Dust on the Sea (42 page)

“Make your new course one-zero-six,” ordered Blunt in a very precise tone.

“One-zero-six, aye aye,” responded Cornelli, who had taken his station on the helm.

“Was that a good range, Captain?” asked Rich.

“Yes, good range.”

Buck said, “He's either going faster, or the initial range was less. I've been using fifteen knots on the TDC.”

“I don't think he's making as much as fifteen knots. Probably the initial range estimate was too high,” Blunt said crisply. “Maybe it's a smaller ship than we figured.”

“Using twelve knots then, sir. Recommend another observation at three minutes more for the first speed check.”

“Can't do it,” said Rich; “we're making too much speed.”

“I'll take a look at six minutes,” said Blunt. “When should I take the speed off her?”

“We'll have finished our turn, but we'll only have been up to speed for about three minutes, Captain. If he zigs away again, that might put us out in left field,” said Rich, “but it's not likely with him already so close to shore.” He had made the identical speech to Blunt many times during the practice approaches of years past.

“How long was he on the previous course?” asked Blunt.

“This was the first zig we've seen,” replied Rich. “About twelve minutes after first sighting.”

“Very well, I'll run for nine minutes. I want to get on the track anyhow to be in shape for a stern tube shot. We'll still be seven thousand yards off the beach. Tell the diving officer I will use a backing bell to get the way off her quickly.”

Richardson crossed to the control room hatch, squatted down, relayed the instructions to Al Dugan, who had mounted partway up the ladder. “No sweat,” said Al, “but don't let speed drop below two knots, okay? . . . Is the commodore making the approach all the way in?” The last portion of his speech was made in a much lower tone, intended only for Richardson's ears.

“Yes. He deserves it after all these years in the boats.” Rising, Richardson strode back to the after part of the conning tower, where Blunt had crowded in behind Buck and Keith. “Dugan has the word about backing down, sir,” said Rich; “he asks we not reduce speed below two knots so he won't lose depth control.” Blunt, concentrating with absorbed interest upon the dials of the TDC, nodded shortly. “Should we pass the word to the ship's company what's going on, sir? Would you like to do it, or shall I?”

“You do it,” Blunt said, not taking his eyes away from the face of the TDC.

“Now hear this,” said Richardson into the general announcing system microphone. “We have a single ship up here with one escort. No sign of air coverage. Weather is calm, visibility excellent. Captain Blunt is making the approach, and we plan to shoot stern tubes if possible. He was my skipper on the old
Octopus
, which was lost just at the start of the war, and he was the man who qualified me in submarines. This is one for our old ship and our old shipmates.” He paused a moment, was about to hang the microphone back on its hook, changed his mind. “There is a single escort patrolling ahead. We will rig for depth charge, and probably go to silent running just before making the attack.” He replaced the microphone in its bracket, checked his watch as he rejoined the group behind the TDC.

“Five minutes since the last look,” said Buck. “We're showing thirty-nine hundred yards to the track now.”

“What should the range be after nine minutes?”

Blunt was obviously making the calculations in his own head at the same time as he asked the questions. The lightning approximation of critical distances and angles was one of the most valued of submarine approach techniques, nurtured from years of practice. At the same time, one always demanded the answers from one's approach party, partly for training and partly to guard against any possible error or misunderstanding. The two requirements had evolved into a habit cultivated by all submariners. Richardson could almost see the wheels turning inside the minds of both Buck and Keith as he also made the calculation. Nine minutes at six knots would be 1,800 yards for
Eel
, but since part of the time had been spent turning and speeding up, 1,400 yards would be a better estimate.
Eel
was making seven-tenths of that distance good toward the target: a thousand yards. At twelve knots the target had time to cover 3,600 yards, about 85 percent of it effective toward shortening the range. Say 3,100 yards, plus the thousand
Eel
would be traveling toward her. After nine minutes the range would be reduced by about 4,100 yards.

“About fifty-five hundred if he's making twelve knots,” said Buck.

Keith nodded. “About the same,” he said.

“Fifty-six hundred by plot,” said Lasche.

A gratified look played about the corners of Blunt's mouth. Richardson nodded also. “I'd make it fifty-seven hundred, Captain, allowing a little more for our maneuvers,” he said. “But not many old Jap freighters make twelve knots.”

“Well, the big ones can,” said Blunt, “and that convoy yesterday made seventeen. But you're right. This fellow is medium size, and he's sending up a lot of smoke. What will the range be if he's making ten knots?”

It was almost like one of the old drills with Blunt, the skipper and at the same time the training officer, examining his younger trainees. The speed difference—two knots, or 200 yards every three minutes for nine minutes. “About sixty-two hundred yards,” said three voices at once.

“Seven minutes since last look,” said Buck, reading the timer dial on his TDC.

“All stop.” The annunciators clicked. “All back one-third.” They clicked again.

Keith was checking the “own-ship” speed dial on the TDC. “We
were right on seven knots,” he said after a moment. “It's dropping slowly now.” There was a long wait. “Six knots,” said Keith. Another long wait. Richardson could feel tension mounting. The approach was being made by the book. The tactics were exactly right, but a long run toward the track without observation was risky in case the target maneuvered in the meantime. On the other hand, they had caught her just at the turn of the zig. Most zigs lasted at least six minutes, generally longer, and the target had been observed to be on the previous leg of the zig for a much longer period than this. But one never knew what might happen up above. “Five knots,” said Keith.

“All back two-thirds.”

“Eight minutes since last look.”

The range, according to the TDC, was approaching 5,800 yards. It would, of course, be far more accurate than the mental calculations, since
Eel
's own course and speed were automatically integrated into the solution. The information as to target speed and course were, by contrast, derived from observation. They were the critical factors. The machine would only solve according to the information put into it.

The drumming of water through the superstructure, of which Richardson had been only subconsciously aware, was reducing. This was always the hardest moment: to make the decisions, to be confident they were the right decisions, and yet to have to wait for them to work out; to know that while judgments were right they could easily be overturned by unanticipated events. For the second time he ran over the check-off list pasted to the side of the TDC. Keith, he noticed, had been doing the same thing. The torpedoes were ready, the depth was set, all necessary data for the patrol report was being recorded. The fathometer had been turned on for a moment, barely long enough to confirm that the depth of water was as shown on the chart. It was not yet time to fire; consequently the outer doors on the torpedo tubes were still closed. The ship had not maneuvered into the firing position, was still on the approach phase. There was much to be done before they could shoot, and a lot would depend upon what the target, unseen for nine minutes, and not yet seen at all (except the masts) by Rich or anyone except Blunt, would do.

“Four knots,” said Keith.

“Eight and a half minutes,” said Buck. “Range by TDC five-six-double-oh.”

Eel
's speed through the water was dropping rapidly now.

“Eight minutes forty-five seconds,” from Buck.

“Speed three knots.”

“All stop!” barked Blunt. He waited a moment, then ordered, “All ahead one-third.”

There were two sets of clinks from the annunciators at the forward end of the conning tower, then Cornelli's voice, “Answered all ahead one-third.”

From below, up through the conning tower hatch, came Al Dugan calling, “Steady on ordered depth, six-two feet.”

“Up periscope,” said Blunt.

“Nine minutes,” said Buck. “Right on.”

“Speed two and a quarter knots,” said Keith.

“What should the target bear?” asked Blunt. He had arranged himself so that when the periscope came up he would be facing about twenty degrees to the right of dead ahead.

“Should bear one-four-three true, zero-three-seven relative.”

“Put me on it,” rasped Blunt. The 'scope was coming up. Rich grabbed the handles, swung them around to the indicated bearing as Blunt applied his forehead to the rubber buffer, rode it up.

“There they are—no zig, bearing, mark!”

“Zero-three-nine,” said Keith, peering at the azimuth circle at the top of the periscope.

“Range—use seventy feet—mark! Down 'scope.” Blunt slapped up the handles, stepped back.

Rich rode the periscope down on the opposite side, reading the dials as it went, pulling his head clear just in time to avoid being struck by the heavy yoke as it descended into the well. “Six-three-double-oh,” he said.

“That was a good range,” said Blunt. “He hasn't zigged yet. Angle on the bow still port thirty. . . .”

“Should be thirty-three,” said Buck from his TDC.

“Good,” said Blunt. “What speed does that give us?”

“That checks at eleven knots,” said Buck.

“I make it ten and a half knots,” said Larry Lasche from his plot.

“Was that a good range, sir?” asked Rich. “Could you see his waterline?

“Excellent range,” said Blunt. “I could see his waterline clearly. He's riding low on the water. There's just a little of his red boot topping showing. It's an old freighter, probably coal-burning.”

“Can we run a little deeper, sir?”

“Yes, make your depth six-four feet,” commented Blunt. “I want to catch him on the zig. He should be zigging any minute now. How long since we looked?”

“Mark—one minute. Ten minutes since last zig.”

The short clipped sentences must have been musical to Blunt's once finely tuned ears. They were to Richardson's. Everything was clicking into place. This was just the way it should be.

“Recommend another look around, Captain,” said Rich. “Also take a look for aircraft over the target.”

“I want to catch him on the zig,” worried Blunt. “Right, I'll take a quick look around for aircraft. Stand by for an observation. Time?”

“Coming up two minutes!”

“Up periscope.” He grabbed it, spun it around quickly, steadied on the target. “Bearing, mark!” he said. The 'scope slithered away.

“Zero-three-six,” said Rich.

“No zig yet,” said Blunt. “Nothing in sight except land to the east.”

“Did you check for aircraft, sir?”

“Yes. No aircraft in sight.”

“How about the escort?”

“Escort is patrolling ahead and is well clear on the target's far bow. It's a small ship, about like one of our PC sub chasers.”

“Not one of those we saw yesterday?” asked Rich.

“No. Smaller. He's patrolling on station. I'll keep my eye on him.”

“One minute since the last look,” said Buck.

“Up periscope! Observation,” barked Blunt.

“Bearing, mark!”

“Zero-three-five.”

“No zig yet. Range”—he turned the range knob—“mark!”

“Five thousand!” said Rich as the periscope dropped away.

“How long now since the zig?” asked Blunt.

“Twelve minutes.”

“Distance to the track?”

“Two-seven-double-oh yards.”

“I've got to get in there,” said Blunt, “but I don't dare run over there right now with a zig due to come any minute. Besides we've got to get pretty much on the track in order to swing for a decent stern tube shot.”

“There's still plenty of time, Captain,” said Rich. “A zig must be about due. As soon as he steadies up on his new course we can put our head down and run for a firing position.”

“Right,” said Blunt. “But it will be just our luck to have an airplane show up just when I want to increase speed.”

“No need to worry about a plane seeing us under water, Captain. The sea is too dirty. All we have to be careful of is kicking up a wake at the wrong time. Dropping down to a hundred feet or so before speeding up might be a good idea if the patrol plane comes back.” Richardson
wanted badly to ask for a look himself, but refrained. Such a request, a natural one from a sub skipper supervising a junior officer's approach during training, would in this case be interpreted as an assertion of his prerogative as the real captain of the submarine. It might destroy the atmosphere he had been so successful in creating up to now. Instead, he must content himself with formation of a mental picture and with insinuating into Blunt's consciousness, as any proper assistant approach officer should, such maneuvers as he might think necessary.