The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [17]
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,