Dust on the Sea (43 page)

“Thirteen minutes since the zig,” said Buck. “Larry and I are getting ten knots.” No one had directed him to report the minutes, but he as well as anyone was aware of the importance of catching the exact moment of the zig. The next zig would be critical.

Blunt called for the periscope, put it down again. Another range and bearing were fed into the TDC. Richardson noted approvingly that Blunt's periscope exposures were extremely short, as short as his own, nearly as short as they had been when Commander Joe Blunt of the
Octopus
, nine years ago, had so prided himself upon his ability to get a complete and accurate periscope observation in seven seconds. Intentionally, Rich had not suggested using the radar periscope. Blunt had been a past master on the attack 'scope. This approach was to be as near as he could make it to the techniques Blunt had been so good at.

At Blunt's direction, Al Dugan increased depth another foot, to sixty-five feet. In the calm water even two and a half feet of periscope might be spotted by an alert lookout as the ships drew nearer. Stafford on the sonar had been monotonously reporting the bearings of two sets of screws with no change in their steady beat.
Eel
's sonar equipment was far more acute than the older one fitted in
Octopus
. Perhaps Blunt had failed to realize that the first sign of a zig might be indicated by some variation in Stafford's reports. Perhaps a subtle hint was in order.

“Keep the sound bearings coming, Stafford,” Rich ordered, crossing over to the sonar equipment and speaking loudly so that Stafford could hear him through his heavily padded earphones. “We're expecting a zig any minute.”

Stafford nodded his comprehension, pointed to his bearing dial, shook his head to indicate no change. He answered rather loudly because of his artificial deafness, “Watch for zig, aye aye. No zig yet, sir.”

Blunt seemed not to have heard. “We'll wait another minute,” he said. He put his hand to his forehead, shut his eyes, and spanned across the bones of his temples with his thumb and fingers. The gesture, which
took only a moment, startled Richardson. The fleeting hand motion was out of character. But Blunt's next words were the right ones, the ones Richardson had been willing him to say: “How have the sound bearings been checking?” he asked.

“Right on, Captain,” said Buck. “Lagging about a quarter degree, no more.”

Blunt appeared pensive. Rich looked at him carefully, trying at the same time not to seem overly interested in his appearance. The crowded conditions in the conning tower made this, at least, fairly easy. Blunt's brow was furrowed, but this was certainly normal. Perhaps Richardson had only fancied that there had been an instant of weakness. The wolfpack commander crowded closer to the TDC, peering between the heads of Buck and Keith and effectively cutting off further inspection of his face.

In the best submarine fire control parties, few words are spoken except those absolutely necessary. Silence reigns, broken only by the ship noises conveying their own messages, the background whirring of the selsyn motors in the TDC, the muted murmur from the likewise silent control room. As far as possible, hand signals take the place of verbal communication. Words spoken take on added significance in consequence.

Suddenly, in
Eel
's conning tower, there was nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing to check. Only the slowly creeping dials on the face of the TDC to watch, or the equally slow movement of the tiny dot of light indicating
Eel
's barely perceptible progress across Larry Lasche's plotting sheet. Despite his determination, Richardson felt himself becoming nervous. It was always like this, as the target approached, but he always had in mind, also, what he would do for each of its possible maneuvers—including the possibility of no maneuver at all. But now he could not know what Blunt was thinking.

The old Blunt of
Octopus
days would have seized the opportunity to describe what he intended if the target zigged in either direction or not at all. He might even have indulged in a short discussion of the various possibilities and the likelihood of each. But that was eight years ago, during peacetime training exercises, when the only actual danger was collision with escort or target. Today, with conditions so much a carbon copy of the simplest exercise approach, there were depth charges in the escort, depth bombs in the aircraft, and men trained to use them. There was a hostile shore close at hand. Collision no longer would be solely the result of stupidity and clumsiness on the part of the submarine, and inability to avoid on the part of the target. Now it was something avidly sought by all surface ships.

The enemy freighter's zigzag pattern was such that another zig was probable any moment. Sonar would discover it by some change in the drift of the bearings or in the regular cadence of the propellers. A radical zig away, to the target's right, might produce an impossibly long range shot, or, at least, make bow tubes mandatory. A big left zig would run the target through a perfect firing position, requiring little or no maneuvering on
Eel
's part. A small zig in either direction would still allow the submarine to achieve a firing position, though a small right zig might present the greater problem. No zig at all was probably the worst of all the possibilities. Any zig carried with it at least the likelihood that there would be no further zigs for several minutes, long enough for the submarine to get in firing position and her torpedoes to complete their lethal runs.

On the other hand, if there was no zig soon,
Eel
would be forced nevertheless to begin the slow maneuver necessary to bring her stern tubes to bear. Nearly a complete course reversal would be necessary. But once additional speed was put on the boat and her rudder placed hard over, a zig would be harder to detect on sonar. Canceling the submarine's maneuver and replacing it with another would be difficult if not impossible in the time remaining. Hence the waiting, the quick, rapidly repeated observations, the rising tension.

Rich could hear the sibilant sound of water as
Eel
patiently drove through it, the hum of the ventilation blowers down below, the gentle hiss of air coming in through the vent in the overhead of the conning tower. The ship had long since been rigged for silent running and for depth charge, but the blowers had not yet been shut off. Even so, everyone in the conning tower was perspiring freely. With the crush of people—fourteen men jammed into a horizontal steel cylinder eight feet in diameter and sixteen feet long—there was nothing that could be done about it. When the ventilation blowers were finally secured and the hatch shut to the control room, the temperature in the conning tower would shoot to 120. The perspiration would increase, and so would the moisture in the air.

“Bearing one-two-eight,” announced Stafford.

“That's half a degree to the right, Captain,” said Keith. “It might be a zig to his left.”

“Up 'scope,” said Blunt. “Zig to his left,” he announced. “He's still turning. Down 'scope.” He stopped the periscope before it descended very far into the well, just far enough to get its upper extremity under water, waited about fifteen seconds, motioned for it to go back up. “Bearing, mark!” he said. “Range”—he fumbled for the range knob (strange: one's hand simply dropped to it, under the handle;
Richardson had never before noticed anyone having trouble finding it), grasped the knob, turned it—“mark!”

“Three-eight-double-oh!” read Rich from the back of the periscope as it dropped away. He was suddenly conscious of beads of perspiration on his face. The range was becoming short.

“Angle on the bow is zero,” announced Blunt.

Buck said, “That puts him on course three-one-nine. Course to head for him, one-three-nine!”

“Right full rudder! Come right to new course one-three-nine!” ordered Blunt.

“No time, Captain,” said Richardson, speaking rapidly. “He'll be here in eleven minutes. Recommend come left to zero-five-zero and pull across his track. That will set him up for a straight stern shot.”

“Guess you're right,” muttered Blunt. There was something in his voice. Some slight hesitation. Perhaps it was embarrassment.

“Rudder is right full, sir!” Cornelli sang out loudly from the other end of the conning tower.

“How's your speed check, Buck?” Blunt had moved over behind the TDC again.

“Ten knots, sir. Good speed check.”

“Captain,” said Richardson, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “rudder is right full!” For the second time there was the hand clutching the forehead, spanning over the momentarily closed eyes.

“I'm getting a turn count,” said Stafford. “One hundred ten rpm. Single screw.”

“That checks out, Captain,” said Rich, still speaking almost under his breath. “Ten turns per knot is about right.” Then, desperately, still in a loud whisper, “Don't you want to put the rudder left?” His last few words were spoken in a rush, with increased emphasis, yet a deliberate downplay of the intensity he felt rising within him.

Blunt looked puzzled, but he did not answer. That hand-to-forehead gesture again. The submarine had barely begun to swing. No time to argue the misunderstanding. “Shift the rudder!” barked Rich. “Rudder should be full left! New course, zero-five-zero!” He looked sharply at Blunt, mustering in his mind the words he would use to explain his action, to convince Blunt of the need for it. To his surprise, they were not necessary. The wolfpack commander continued his grave inspection of the dials on the face of the TDC. Not a line on his face indicated concern over any matter other than the slowly developing tactical problem there displayed. He could not be unaware of the change in the intended maneuver. Yet, by every evidence available to Richardson, the incident was as if it had never occurred.

Something unreal, unexplainable, lay just beneath the surface. Rich felt he could sense it, could perhaps understand it too, if only he could have a clue. Blunt had momentarily lost the picture; Rich, as assistant approach officer, had quite properly corrected the situation. In a training approach, things would now merely continue to the normal firing point. True, had it been an approach for submarine command qualification, the observing officers might not have passed the candidate. Richardson, acting as Blunt's assistant but actually in command, still held full responsibility for the conduct of the approach and the safety of his submarine. By correcting Blunt's error he had asserted himself as the real commander of the
Eel
. He had done it with sorrow, with hesitation. He could not understand how Joe Blunt, the man with a TDC-like mind, could possibly have lost the picture so completely. Yet, he had, indisputably. More, he had somehow failed to grasp the simple solution offered by Rich until, in perplexity, it had had to be done almost by subterfuge.

Over it all lay the appreciation that the action Richardson had to take probably had ruined his effort to rehabilitate Blunt.

But instead of an explosive misunderstanding or a petulant acceptance of what Rich had done, there was no reaction at all. There was not even any change in the expression on Blunt's face. It was as if nothing untoward had happened.

Carefully, Rich inspected his superior's face for the second time within a very few minutes. Nothing. The oldtime zest he thought he had noticed when Blunt first took over the periscope was no longer evident—the jowls were again sagging—but nothing more. Perhaps Blunt was merely covering up. After the attack was completed there would be a postmortem. There would be private discussions. That must be it. There was no time to bandy about now in argument. Blunt was sticking to the business at hand, as he should, as Richardson also should.

Eel
had barely begun to turn to starboard; now, her rudder shifted to full left, she corrected herself and was beginning, according to the TDC dials, slowly to turn to port. At this speed she would hardly get far enough off the target's track to give the torpedoes time to arm. Surely, Blunt would increase speed. Two-thirds speed would do it. Perhaps Blunt was waiting until
Eel
was more nearly around to the new course, but that made little sense because the length of time wasted in turning at slow speed would still further reduce the distance the sub would be able to attain off the track. Irresolutely, Rich waited. The “own ship” dial on the TDC showed
Eel
had turned about ten degrees; there were forty-five degrees more to turn. No move by Blunt. Strange.
Something had to be done. After all, Rich was supposed to be his assistant. He could no longer contain himself. Maybe a hint would do it. “Where's the escort, Captain?”

“Escort is still patrolling on station about one thousand yards ahead of the target. Right now he's still on the target's starboard bow, but he's beginning a swing over to the other side. He's well clear for now.”

“At this speed he'll be going by in about six minutes.” Rich was deliberately understating the time by a small fraction. “With this setup we could put sonar on him instead of the target. . . . Was that a hint of a nod from Blunt? He still stood where he had been for the past half-minute—did he mean for Rich to give the order? Abruptly, Rich swung away from the TDC, jostled his way past the crowded bodies in the conning tower to its forward end, where Stafford sat crouched before his sonar console. He lifted one of Stafford's earphones, spoke briefly, pointed to a sector of his bearing dial. The sonarman nodded his comprehension.