The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [16]
“Down periscope.”
He stepped closer to the sonar station, Gifford still wide-eyed, his ears full of the whining rotation of the Japanese engines. He looked up at the captain now, nodded furiously, and the captain touched the earphones, Gifford removing them. The captain leaned low, said, “Give me a thumbs-up when he’s thirty seconds from dead astern. Tell me if he changes course one degree!”
Gifford nodded, his eyes staring again into the distance, his ears doing the work.
He tried to imagine the scene on the Japanese sub, frantic orders, their perfect trap maybe not so perfect now. But you ought to be circling, you stupid ass. Unless you’re putting too much faith in your instruments. You have to think we hauled it out of here, that we ran like hell when we heard you coming. Why the hell else would you be moving off in a straight damn line? Especially after what you just pulled off. It was a hell of a good plan, Captain, I’ll give you that. Shadow your own merchant ship, trying to see if your enemy might come along and blow her to hell. Wonder what your merchant captain thought of that idea? Or did he even know you were there? Okay, so I obliged you. But you haven’t won anything yet. Right now, I’m the cat.
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