The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [14]
He leaned away from the TBT, the young seaman taking over. He stepped back, stared at the horizon, the lightening sky betraying the Japanese ship to the naked eye. Now the instruments took over, the odd mechanics that had already plotted the target’s trajectory, range, and speed, and the ideal moment when he would give the order to fire the first spread of torpedoes. He knew that in the bow, the men had already received the order to load the six torpedo tubes, the training and the experience coming into play. He gripped the steel beside him with one hand, took the microphone in the other, waited, could see a hint of diesel smoke rising from the distant ship, her course taking her directly perpendicular to the sub’s bow, a perfect broadside. Yep, he thought. The deer, unaware, helpless, perfect.
The voice came now, from below, Gordon, too loud, nervous.
“Prepared to fire, sir. Optimum range in ten seconds.”
He didn’t respond, thought, easy, Gordy. He ticked the seconds off in his mind, then said, “Fire one.”
“One away, sir.”
There was a slight lurch beneath his feet, and he stared past the bow, a hint of a wake, but little else.
“Fire two.”
“Two away, sir.”
He felt the chill, the sweat in his shirt, the pure thrill. Come on, dammit. He had a stopwatch in his pocket, but his exec did as well, and he knew that Gordon was staring at it now, measuring, counting down, sweating, as he was. No radar needed now, no earphones on the sonar man, everyone on the sub doing exactly what their captain was doing, waiting, pulsing tension, feeling the seconds tick away. He kept his stare at the distant ship, thought of firing a third, no, not yet. Unless something screwy happens, this should be …
The flash of light burst high, striking amidship, engulfing the ship quickly, and then another, close to the bow. He clenched one fist, punched the air, pure joy, heard a cheer break out below. Beside him, the boy kept his stare into the TBT, held his composure, still did his job. The freighter was hidden completely now by a fiery cloud of black smoke, and he slapped the young seaman on the back, said, “Good work, son.” He keyed the microphone, his words louder than usual, the momentary lapse in his composure.
“Good shooting, boys! Cigars for breakfast.” He watched the fire, could see the bow of the ship rising, telltale signs that the ship was in pieces.
“Let’s get over there, see if anybody’s floating around.”
Below he heard the voice of the exec, still the loud excitement.
“Ahead one-third, keep your eye on the prize.”
Suddenly the speaker beside him erupted, the voice of Gifford.
“Sir! Sonar contact! A second ship!”
“Radar! Hockley, you got anything?”
“No, sir! No contact!”
He understood now, felt supremely stupid. The second ship, detected only by sound. Because she’s submerged.
“Prepare to dive!”
He yanked at Fallon’s shirt, pushed him toward the hatch, the young man obeying, dropping down quickly. The captain gave a last glance toward the burning merchant ship, thought, ten knots. Perfect target. Bait. It worked, and I’m a dumb son of a bitch.
He dropped down through the hatch, his feet scrambling for the steps of the ladder, and with one motion he pulled the hatch closed above him.
“Dive!”
The order was repeated, the telltale whoosh of the ballast tanks, the ship immediately dropping her bow. He saw the faces turned toward him, Gifford and his earphones. The captain said nothing, thought, he was right. And I should have figured it out. Damn fool. All right, do your job. Let’s get our asses out of this mess.
“We level out at periscope depth, go to silent running! Nobody sneezes, nobody farts! We’ve got a Jap sub on our ass!”
The voice of Gordon came in a hard whisper, the exec speaking into a phone receiver, the word passing throughout the ship.
“All hands. Silent running.”
Gordon was still on the intercom, listening, a faint voice on the other end of the line, and the captain knew it was the helm officer down below, in the