

Rich could see the habit of command returning, the practiced skill of the consummately perfect approach officer which he had been, lying dormant all these years through disuse, now, palpably, returning undiminished.

The periscope handles came up; the same routines. “Bearing, mark!” snapped Blunt. “No zig. Down scope! Angle on the bow still zero!”

Richardson had his hand on the general alarm switch box, was looking at Blunt. This was almost like one of the old drills in the
Octopus
. He had done it so many times just this way. “Sound the general alarm,” said Blunt. He cranked the toggle.

As the notes of the general alarm gong resounded throughout the ship, Richardson said, “We're pretty deep, Captain. Do you think we could get a stadimeter range if we brought her up a couple of feet?”

“Let's try,” said Blunt. “What's the ordered depth?”

“Six-five feet. That's only a foot and a half of periscope out of water.”

“Very well,” said Blunt. He crossed to the control room hatch, stood aside to let Buck Williams scramble up, peered down. Al Dugan was just arriving at his station. “Make your depth six-two feet,” he said.

“Six-two feet, aye aye!”

The depth gauge needle in the conning tower began to creep upward, settled at the new depth. In the meantime men had come jumping out of their bunks, tumbling up the ladder from the control room, manning their stations. It was all so familiar to Richardson. The crews of
Eel
and
Walrus
had done it all so many times before. So had the
Octopus
crew. Though the locale was slightly different because
Octopus
was an older boat, nevertheless the action was so very much the same. “The boat is manned and ready,” he reported. “One minute since the last observation. Recommend a quick look around during the next observation.”

Blunt nodded. “Estimated range?” he demanded.

“Using fifteen knots I'm reading one-oh-five-double-oh yards, Captain,” said Keith, “but all I've got is an estimate to start it on. Buck is taking over the TDC.”

Richardson was glad to see Keith also falling into the scenario.

“I'll take a quick look around, then drop the 'scope on the bearing. When I run it up again we'll go for a stadimeter range. Are you ready, Rich?”

“Ready,” said Rich and Buck almost simultaneously.

“Very well. Up periscope!”

The Old Man will have aching leg muscles tonight, thought Richardson, but he's spinning that thing around just the way he used to. The thought warmed him, reinforced him in the correctness of his decision. He centered the periscope dead ahead as Blunt snapped the handles up, squatted on his heels before it as it went down, watched Blunt's face. When he saw the command in the eyes under the shaggy eyebrows, he signaled abruptly for it to be stopped.

“I can see the top of his superstructure,” said Blunt. “Use masthead height forty feet, from the tip of his mast to the top of his stack.”

“Ready,” said Rich.

“Up 'scope,” said Blunt. “Bearing, mark! It's a zig.” Swiftly he turned the range-finder wheel. “Range, mark!” Richardson followed the indicator dial with his eyes and his finger. The periscope handles were up. The 'scope was on its way down.

“Nine-six-double-oh!” said Rich.

“Left full rudder,” barked Blunt. “All ahead standard! A zig to his right. Angle on the bow is port thirty.”

“Distance to the track is forty-eight hundred,” said Rich. “You caught him right on the point of the zig.” He was turning the dials of the Is-Was as he spoke. “Normal approach course zero-six-one,” he said. “Target bears one-five-one. Recommend we split the difference and steady on one-zero-six. Looks like he really means to hug the coast. We can't run long on this course. Neither can he, really!”