Dust on the Sea (34 page)

So must it have been during those last terrible moments in
Chicolar
, when awareness of the sacrifice to be exacted was replaced by the cataclysmic inrush of water which compressed the air with an ear-bursting blow, increased the temperature to unbearable height, and swept all before it into extinction.

“The normal approach course is two-seven-five,” said Buck.

“Steady on course two-five-oh,” snapped Richardson. He crowded over alongside Buck and Keith, looked at the TDC. “We don't have to go all the way over to the normal approach course,” he said. “The range is still well open. How long will we have to run to get to two thousand yards on this course?”

“That's about a two-mile run—a little more. Let's see, at full speed, eight knots—that's two hundred-sixty-six yards a minute—it'll take us about fifteen minutes.”

“Too long,” said Richardson. “I've got to get a look before then. Keith, are they getting a bathythermograph reading?”

“Yep. There's a new card in the gadget.”

“Okay. Tell them to take another single ping sounding when we get down to two hundred feet. We'll run about eight minutes at this speed and then come back up.”

“That'll put us just about four thousand yards off the track, Skipper, a little farther maybe,” said Buck.

“Fine,” said Rich. “Keith, we might as well go ahead and rig for depth charge and silent running now. Get everything buttoned down tight.”

“Okay, sir, but can we leave the hatch open and ventilation on for a while more? Besides, we might want better communication with Al. . . .”

The connng tower had only a supply ventilator. The return was through the hatch. Closing the hatch would not only isolate him from direct communication with Al Dugan—forcing reliance on telephones—it would stop the flow of air as effectively as shutting off the supply. Rigging for maximum security this far ahead of need was only a precaution. Keith's suggestion would mean a great deal for the comfort and efficiency of the fourteen men jammed into the conning tower, as well as the rest of the crew. “All right. We can hold off on the ventilation for a while.”

Keith gave the necessary instructions. Suddenly Richardson had nothing to do.
Eel
tore on through the water at an unaccustomed rate. He could feel the hull trembling with the water passage. There were some small vibrations topside. A little unnecessary noise, a drumming of some portion of the bridge structure. Perhaps it was the lookouts' new platform and rails. These would have to be inspected carefully next time they had a chance, he thought.

“How much time?” he asked.

“We've been running four minutes, Skipper,” said Buck. “Four minutes to wait.”

Rich could feel his blood pressure gradually mounting, his pulse increasing. Below he could hear the watertight doors being closed, various men moving about. With the doors closed and dogged it was forbidden to change from one part of the ship to another except in emergency, so anticipated moves were being made now.

“How long we been running?”

“Five minutes, Captain; three minutes more to run.”

His palms were itching. He had forgotten about the pain in his knees and thigh muscles. Now the aches were evident again. He waited an interminable length of time, moved over behind Buck and Keith to watch the slowly moving dials of the face of the TDC.

“We've been running seven minutes, Captain,” said Keith.

“All ahead one-third,” Rich called out. “Control, make your depth five-eight feet.”

The annunciators clinked in the forward part of the conning tower as Cornelli executed the order. Gently
Eel
's deck inclined upward. The drumming of the superstructure stopped.

“You get the BT card?” asked Richardson. “And what was the depth of water?”

“We got a seventy-five-foot reading at two hundred feet, Captain,” said Keith, answering the last question first. “They're putting the BT card in the fixer now. We'll have it up here in a minute.”

There was someone coming up the ladder from the control room. Blunt. Behind him, gesticulating helplessly, the lanky pharmacist's mate took two steps up the ladder and stopped, head framed in the opening, silently signaling his failure. Now Rich cursed the weakness which had allowed him to accede to Keith's request regarding the hatch and ventilation. Better to be sweltering in peace than cope with an erratic superior, especially during an approach! That solution was now irrevocably gone. No time to toady to the squadron commander's unpredictable states of mind. No time to consider, or evaluate, the sudden dismay communicating itself to the area just below his own diaphragm. Play the game out. Pretend his appearance had not been greeted with hastily concealed startlement. Hearty greeting. “How are you feeling, Commodore?” No sign of the deep unease awakened by his sudden appearance.

“Fine, Rich, I never slept so well in my life, but what was the pharmacist's mate doing? Why didn't you call me? He tried to keep me from turning out. Did you send him?”

“Well, frankly”—calm tone, get over this part quickly—“I told him to see what he could do for you. You've been looking a little peaked lately.”

Blunt was about to say something, but Richardson went on, a little hurriedly, as if he had not noticed. “We've got a convoy of four ships up there, Commodore, with four escorts. I'm hoping to shoot bow and stern tubes. Also, we're going to be in for a depth charging, sir. It'll be pretty uncomfortable up here in the conning tower after we shut off the ventilation, so I recommend you move back to the control room when that time comes. . . .” Handling the ship in combat was Richardson's sole responsibility. Best signal his intent to exercise it.

“All right, Rich,” said Blunt, “just give me a minute to get down the hatch when you give the word.” There was a degree of truculence in his manner. Perhaps he felt he should have been informed as soon as the enemy ships were sighted. Surely in his state of extreme drowsiness the previous night, he had not suspected the sleeping potion which had finally enabled his body's craving for sleep to be satisfied. Probably he did not yet realize that, in contravention to his last expressed wishes, while he had been sleeping the
Eel
had entered the Maikotsu Suido, nor that coordination instructions had been sent to the
Whitefish
in his name. Hopefully, his long sleep might have restored some of his oldtime equilibrium. But of this Richardson could not yet judge. There was no time to make an evaluation. The ship was about to go into mortal danger, would be under determined attack by four fully aroused escorts in half an hour. There would be one chance, only a single quick
opportunity, to fire torpedoes at the convoy. Even this would exist only if prior detection could be avoided.

If all went well, the first announcement of the presence of a submarine would be the crash of lethal explosions against the steel sides of enemy cargo ships. With four ships in the convoy, and four close escorts, not to mention probable air cover, only consummate skill would make possible an attack on all. He would have only ten torpedoes to shoot. From that moment on,
Eel
would become the subject of a relentless search by at least two, and perhaps all four, vengeful tincans. If she could remain at periscope depth there was the possibility that a modicum of the initiative might yet remain with her. The probability, on the other hand, was that she would be driven deep, or as deep as the shallow Yellow Sea would permit, there reduced to a sea-mole, blind, wandering through the watery wasteland, fearing every change in enemy propeller cadence, every shift in echo-ranging scale, as the precursor of the depth charge attack that would have
Eel
's name on it.

He would need every faculty, every capability, every intuitive sense, if he was to guide his ship and crew safely through the ordeal into which he was leading them. A querulous superior who held no responsibility for the operation of the ship, nor for the conduct of the approach and attack, could not be tolerated. He would have to be put aside even if strong methods became necessary.

Blunt was still in the forward end of the conning tower, several feet away. Richardson crowded over behind the TDC, alongside Keith and Buck Williams. “Keith,” he hissed, “when I tell you, run down to the control room and get hold of Yancy. Tell him that if I send him a message to take charge I mean to take charge of Captain Blunt with as many men as he needs, and get him back in his bunk asleep in whatever way he has to do it.” Keith nodded his understanding. “Don't go until I tell you to,” he finished.

Keith nodded again.

“What's the distance to the track now?” Richardson said, resuming his normal voice.

“Forty-two hundred,” said Buck.

“Range?”

“I'm showing—mark!—ninety-two hundred yards.”

“Speed through water?”

“Own speed—three and a half knots coming down slowly.”

“Depth?” demanded Richardson.

“We're at ordered depth, sir,” said Keith. “Depth is five-eight feet. You haven't looked around yet. . . .”

“Keith, I want that bathythermograph card,” said Richardson, putting special emphasis in the words. “Jump on down and see what's holding them up. Get it and bring it back up here yourself.” There was an understanding look in Keith's eyes as he ran below.

“Stand by for an observation,” said Richardson. “Radar periscope—we'll use the fast procedure again for our next range, Scott, but this time I want you to stop it at the deck and bring it up slowly until we break water. I want to get a look around first.” Scott and Rogers nodded their comprehension.

“Up 'scope,” said Richardson. The periscope came up, stopped with the handles just clear of the bottom of the well. On his knees, Rich extended them, bent over, his chin on the floor, to look through the 'scope. “Up a little,” he said, motioning with his thumbs, “up a little more, that's high!” He extended his right hand palm down over the handles. Swiftly he rotated the periscope completely around, bouncing on his haunches much as a cossack sword dancer might have done, his torso and head contorted to look through the eyepiece. He made two complete circles. “All clear for now,” he said, turning around to the port bow. “Here they are. Bearing, mark!” He flipped up the handles and pointed downward with his thumbs. The periscope started down into the well.

“Two-nine-six relative,” said Scott, who had moved to the periscope in Keith's place to read the azimuth ring.

Richardson made a sudden horizontal cutting motion with the palms of both hands. Quin, still wearing the telephone headset, had taken Scott's place at the periscope hoist controls and stopped the periscope's descent.

“I think there's a plane up there,” said Richardson. “No point in leaving the 'scope up too long. Now we'll go for the radar range. Everybody ready?” Quin and Rogers nodded.

“Bring her all the way up, Quin, until you hear Rogers sing out ‘Range,' then drop it immediately. Don't worry about me. You got that?” Quin had seen the procedure many times in drill, and only moments ago again, this time for real. He nodded his understanding.

“Up periscope.” The handles were up quickly this time, since the periscope had been stopped before it had reached the bottom of the well. It rose up . . .

“Range!” shouted Rogers. The 'scope started down. Richardson stepped clear.

“Eight-seven-five-oh. Good range,” said Rogers.

Buck was twirling one of the control cranks on the front of the TDC. “That was down four hundred yards,” he said, “but I was right on in bearing.”

“Good. No zig yet. Angle on the bow is starboard thirty-five.”

“Should be starboard thirty-four,” said Buck. “Four hundred yards' range difference in eight minutes. That's about one and a half knots. That puts the speed up to sixteen knots.” Carefully he turned a third knob on the TDC controls.

“Distance to the track?”

“Four thousand three hundred. Ten minutes since the last zig.”

Another interminable wait. “Three minutes since the last look,” said Williams.

“We'll make a very fast observation this time, just to check things,” decided Richardson. “Fast procedure again. . . . Ready?” Nods of assent. “Up 'scope!”

The 'scope came up. “Range!” shouted Rogers.

“Zig toward!” barked Richardson. It slithered away, the hoist rod knob on the side of the periscope yoke barely grazing his forehead. He would have to be a little more agile next time, or risk a lump on his head.

“Seven thousand yards!”

“Three-zero-zero!”

“They've just zigged,” said Richardson. “Only the leading ship has turned. Angle on the bow is starboard fifteen.”

“Starboard fifteen,” repeated Buck, cranking another one of the handles. “That was about a twenty-five-degree zig to his right. Range was down another hundred. That gives us seventeen knots. Maybe they've increased speed. These guys are really pouring on the coal!” Again, he carefully and precisely adjusted his “target speed” control knob.

“I can't see the water line yet, but it does seem to me they're making pretty good speed.” Richardson turned to the radar operator. “Think we can go a little deeper, Rogers?”