The Final Storm (6 page)

He fought to breathe through the thick hot air, felt the pounding in his chest, that perfect moment coming very soon, the
opportunity
. He looked toward Gordon, who moved close.

“Aft torpedo tubes loaded and ready, awaiting your order.”

“Wait for it, Gordy.”

“Sir.”

He thought of the aft torpedo room, knew there was silent chaos there, some of the men sleeping in the bunks, packed in around the torpedoes. They’re awake now, that’s for certain. With the order for silent running, he knew the officers would have spread all through the ship, that even the sleeping day shift would be aroused with urgency, no chance of a loud cough, no chance a man would drop something from his bedding.

The heat was increasing, driving the captain’s temper, and he stared hard at Gifford, no change, his breathing in hard, short punches. The captain did the same, thought, please don’t be too damn clever, you Jap bastard. Gifford caught his eye, gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Good, very damn good, he thought. He leaned close to the TDC operator, the man staring hard at the gauges.

“Got him?”

“Got him, sir. If he maintains course, he’ll be dead astern in no more than thirty seconds.”

If he maintains course
.

The cold chill ran through him, a stab in his stomach. He made one more glance toward Gifford, who stared back at him, sweat on the man’s face. Steak dinner for you, kid. He turned to Gordon, who held the intercom phone in his hand, no need for quiet now.

“Fire one.”

He heard the telltale swish from the tube in the stern.

“Fire two.”

He caught motion from Gifford, the sonar man hearing their own torpedoes, tearing the earphones from his head, and the captain nodded, thought, smart. We’re awfully damn close. He thought of the stopwatch in his pocket, no, we’ll know pretty quick … the sub suddenly rocked hard, a shock wave that seemed to roll her over to one side. He fell against the pipe railing of the periscope station, saw others staggering, some tumbling from their seats, reaching for pipes and bulkheads, scrambling back to their positions. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, ignored it, the sub still
rolling like a slow-motion bucking horse, gradually righting itself. Gordon pulled himself upright, had blood on his face, and the captain ignored him, moved close beside Gifford, shouted, “Earphones! Anything moving?”

The young man obeyed, the captain watching him, aching with the tick of long seconds. Then Gifford removed the earphones, said, “Nothing, sir. He’s gone.” Gifford seemed to grasp the meaning of his own words, the others as well, fists pumping, backslaps, and the captain said, “Stand down from silent running.”

He looked toward Gordon, who wiped blood from a wound to his scalp, said, “You okay, Gordy?”

The exec nodded, no explanation necessary. Every crewman knew the sub was one dangerous obstacle course, especially if you lost your footing.

He reached for the intercom.

“Dive control. Take her up. I wanna see some oil.”

The order was given, and beneath his feet in the control room, the helmsman responded, the crew going through the routine again, the sub’s bow tilting upward. After a full minute the signal came from the dive officer, and he climbed up, spun the wheel on the hatch, pushed it open through a light shower of salt water. He shielded his eyes from the burst of new sunlight, climbed up quickly. Behind him there was a clattering of activity, gunner’s mates coming up right behind him, more of the routine, the men who would man the smaller deck guns and the anti-aircraft guns close to the conning tower. He stood upright on the bridge, sucked in a lungful of cool fresh air, the wetness in his shirt cool and sticky. He peered out to stern, nothing but dark blue ocean, wide soft swells, the sun just above the horizon to the east. He grabbed the microphone.

“Right full rudder. Reverse course. Ahead slow.”

“Aye, sir. Right full rudder, reversing course, ahead slow.”

The sub began to turn, and he saw it now, a spreading stain, the glistening sheen of oil on the surface, streams of bubbles. He raised his own binoculars, scanned the water’s surface, saw pieces of debris. Direct hit, he thought. Busted her all to hell. He glanced at the compass, thought of the merchant ship, gone as well, a debris field a mile out beyond the oil. We should check that out too, see what we can find. Could be survivors.

“Exec to the bridge.”

He knew Gordon was anxious for the order to come topside, to see it for himself. In seconds the executive officer was up beside him, scanning out with his own binoculars.

“Not a thing, Captain. Just junk. Holy mackerel. He never knew what hit him.”

The captain leaned both hands on the steel rail of the bridge.

“Wrong, Gordy. He knew exactly what hit him.”

Gordon looked at him, and the captain saw the bloody handkerchief held against the wound, the smiling face. Gordon said, “Pretty good day, eh, Skipper? Two for the price of one.”

The captain said nothing, could see the second debris field more clearly now. Other men were coming up into the morning coolness, the rescue teams, led by another of the lieutenants. It was routine after a sinking, men spreading along the sub’s deck fore and aft, searching for life rafts or someone in the water. Beside him, Gordon said, “This calls for a hell of a party, Skipper. A merchant
and
a warship. Can’t get much better than that.”

Gordon’s words sank into him, and he tried to find the thrill, to share the lieutenant’s enthusiasm. But there was a strange emptiness, unexpected, overpowering the man’s excitement.

“Yeah, I guess. Give the crew some extra dessert tonight. Whatever.”

“You okay, Skipper?”

“Yeah, sure. Two quail in one bag. Gotta love that.”

“You don’t sound like you love it.”

He kept his stare on the oil slick.

“Haven’t sunk a sub before.” He kept the rest to himself, the odd change in his mood. Merchant ships never gave me a minute’s thought. Sinking
steel
, that’s all. Tonnage, equipment, supplies,
numbers
. Never gave much of a crap about the crews.

“Oh, hell, Skipper, you got a warship! We’ll be bragging about this one!”

“Maybe. Yeah, fine.”

“You thinking about … the crew, Skipper? Hell, they’re just Japs. Just ’cause they were on a submarine …”

“That’s why they matter, Gordy. This one wasn’t about steel and the junk it takes to fight a war. That could have been us. Nothing but an oil slick.”

Below him, on the deck, a voice called up.

“Nothing to report, Captain. Just bits of cargo and timbers. Looks like she went down with all hands.” The captain nodded, said, “Bring your boys back up. Let’s get under way.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gordon said, “With your permission, sir, I’ll go below. Cook should have some breakfast ready about now. The crew deserves a toast, even if it’s just bad coffee.” The captain stood aside as the rescue teams came up onto the bridge, the men filing down through the hatch. Gordon began to follow, said, “Lieutenant Green is on first watch. I’ll send him up. Breakfast, Skipper?”

“In a minute. Go on below. Tell helm, resume course zero three zero, maintain twelve knots. Double-check the torpedo count, fore and aft. We need to keep hunting.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gordon disappeared, and the captain was alone now. The morning was cool, the breeze light, the sub rocking gently through the long, deep swells. He kept his eye on the oil slick, thought, nice try, Captain. You almost pulled it off. I was careless, cocky, all ready to gloat about one more great victory, sending some piece of junk merchant ship to the bottom. You were counting on that, weren’t you? Smart enough to know I might be careless. I should have listened to sonar. Gifford knew you were there, knew there were two ships. I won’t make that mistake again.

He couldn’t shake the thoughts of his friend Beaumont, the
Tang
. Maybe he never knew what hit him either. Best way to go. Best way for any of us. He saw a man coming up through the hatch, another of his officers, Green, followed by a crewman.

“I have the watch, sir. Lieutenant Gordon said to tell you that breakfast is in your mess.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

“Good shooting this morning, sir. We nailed those bastards but good.”

“Yep. Good shooting.”

He made one more glance toward the oil slick, knew that he would not forget this. The curses were always there, the insults,
Nip bastards, Jap sons of bitches
. Yeah, maybe, he thought. They’re the enemy and we hate their guts.
No good Jap but a dead Jap
. But that one was a sub captain, and he was sharp, and if he’d had better equipment …

He turned away, moved toward the hatch, thought, lucky for all of us, he won’t be around to try that again.

G
UAM
—
H
EADQUARTERS
, C
IN
CP
AC
 (C
OMMANDER IN
C
HIEF
, P
ACIFIC
)
 M
ARCH
20, 1945

H
e took careful aim, squeezed off a round, the .45 jumping in his hand. He squinted, could see the impact on the target, a small hole just right of center. He aimed again, fired one more round, the small hole punched square on the paper target’s crosshairs. He turned, glanced toward his Marine guard with a self-satisfied smile.

“Sixty years old, dammit. Eyes like a hawk. Anybody feel like taking the old man on?”

The Marines knew the routine, their sergeant offering a polite smile.

“Thank you, sir, but my men don’t get their pay for another three days. I can’t have any of them coming to me for a loan because the admiral’s cleaned their pockets.”

Nimitz turned again to the target, smiled, had heard that answer before. He thought of refilling the pistol’s clip, but the heat was stifling, even the late afternoon cloud cover not enough to hold back another day of sweating misery. He glanced up, saw no sign of rain, shook his head, said aloud, “Another scorcher. And this is supposed to be spring. I really don’t want to suffer through this place in July.”

There was no response from the Marines, the eight men who followed
him everywhere he went. It was the standard procedure, handpicked bodyguards, the best security force Nimitz could imagine. On Hawaii there hadn’t really been much of a need for this kind of security, other than protection from the most pesky of newspapermen, or the occasional GI, fueled by a little too much liquor, who had decided that airing his grievances straight into the face of the highest-ranking officer available might be a good idea. Even at Pearl Harbor, Nimitz hadn’t seen much of that, the Marine guards more brutally effective at their job than they would want him to witness.

He holstered the pistol, wiped a handkerchief across his brow, turned again to the Marines. He had tried to memorize their names, knew the sergeant was O’Neal, a huge plug of a man from Chicago, who might be just as happy in a police uniform, bashing in the skulls of pickpockets. The others weren’t much different, thick, dangerous-looking men, chosen for both their appearance and their marksmanship. He knew that an eight-man guard might have been overkill on Hawaii, but on Guam it was entirely necessary. Guam had been declared
secure
the preceding August, but almost daily the American patrols that pushed cautiously through the hills and thickets of jungle found themselves confronted by pockets of stubborn Japanese troops who refused to end their fight. To the hazard and the extreme annoyance of the Americans who sought them out, the Japanese who took the deadly risk of confronting the Americans didn’t stick around long enough for the Marines to do much about it. They seemed to vanish straight into the earth, into a labyrinth of caves and tunnels the Marines had found on nearly every island where the two sides had met. To the Americans, it was a curious mix of frustration and bewilderment, as it had been after every American victory. No matter how brutal the slaughter, no matter the horrifying casualties, the Japanese seemed oblivious to the utter defeat their army had suffered. It had been the same way on Guadalcanal, on Peleliu, Saipan, and Tinian. Guam was no different. As dangerous as the stragglers and holdouts continued to be, Nimitz had a grudging respect for their tenacity, and their cunning. He knew they had to be desperately hungry, short of ammunition and anything else a man needed to survive in these inhospitable places. And yet survive they had, holding out in makeshift sanctuaries, able to evade the constant American patrols. For months now, enraged Marine commanders had used a variety of tactics, some insisting on the brute force of tanks and flamethrowers. Others chose a more subtle approach, employing snipers who worked alone, perched in treetops
and carefully disguised thickets, hoping that the last hint of daylight would encourage an impatient Japanese soldier to betray his hiding place. But more often the Japanese came out after dark, scavenging silently through supply dumps and garbage pits, melting away at first light, only to emerge again the following night. Some were no more dangerous than the rats and other vermin that plagued the mess halls and kitchens, just hungry men who slit tent walls to grab the occasional loaf of bread. Others had shown a brazen curiosity, one report coming to Nimitz’s office that during the showing of a much-sought-after Dorothy Lamour film, the Seabees in attendance were suddenly aware that along the back of the open-air tent, a handful of Japanese soldiers had gathered in rapt attention, sharing the Seabees’admiration for the pronounced curves of the actress. The Seabees had made a chaotic effort to capture the trespassers, mostly to no avail. The reaction from Nimitz’s staff had been a mix of outrage and laughter, but Nimitz knew that there was nothing funny about any of this. Japanese soldiers meant Japanese weapons, and there would be no humor at all if the commander in chief of operations in the central Pacific was suddenly gunned down by a sniper, or confronted by a bayonet-wielding enemy during the admiral’s morning jog.

Nimitz had loved Hawaii, certainly, and though he appreciated the enormous responsibility he carried for the staff work and warehouses of paper that engulfed his command, he had quickly grown weary of the vast sea of minutiae that accompanied every move his forces had made. His excuse, one that not even Admiral King in Washington could argue with, was that, with the upcoming campaigns pushing closer to Japan itself, Nimitz needed to be
out there
. The move to Guam had come in January, after a not so discreet shove to the Seabees who had begun building his headquarters on a site he had chosen months before. With most of the vast ocean now between the admiral and the suffering officers who dealt with so much of his paperwork, Nimitz had brought a relaxed atmosphere to his new headquarters. To the surprise of every senior officer who happened to visit, Nimitz had allowed his men to adapt to the hard tropical heat by wearing shorts. Neckties were almost nonexistent. Even the admiral himself could be spotted during his morning routine, keeping trim by a long, vigorous run on the beachside road, bare legs and bare-chested, the Marine guards who ran with him wisely keeping any commentary to themselves.