The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [15]
His shirt was soaking wet, and he fought the furious helplessness, looked again at Gifford. The sonar man was unmoving, his hands clamped against the earphones. After a long, deathly pause, Gifford looked up at him, wide eyes, a slow nod, and said in a whisper, “Five hundred yards to port, bearing across our stern, sir. No change in course or speed.”
The captain nodded, no orders, not yet. Gifford seemed to stare past him, his head turning instinctively, toward the port side of the sub. The captain waited, still angry at himself, thought, point-blank range. Dammit! But if he hasn’t fired at us, he may not know where we are. Nothing to do but … sit here. The sub was deathly silent around him, no other sound in the conning tower but the hard breathing of the men around him. He knew that conditions would get worse quickly in the tight space, no ventilation, the air growing more foul by the minute. The captain felt the dripping wetness in his shirt, stinging in his eyes. He cursed silently, kept his stare on Gifford. After a long moment, Gifford pointed out, forward to port, said in a whisper, “He’s … Jesus … he’s right there, moving past. Two hundred yards!”
He felt Gifford’s excitement, acknowledged with a short nod, felt a burst of giddiness. Captain Nip has no idea where we are. None. He tried to imagine the conning tower of the enemy sub, their captain sweating in the stifling, smoky heat, giving his own orders, discipline and precision that came from the best training the Japanese could give their naval officers. But he doesn’t have our sonar, not even close. He’s pissed off, baffled, wondering where the hell we went. I’ll tell you where, you Jap son of a bitch. We just switched roles. Now I’m hunting you.
He felt his breathing, hard and heavy, fought to silence it, but it didn’t matter now, the others in the conning tower watching him. He kept his eye on Gifford, who looked up at him from the small seat, one hand rising, pointing out to stern, mouthing the words, “Should cross our stern in about three minutes … no change, sir. Distance increasing.”
The captain nodded, pointed to the young man’s earphones, the silent, unnecessary order: stay focused, son. He looked at Gordon, pointed to the intercom.
“Load aft torpedo tubes. Quickly! Quietly!”
The emphasis was unnecessary, his fingers curled into fists, impatience while the lieutenant gave the order. He felt the periscope against his back, had a burst of an idea, a short debate in his brain. It’s a risk, dammit, but I’ve got to see you, make sure you’re still moving off. I want to see it for myself. This is a shot of a lifetime, but if you’re too close, this could blow us both to hell. He looked toward a seaman, the young man’s eyes on him, his hand on an instrument panel, seeming to anticipate the order.
“Up main periscope!”
“Aye, sir, main periscope.”
The switch was thrown, the hydraulics silently sliding the fat tube upward. The captain knelt slightly, wrapped his hands around the grips on either side,